“I promise you are safe tonight.”
He studies me.
Then nods.
“Derby said there’s no monsters inside.”
My throat tightens. “Then I believe him.”
August snuggles down, Blue Rex under one arm. “Night, Mama.”
“Good night, baby.”
I stay until his breathing evens out. Then I stay longer because leaving him is hard, even to walk down the hall. When I finally slip out, I leave the door cracked and the hall light on.
Derby is in the living room, dragging a folded blanket onto the couch. His cut is off now, draped over a chair. Without it, he looks different. Still broad. Still tattooed. Still dangerous. But less like a biker ready for war and more like a man standing in his own house after too many people have rearranged it.
He looks up when I enter.
“Kid down?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“He asked if you were sleeping on the couch.”
“I am.”
“He thinks you’re too big for it.”
“Smart kid.”
“He suggested the floor.”
“Ruthless kid.”
I laugh quietly and sit on the edge of the chair across from him, not the couch. The couch feels like too much. Too close to his blanket. Too close to the place where he will sleep. Too close to what almost happened in the alley.
He notices where I sit.
Of course he does.
He doesn’t comment.
For a minute, neither of us says anything.
The house sounds different at night. Refrigerator hum. Old pipes settling. Distant insects outside. A motorcycle passing somewhere far off on the road. August breathing through the cracked bedroom door if I listen hard enough.
It’s domestic.
That word should not belong here.
It does anyway.
Derby sits on the arm of the couch, forearms resting on his thighs. “We should talk about what comes next.”
I laugh once, not because it’s funny. “That sounds ominous.”