NOAH
I let myself in quietly, expecting the apartment to be dark and empty.
Instead, the lamp in the living room glowed soft amber.
Mom was curled on the couch in her old cardigan, knees tucked up, reading one of her medical books.
She looked up. Smiled—tired, warm, real.
"Hey, sweetheart. Surprise."
Then the smile died.
She was off the couch in a heartbeat. Hands on my shoulders. Gentle but firm. Eyes scanning my face—taking in the split lip, the bruise darkening along my jaw, the way I held myself like something fragile and badly glued back together.
"Noah—what happened?"
Her voice didn't just crack. It broke.
I swallowed. Tried for casual.
"Tripped in gym. Landed hard on the bleachers."
Her gaze dropped to my Westfield hoddie and track pants, the way I couldn't quite stand straight without wincing.
"Your uniform?"
"In the wash. Forgot it at school."
The lie came easier this time. Too easy.
She searched my eyes—really searched them. For a long second I thought she'd see straight through me. See the whispered threats. The way Seraphina Voss had turned my existence into her personal blood sport.
Then she exhaled. Pulled me into her arms—careful, like I might shatter.
"You have to be more careful, baby. Please."
"I know."
She held me a moment longer—longer than usual. Her hand smoothed down the back of my head, the way she used to when I had nightmares as a kid.
Then she stepped back. "Go clean up. I'll heat dinner."
"Mom, you just got back from a double—"
"Go."
Her voice was soft. But it wasn't a request.
I went.
In the bathroom I peeled the shirt off slowly. Every inch of skin screamed. Bruises bloomed across my ribs—ugly purple storms edged in sickly yellow-green. I stared at them in the mirror until my reflection blurred and I couldn't tell which hurt more: the bruises or the fact that I was getting used to them.
When I came out in a hoddie and sweats—baggy enough to hide most of it—Mom had the table set. Spaghetti. Garlic bread. The sauce she always spiked with extra oregano and a dangerous pinch of red pepper.
"Smells incredible," I said, sliding into the chair.
She smiled—smaller now. Warier.
We ate in quiet for a while. Just the sound of forks on plates. The hum of the fridge. The distant wail of a siren somewhere in the city.
Then she asked the question I'd been dreading.
"So," she said, twirling pasta onto her fork but not eating it. "How's school? Really."
"It's… school."
"Friends?"
I laughed once—short, hollow. "Yeah. Loads."
She didn't miss the sarcasm this time. I saw it flicker across her face. But she let it pass.
"That's good," she said quietly. "I knew you'd find your place eventually."
Find my place.
I chewed slowly. Swallowed past the ache in my throat.
"Noah?"
I looked up.
She was watching me with that look—the one that said she could feel the weight I was carrying even if she couldn't name it. The one that said she knew I was lying but didn't know how to make me stop.
"You'd tell me if something was wrong. Right?"
The question hung there. Fragile. Desperate.
I wanted to spill everything.
Wanted to tell her about the harassment, the bruises, the way the hallways felt like minefields. The way one girl with ice-emerald eyes had somehow become the center of every nightmare I couldn't wake up from.
But I saw the faint lines around her eyes. The way her hands trembled when she poured coffee in the mornings. The stack of medical bills still waiting on the counter—Aunt Dion's name in bold at the top.
I couldn't add my mess to hers.
Not when she was barely holding her own together.
"Of course," I said. Voice steady. Eyes steady. "Everything's okay, Mom. Promise."
She held my gaze another second. Searching.
Then nodded slowly. "Okay. I trust you."
The words felt like a knife.
I forced a smile. Finished my plate in silence.
Later, after the dishes were done, she stood at the sink wiping the counter, humming softly under her breath—some old lullaby she used to sing when I was little and couldn't sleep.
I stepped up behind her. Wrapped my arms around her waist. Held on tight.
She stilled. Then laughed—soft, surprised, warm.
"What's this for?"
I pressed my face into her shoulder. Breathed in laundry soap and vanilla and home.
"I love you," I said. Quiet. Rough. Honest.
She turned in my arms. Cupped my face gently—so careful of the bruises she thought came from a fall.
Her eyes were glassy.
"I love you more, baby. Always."
I nodded against her palm. Tried not to let her see my eyes burn.
Then I let go.
Went to my room. Closed the door.
And sat on the edge of the mattress in the dark, feeling every bruise, every lie, every unanswered question press down until it hurt to breathe.