“I know,” I whisper into his hair. “I know.”
The guard steps back without being told, giving us space. I take Nico’s hand and draw him closer, my awareness flaring outward. Listening, watching, counting exits even though this place wasn’t built for escape.
The next sound is footsteps followed by the soft click of the door opening without ceremony. I tense immediately, my body reacting before my mind finishes the thought.
Turo enters carrying a tray. Not a servant. Not a guard. Him.
The sight throws me more than it should. He’s changed out of last night’s suit into something darker, simpler. No tie. Sleeves rolled back just enough to show forearms that look used to force, not comfort. The tray is heavy with food—too much food, covered dishes, steam curling into the air like an offering I didn’t ask for.
“I thought it would be easier,” he says, setting it down on the low table, “if he didn’t have to move yet.”
I nod once, because my throat is tight and because Nico is already tugging my hand toward the food.
“Is that eggs?” he asks, hopeful.
“Yes,” Turo says.
Nico doesn’t wait for permission. He climbs into the chair beside Turo like it’s always been his, swings his legs, and immediately starts rearranging the silverware that came with the tray.
Fork to the left. Knife straightened. Spoon nudged closer. Order restored.
My breath catches. Turo goes very still. Like a man holding himself one inch away from panic. His gaze tracks Nico’s hands with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. Fascination. Terror.
Nico hums under his breath, completely unaware he’s rearranging more than cutlery.
“He does that,” I say quietly. “Mornings are better if things stay where he expects them.”
Turo nods once, eyes still on Nico. “I can see why.”
He pours coffee for himself, but doesn’t drink it. The cup stays untouched near his hand like a habit he hasn’t had time to break yet.
We talk logistics because anything else feels too dangerous.
“What time does he wake up?” Turo asks.
“Six,” I say. “Earlier if he’s anxious.”
“What helps?”
“Routine. Toast first. Then fruit. He hates surprises before noon.”
Nico scowls faintly, concentrating as he lines the spoon exactly parallel to the plate. Turo watches intently, like the motion might carve itself into him permanently.
“Daycare?” he asks.
The word lands wrong.
“Not anymore,” I say immediately.
“No,” he agrees. No hesitation. “Not safe.”
Silence settles, thick and uneasy.
“What happens next?” I ask.
Before he can answer, a guard appears in the doorway. “Sir.”
The tone alone makes my stomach drop.
