He is still awake. Pale in the gray early light, shadows bruised beneath his eyes, jaw tight with the kind of stubbornness that keeps children upright long after their bodies should give out.
“Are you coming back?” he asks.
There it is again.
The test.
The knife-edge of it is duller now, but only because he is too tired to sharpen it.
“Yes,” I say.
“You keep saying that.”
“And I keep doing it.”
He watches me.
Then he nods once.
Not trust.
Not yet.
But enough to make me stand carefully and leave before my face gives me away.
Omar walks me back to my room without speaking until we reach the door. I expect a warning. A criticism. A reminder that I am still a complication with federal ties and bad judgment.
Instead, he says, “He has done that since the first night.”
I turn on him. “You knew?”
“Yes.”
“And no one told me?”
“You aren’t his doctor.”
“No. I’m his aunt.”
Omar’s mouth tightens. “He didn't know that until two days ago.”
The truth hits cleanly because Omar never bothers wrapping it in anything softer.
“I know.”
“He may not trust you for a long time.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I lean back against the door, too tired to make my face useful. “I know what it feels like to want help and hate needing it. I know what it feels like to test every hand before deciding whether it is going to hold or hit. I know he may not trust me for weeks. Months. Maybe ever.”
Omar studies me.
“And you will keep trying?”
I think of Heath’s finger hooked around Erin’s while he pretended not to need anyone. His voice breaking aroundI said me. His little body making itself a wall because every adult in his life failed to be one first.
