His mother's eyes darted back toward the door of the house, then returned to him, sharp with fear.
"I told you not to come here," she whispered. "I told you, Brian. You know better than this."
Brian only chuckled.
And then, before she could stop him, he stepped forward and pulled her into his arms anyway.
He held her tightly, the way a small boy holds onto something he is terrified will be taken from him. "I missed you, Mama," he murmured into her hair. "That's all. I just missed you."
For a moment, she stood rigid against him, her whole body locked tight with tension. But slowly, against her own will, she softened.
Her shoulders eased. Her breath shuddered out of her. Tears gathered in her eyes, and one hand crept up to rest against his back, patting it gently, the way mothers do without ever quite deciding to.
