“You made it,” she whispers.
I nod because if I try to speak right now I might not manage it.
I step inside.
Up close I can see the tiredness she has not bothered to hide. Her hair escaping whatever she did with it this morning. A faint crease on her cheek from where she must have leaned against the mattress earlier.
“You stayed,” I manage quietly.
She looks faintly puzzled.
“Of course I stayed.”
Like there was never another option.
My throat tightens.
“How is he?” I ask.
“Much better,” she adds softly. “But less scared. He was very brave.”
That lands somewhere deep.
I step closer to the bed and very carefully brush my fingers over his hair.
He doesn’t wake.
I let out a breath I think I have been holding all day.
When I look back at Ava she is watching us quietly. Not inserting herself. Not stepping back either. Just… there.
Alfie shifts slightly in his sleep and his fingers tighten around hers without waking.
I look at their hands.
Then at her.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say quietly.
Her eyes meet mine.
“Yes,” she says gently. “I did.”
Not dramatic.
Not romantic.
Just certain.
And for the first time since this morning, something inside me unclenches.
Because my son is safe.
And the woman I am falling for is sitting beside him like she has nowhere else she would rather be.
Morning arrives slowly. Too bright. Too early. Too full of quiet interruptions and plastic cups of tea that taste vaguely of disappointment.
Neither of us has really slept.
