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Watching Leo sleep, his chest rising and falling with each peaceful breath, is bittersweet. His small hand still clutches my shirt, keeping me anchored beside him. The dragon nightlight casts soft shadows across his innocent face, so much like Rose’s it makes my heart clench.

I never thought I’d have this—these quiet moments with a child, reading bedtime stories and wiping away toothpaste foam. The doctors made it clear my body would never carry a baby to term. That revelation destroyed my marriage, turned Ryan’s love to bitter resentment—until he couldn’t look at me without seeing failure.

But here I am, somehow both mother and aunt to this precious boy who lost everything. My fingers brush through his soft hair, remembering how Rose used to do the same when he was fussy. She should be here, not me. She should be the one singing silly songs and checking for monsters under the bed.

The familiar guilt twists in my gut. I’d trade places with her in a heartbeat if it meant Leo could have his mom back. But life doesn’t work that way. Instead, I get these stolen moments of motherhood, bought with the steepest price imaginable.

Leo shifts in his sleep, mumbling something about dragons as he burrows closer. His trust in me is absolute. He doesn’t see me as broken or less-than like Ryan did. To him, I’m just Aunt Evie, who makes terrible dad jokes and always checks thecloset twice for zombies because they’re sneakier than regular monsters.

My eyes burn as I hold him, overwhelmed by love for this child who isn’t mine by blood but owns my heart completely. Maybe this is what Rose meant in those final days when she made me promise to take care of him. “You’ll be amazing,” she’d whispered, her hand weak in mine. “You already love him like he’s yours.”

She was right. I may never carry a child of my own, but being Leo’s aunt-turned-guardian has filled a void I thought would stay empty forever. Different than I imagined, harder in some ways, but no less precious for all its complexity.

I jolt awake,my heart hammering against my ribs. Something pulled me from sleep—a sound, or maybe that sixth sense cops develop after years on the job. The house feels wrong, the silence too thick.

My hand slides out from underneath the cover. I reach for the top drawer of my nightstand, slowly open it, and my hand wraps around the familiar grip of my Glock. The metal is cool against my palm as I ease out of bed, bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. My training kicks in, steadying my breath as I strain to listen.

Ever since the threat on my life, I’ve kept my Glock in the drawer when I go to bed rather than locked up in the case where it’s usually kept. It’s not ideal with a young boy, but I need to have easy access in case someone breaks into my house.

There—a soft scraping sound from downstairs. Ice hardens my veins. Leo’s bedroom is on the first floor and someone is in my house.

Dammit. I should have cleaned up the second bedroom next to mine when he moved in with me. But the downstairs bedroom was already set up as a spare bedroom, and it was easier. Plus it’s bigger, and it gave him more space for all his toys.

I press my back against the wall beside my bedroom door, counting to three before easing it open. The hinges are well-oiled—I check religiously—and don’t make a sound. The upstairs hallway stretches before me, dark except for Leo’s dragon nightlight casting a faint blue glow from the top of the stairs. We have three of those in the house. One up here in the hallway, one in the downstairs bathroom, and one in his bedroom.

My grip tightens on the Glock as I creep toward the stairs, staying close to the wall where the floorboards are less likely to creak. Each step is measured. The silence pulses in my ears, broken only by my controlled breathing.

At the top of the stairs, I freeze. A shadow moves across the wall downstairs, cast by the dim outside light filtering through the living room windows. Someone’s definitely down there, moving with purpose.

I drop into a crouch, making myself a smaller target as I peer around the corner. The shadow shifts again, closer to the stairs now. My finger rests alongside the trigger guard, muscle memory from countless hours at the range. One wrong move from them, one step toward Leo’s room, and I won’t hesitate.

I edge forward, testing each step before committing my weight. The stairs seem endless, my nerves crackling with each careful movement. Sweat beads at my temples despite the chill. My bare feet register every grain in the wooden steps.

The Glock is steady in my grip, years of training keeping my hands from shaking even as my pulse thunders in my ears.

Leo is down there. The thought pounds through my mind with each heartbeat. My seven-year-old nephew is sleeping just down the hall from whatever threat has invaded our home.

I’m halfway down when it happens. The fifth step from the bottom—the one that always protests no matter how carefully you place your weight—lets out a long, piercing creak. The sound might as well be a gunshot in the dead silence.

“Fuck,” I mouth silently, freezing mid-step. My muscles burn from holding the awkward position, thighs trembling with the strain. I count my breaths, forcing them to stay slow and even. One. Two. Three.

The shadow I’d been tracking is gone. No movement, no sound, nothing to indicate where the intruder might be. Just the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant tick of the kitchen clock marking each excruciating second.

I scan what I can see of the first floor from my position. The living room stretches out to my left, furniture casting familiar shadows in the dim light from the street lamps outside. To my right, the dining room opens into the kitchen, both spaces dark and still. The hallway leading to Leo’s room lies straight ahead, the dragon nightlight glowing blue like a beacon.

Nothing moves. No shadows shift. But my instincts scream that I’m not alone.

I continue down the stairs, looking in both directions before I take a few steps into the living room. I see and hear nothing. The silence is deafening.

I release a shaky breath, shoulders slumping as adrenaline begins to ebb. Maybe I’m being paranoid, the creaks and shadows of an old house playing tricks on my overwrought nerves. God knows I haven’t slept well lately, between worrying about Leo and—

Strong arms lock around me from behind, yanking me off balance. My training kicks in before conscious thought. I slam my elbow back, connecting with solid flesh. A grunt of pain rewards my effort. The arms loosen just enough for me to twist, driving my knee up toward what I hope is a vulnerable groin.

My attacker shifts, taking the blow on their thigh instead. Their grip tightens, crushing the air from my lungs.

The Glock—I still have the Glock. I try to bring it around, but a hand clamps onto my wrist, squeezing until my fingers spasm open. The gun clatters to the floor, the sound deafening in the darkness.

My attacker knows how to fight. They sense my every move before I make it.