He looks up. Relief flashes across his face before guilt slams down hard enough to straighten his spine. He stands, unsure, his face red and blotchy.
"I didn't mean to scare anyone," he says immediately. "I just—"
I pull him into a hug. No words. No correction. Just arms and warmth.
His face presses into my shoulder. "I thought if I stayed with you," he says, muffled, "you wouldn't have left."
I don't realize I'm crying until I feel the wetness on my cheeks. Not heaving sobs—just quiet tears.
"I need to call Steve," I say gently. "Let them know you're safe. Is that okay?"
Henry nods against my shoulder, still not pulling away.
I keep one arm around him as I make the call. Steve's relief is palpable through the phone. I tell him where we are, that Henry's unharmed, that we'll be back soon.
I don't promise when "soon" will be.
We sit inside, on the old couch. Nothing has changed here. Same scratch in the wall. Same uneven table leg. The life I had before everything detonated still exists in this room.
Henry twists his fingers together. "If I hadn't wandered off at CAMICon," he says, staring at the floor, "Dad wouldn't have yelled. You wouldn't have gone. It's my fault."
The words hit like a physical blow. I turn toward him fully, grounding my voice even as my chest aches.
"No," I say. "Absolutely not. That was never your fault."
He looks unconvinced.
"This was between adults," I continue carefully. "Big, messy feelings that had nothing to do with you. You didn't break anything."
I mean it. But I don't say the part where I broke, too.
I don't say how much I want to walk back into his life like nothing ever happened.
"Dad's been different," Henry says after a moment. "Since you left."
I brace myself for the follow-up. Angry. Cold. Distant. All the ways Arthur could have hardened in my absence.
"Sad," Henry says instead. "Like, really sad."
The word doesn't fit the Arthur I know—controlled, deliberate, steady. Sadness requires admission. The kind of openness Arthur views as tactical weakness.
"He probably doesn't show it," I say gently.
Henry's laugh catches me off guard—short, almost adult in its weariness.
"He doesn't have to. I can tell."
I wonder what that looks like. Arthur maintaining all his usual structures while something inside him cracks. Working. Parenting. Functioning.
The thought hurts more than I expect it to.
"When's he coming back?" I ask. "From Europe."
Henry shrugs. "Few days, I think. Steven didn't say exactly."
I nod, processing. A few days. Time enough to decide what happens next. Time enough to be brave or to run again.
"Are you hungry?" I ask, changing the subject. "I have..." I glance toward the kitchen, realizing I haven't stocked anything since leaving. "Well, probably nothing. But we could order something."
