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His large hand hovers near Matteo's head, hesitant, as if seeking permission. The juxtaposition is jarring. These same hands that I've seen rip flesh apart without flinching now ghost over my son's head with the delicacy of butterfly wings.

"You're good with him," I observe quietly.

Alex's icy blue eyes meet mine, something vulnerable flickering in their depths before disappearing behind his usual guarded expression. "Children deserve gentleness."

"Would you like to hold him?"

Alex stiffens. "I don't think?—"

"He won't break," I assure him, already shifting Matteo carefully toward his chest. "And neither will you."

For a moment, I think he might refuse, but then his arms, capable of such violence, form a cradle. I transfer Matteo's sleeping form into them, our bodies momentarily close as we make the exchange. Matteo settles against him, tiny fingers curling reflexively against the soft fabric of his shirt.

“Support his head.” I guide Alex's large hand into position with a light touch.

Alex stands still, as if afraid the slightest movement might shatter this moment, or worse, harm the precious bundle in his arms. But Matteo only sighs in his sleep, nestling closer to the warmth of Alex's chest.

“He trusts you.”

“He shouldn't," Alex responds, “No one should.”

I study his face—the sharp angles softened by the silvery light, the weariness settled in the tension around his mouth. “Trust isn’t rational, Alex. It’s instinctive.” I pause, weighing my next words. “Matteo feels safe with you. Children sense things adults have forgotten how to recognize.”

Alex’s focus stays on Matteo, but there’s a subtle shift in his features, something almost imperceptible loosening.

“Or he simply doesn’t know better yet,” he says, though the bite in his voice is absent.

I watch as he begins to sway gently, falling into the rhythm I’d used earlier. It’s effortless, instinctual—the kind of motion that transcends logic, the one even the most broken seem to understand. Even the son of a monster.

“How’s Luca?” I ask, leaning against the window frame. “Really.”

Alex finally looks at me, his motion steady, Matteo nestled securely in his arms. A shadow flickers across his face, one I know too well.

“He has nightmares,” he says after a pause. “Wakes up screaming. Thinks he’s back in the facility. That they are…” His words catch, and he swallows them down.

It slices through me like glass. I’d seen the signs. exhaustion clinging to him, the way he tenses at sharp sounds, but hearing it out loud makes my chest ache. He’s closed himself off, locked that trauma behind walls so thick not even I can reach him. And I should be able to. I survived the same hell. I’m one of the few who understands. But he’s buried it deep, sealed it tight.

“He tries to hide it from you,” Alex continues, shifting Matteo slightly as the baby stirs. “Doesn't want to worry you when you have enough to handle.”

“And you know this because...?” I let the question hang between us.

“My room is next to his. I hear him through the walls.”

“And you go to him,” I realize, the pieces fitting together. The way Luca seems calmer around Alex, the subtle looks they exchange when they think no one is watching. They’d only been free a few days, but I noticed it right away.”

“Sometimes,” Alex admits. “When it's bad enough.”

I remember the first time he touched me, how his massive hands hovered above my skin as if I were made of spun glass. Even now, with all we've been through, there's always that moment of hesitation in his movements around me.

“You've always been so careful with me. From the beginning. Like you might accidentally crush me if you weren't vigilant.”

His throat works as he swallows. “I could.”

“But you didn’t,” I counter softly. “That's the difference between you and the monsters who raised us.”

Matteo stirs between us, tiny fists stretching before settling again. The moment hangs suspended, fragile and charged with possibility.

“I should take him back to his crib.” Though I make no move to reclaim my son from Alex's arms.