He is wrong.
Dead wrong.
I take a slow breath, forcing it down past the tightness in my chest. Because I can’t let him do it. I won’t let him do it. Not after everything. Not after I finally have him here, breathing next to me, letting me hold him when the world gets too loud.
He is not something I can let go of.
He is not something I can survive losing.
Eli is already in me now. In the way I move. In the way I think. In the way I plan every outcome like I am building a wall around him brick by brick. He doesn’t just live in my life anymore. He is the center of it, and my Baby Boy is the axis everything turns on.
If he runs, I will bring him back. No matter what it takes. No matter how far I have to go into the dark to pull him out of it. And Adrian Blackwell will not exist in the world after that. Not in any form that breathes.
I don’t even realize my jaw is clenched until I feel it ache.
I want a world for him. That is what it comes down to. Not just safety or just surviving. I want a life for him.
I want him to wake up without scanning rooms. To walk outside without calculating exits. To laugh without it catching halfway in his throat like it might get him punished. I want him on a bike again, wind in his face, not looking over his shoulder every ten seconds like something is waiting to take him.
The promise settles heavy and solid. It isn’t hope. It’s a decision. And I will fucking give it to him. Whatever it costs.
I pour the hot water into our drinks while somewhere behind me, voices drift through the lounge.
Finn’s laugh first: light, careless on the surface, but I know him better than that now. He’s watching everything. Always is.
Deck’s voice follows: lower, steadier. Something about logistics. Something about supplies. Always moving forward. Always building the net tighter without saying it out loud.
And then Eli.
Soft. Fragile in a way that still makes something in me shift every time I hear it. Like I have to orient myself to him even when I am not looking.
He is there on the couch with them. Alive. Present. Breathing.
And safe.
For now.
I turn slightly, mug in hand, watching the three of them for a moment without interrupting. Eli curled into the cushions like he’s trying to take up less space than he actually needs. Finn leaning back like he’s relaxed, even though his eyes keep flicking to Eli every few seconds. Deck sitting forward, elbows on knees, already thinking three steps ahead of whatever world is coming next.
It looks normal. Almost.
But nothing about us is normal anymore.
Not since Adrian.
Not since Eli.
My gaze stays on him longer than it should.
Because last night is still there.
The wordleave.
Still sitting between us like a loaded gun neither of us has touched again.
I take a sip of coffee, but I don’t taste it.
I just watch him.
