“I know.” My fingers tighten on the door. “I’m surprised.”
His face shifts, not enough to call it soft. Derby doesn’t seem built for soft. But something less sharp moves through his eyes.
“He woke once,” Derby says.
My heart stops. “What?”
“Maybe around four. Opened the door before I could decide whether I was hallucinating a tiny person in women’s pajamas.”
“Oh God.”
“He asked if I was still guarding.”
I press a hand to my mouth. “What did you say?”
“I said yes.”
“And?”
“He said okay and shut the door.”
I close my eyes.
That should not hurt.
It does.
My son shouldn’t be checking whether a strange biker is still guarding his door at four in the morning. He should be asleep in a room with dinosaur sheets and a night-light, not curled in a clubhouse because his mother ran out of options.
“I didn’t hear him,” I whisper.
“You were asleep.”
“I should’ve heard him.”
“You were exhausted.”
“I’m his mother.”
Derby leans forward, elbows on his knees. The movement makes leather creak. “You got him here.”
The words are simple.
Too simple.
They split something open.
I stare at him.
He looks uncomfortable again, like sincerity is a shirt that doesn’t fit. “That counts, Amelia.”
I hate him a little for saying it.
I hate him more because I need to hear it.
From behind me, August makes a small waking sound. I turn before I think, and Derby’s chair scrapes as he stands too. Not coming in. Just ready.
That distinction hits me.