The moment Aria stepped out of the bathroom, she knew something was off. It was too quiet, and in this house, silence was never innocent. Her gaze flicked toward the bed. It was empty. The blanket had been dragged half-off the mattress, creased and tangled like someone had fought a losing battle against their own weakness.
Aria's expression dropped. "…Don't tell me."
She spun around. There he was, halfway across the room, gripping the edge of the table as if it had personally offended him.
One leg was trembling, and the other could barely support his weight.
Stubborn. Ridiculous. Infuriating.
Aria crossed the room in three long strides.
"What exactly do you think you're doing?"
Her voice was calm—the kind of terrifying, measured calm that warned a storm was building.
The boy froze. Slowly, with the guilty hesitation of a criminal caught in the act, he turned his head. Those dark eyes met hers, still wary, still defensive—and then, very subtly, he tried to move faster.
Big mistake. His leg buckled instantly.
Aria caught him before he hit the floor. "…Seriously?" she muttered, tightening her grip around his waist. He stiffened in her arms like she'd just scooped up a feral cat. *Good,* she thought. *At least you have the energy to fight back.*
*Congratulations, Aria,* her inner voice sighed. *CEO by day, babysitter by force.*
She lowered him back onto the bed, firmly this time. "Trying to reopen every wound in your body? Or is this just some new, masochistic hobby I should be investing in?"
He didn't answer. He just stared at her, but there was something different in his gaze.
Not just fear—there was a frantic edge of panic. Aria narrowed her eyes. "…You needed the bathroom."
It wasn't a question. His fingers tightened around the bedsheet, confirming it. She exhaled, pressing two fingers against her temple. "Unbelievable."
Without warning, she grabbed him again. No hesitation, just a clean, practiced lift. He locked up, his entire body going rigid. If tension could snap bones, he would have been dust.
"I—I…" he stammered, but nothing came out. Just broken, useless air.
"Relax," Aria said, her voice flat. "I'm not interested in watching you suffer through basic human functions. And before you start overthinking—no, this isn't charity. You're just inconvenient to clean up if you collapse."
It was a lie, and a transparent one at that, but she wasn't about to admit to anything else.
He went still, processing her words, looking utterly bewildered. *Good,* she thought.
*Stay confused. It's safer for both of us.*
She placed him near the sink, steadying him.
"Hold this."
He obeyed instantly. That blind obedience made her jaw tighten. *What did they do to you?* she wondered.
"I'll be outside," she said, already turning for the door. "Call me if you fall. I am not dragging you off the floor twice."
She walked out without waiting for a reply, but she didn't go far. She leaned against the wall, crossing her arms and listening. Despite everything, she didn't trust him not to push himself until he broke—or worse, to suffer in silence rather than ask for help.
Inside, there was a heavy silence. Then, a soft thud.
Aria's eyes snapped open. "Of course," she muttered, already moving.
She pushed the door open to find him gripping the sink, his breathing ragged and uneven. He was struggling, refusing to make a sound, stubborn to the point of absurdity.
She walked in, moving slower this time—less sharp, more deliberate.
"Next time," she said quietly, "try using your brain before your pride."
He looked at her, and for the first time, the fear was gone. It was replaced by something fragile. Unfamiliar. Trust? No, too early for that. But maybe the beginning of it.
Aria clicked her tongue. "Don't look at me like that. It's not a redemption arc." Then, softer, barely audible: "Just survival."
She helped him back, and this time, he didn't resist. He didn't stiffen. He didn't pull away. It was a tiny, real piece of progress. Back in bed, she adjusted the blanket and turned to leave, but felt a slight tug. She looked down.
His fingers had caught the edge of her sleeve. His grip was weak, hesitant, as if he weren't sure why he was doing it himself. Aria raised an eyebrow. "Well?"
He opened his mouth, tried to speak, and failed. Frustration flooded his face. Aria's gaze softened just a fraction. "Use your head," she said. She picked up a notebook from the side table and placed it in his hands along with a pen. "Write."
He blinked slowly, as if the idea of communication without suffering had never occurred to him. Aria smirked faintly.
"Shocking, I know. I prefer efficiency."
He hesitated, then shakily wrote: *…thank… you…*
Aria stared at the words for a beat too long before scoffing. "Don't rush it. I'm not going anywhere."
She turned and walked back to her desk.
Files were waiting, calls were pending, and an empire was demanding her attention. But for the first time, her focus was split. Behind her, the boy watched her—quiet, still, no longer looking like someone waiting to be abandoned.
*Congratulations,* her inner voice drawled. *You just adopted a problem.*
Aria clicked her pen, her cold expression falling back into place. *Fine,* she thought. *Then I'll fix it.*