Sky Maddox's Point of View
I wake up to birds.
Real ones, for once—not some mechanical whir of Paris traffic or the groan of Manhattan cabs. Just the quiet chirping of something alive outside our window. A sign, maybe. That things are good. That I'm home again.
I'm still wrapped in that ridiculously soft fleece blanket from Montmartre, the one Sebastian laughed at when I bought it because it has little croissants and hearts all over it.
The movie's still playing—Spirited Away, half-muted. My glasses are slipping off my nose. My neck hurts.
But I'm smiling.
Because he's home. And I'm here. And things feel okay.
I pad softly down the hallway in my socks, arms crossed against the cool wood floors. His door's ajar—just like always. My sweet boy hates sleeping with it fully shut. Always has.
The sunlight filters in through the curtains, casting this golden, sleepy glow across his face.
He's fast asleep. Deeply, the way only teenagers can sleep after a long week of school and sports and whatever it is boys do when they think no one's watching.
I move to shut the blinds a little more, so it won't hit his eyes directly, and that's when I see it.
The bruise.
Purplish. Slightly smudged. Faint, but undeniable—on the side of his neck, just above the collar of his shirt.
I pause.
Heart skips.
Is that—?
No.
I tilt my head. Blink twice. He shifts, groaning slightly, turning his face into the pillow, as if trying to hide from me and the morning both.
It's just a mark. Right?
Maybe he bumped into something. Maybe it's from training. Wrestling. Football. Boys bruise easily. That's normal.
But there's something about the shape of it.
Not round. Not random. Not like a fall.
I chew the inside of my cheek.
Just for a second—just a second—I wonder.
Could it be—
No. No.
Sebastian's not like that.
He's not some party boy. He's not reckless.
He doesn't lie. Doesn't sneak out.
He's… mine.
I raised him better. He's quiet and sweet and soft around the edges, even if he pretends to be all cool and broody. I know my son.
Right?
I smooth a hand gently over his head. His hair's messy and soft. He doesn't stir.
He's still my baby.
Maybe just taller. Moodier.
But still my baby.
I walk away without waking him.
Let him sleep in. He deserves it.
---
The kitchen smells like lavender and vanilla when the pancakes hit the pan. I add raspberries, a drizzle of honey, and those little chocolate shavings he used to love when he was ten.
I play some Edith Piaf on low.
I fold his napkin into a heart.
I plate everything like it's a five-star breakfast.
Because that's what love is, right?
Feeding someone even when they don't ask.
Believing in them even when you shouldn't have to.