Alex's POV
I hadn't even changed out of my T-shirt.
We were just home. Just… home.
And she was wrapped around me like a blanket that refused to fold.
Ava had been glued to my side since Adrien left for school this morning—first day back. First day without the constant presence of our son padding around the house, his quiet grumbles, his suspicious glances, his reluctant hugs.
Now, the house was too quiet.
But not for long.
Because Ava?
She was talking. Non-stop.
"…and you wouldn't believe how dusty the office was, I almost had a heart attack," she muttered, half curled into my chest, her cheek smushed over my heartbeat. "I think someone rearranged my pens. I swear, it felt criminal. And don't even get me started on the coffee machine. Betrayed me twice. Just like that old intern—remember the one with the weird mustache? Anyway—"
"Ava."
"What?" she asked, all innocent as she dragged the edge of her finger down my arm. "I missed talking to someone who listens. I've been talking to myself and Adrien's walls for months."
I smiled weakly. "Poor walls."
"Oh, they were exhausted. You should've seen the way Adrien's closet door used to swing shut by itself. Passive-aggressive if you ask me."
She shifted slightly, her arms looped tighter around my waist, as if I might disappear if she stopped touching me for a second.
I didn't stop her.
I didn't even breathe too hard—afraid I'd break whatever peace this was.
"Did you water the plants?" I asked, teasing gently.
She froze.
Then groaned.
"Alex! No, I didn't! I forgot! And now I've got a whole graveyard on the balcony. I think even the cactus gave up on me. That one used to survive nuclear winters and my baking. I killed it with sadness."
"You didn't kill anything," I said quietly, brushing her hair back from her face. "You just survived. That's more than enough."
She blinked up at me, eyes bright. "I hate when you say things like that and make me feel things."
"You're the one clinging to me like Velcro."
"Velcro's efficient," she replied stubbornly. "Velcro never lets go."
I laughed. "You always talk this much when you're anxious?"
She nodded seriously. "Oh, I'm freaking out. Adrien texted me thirty minutes ago with a 'I'm fine, Mom,' and a period. A period, Alex. That's emotional punctuation. He means it. He's probably mad I put four different location trackers on his shoes."
"You did what?"
"Nothing," she said sweetly, tucking her head back under my chin. "You didn't hear that."
I just held her tighter.
She smelled like her old shampoo. The expensive one she always said was unnecessary and then bought anyway. She felt warm, real, present—like someone who had clawed her way out of a nightmare and now needed to touch everything to remind herself it wasn't a dream.
"I made pancakes," she said a moment later, randomly. "They were so burnt, even the smoke alarm gave up."
"You're not allowed in the kitchen without supervision."
She poked me. "Hey. I was busy! I put Adrien's uniform out, packed his lunch, ironed his undershirt, sanitized his water bottle, and triple-checked his bus driver's full family history. I was productive."
"You also followed him to the gate in your slippers and cried when he waved."
"He waved," she repeated emotionally. "He never waves. I mean, granted, he waved like I was embarrassing him in front of an entire country, but he waved!"
I kissed her temple. "You're doing okay, you know."
She was quiet for a second.
Then softly, "Am I?"
"Yeah," I said. "You're yapping and crying and clinging like hell. That's a good sign."
She giggled through her tears, shaking her head. "You know what I missed most?" she whispered. "This. You. Lying on this stupid couch, in this stupid room, next to you. Talking about burnt pancakes and dead plants instead of…instead of…"
Her voice broke.
But she didn't say it.
She didn't have to.
I knew what she meant.
And I was grateful she didn't mention him. Didn't bring back the darkness with his name. Ava had always fought fire with light—and right now, she was burning bright enough for both of us.
"I love you," I said, voice raw.
She lifted her head, nose red, eyes glossy, a slow smile blooming. "I love you more."
"I missed you."
She kissed me then, slow and soft and sure. "I missed you harder."
And for a while, we just stayed like that—two broken people, healing in each other's arms, with no monsters to name and no pasts to fear.
Just burnt pancakes. Dead plants. And a love that never learned how to let go.