The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
Ava stood in the hallway long after Adrien had gone upstairs, staring at the closed door to his room. The words echoed, refusing to let go.
"He's just like me."
Alex had said it so casually. Like a fact. Like a curse. And it was that look in his eyes — like he already knew something she didn't.
Ava pressed her palm to the wall, steadying herself.
Was it true?
Adrien had a temper. That was undeniable. He could be sharp-tongued when provoked, fierce in his defense of the people he loved.
But that didn't make him him.
Did it?
Ava moved slowly through the hallway, her heels long abandoned, her robe tied in a loose knot. She paused by Adrien's door, hesitated, then knocked lightly.
"Come in," came his voice — a little tired, a little less sharp than usual.
She opened the door and found him sprawled on his bed, hoodie halfway off, his laptop glowing faintly on the desk.
"Hey," she said softly.
He sat up straighter. "You okay?"
"I should be asking you that."
Adrien offered a half-shrug. "I'm good. Just... mad, I guess."
She stepped inside, closed the door behind her. "Can I sit?"
He nodded, patting the space beside him.
Ava sat down and didn't speak for a long moment. Then—
"What he said... about you being like him..."
Adrien stiffened, his jaw clenching slightly.
"I didn't like it," he muttered. "But I wasn't surprised."
That made her heart clench. "Why?"
"Because I've wondered it too. When I lose my temper. When I get that... dark feeling. It scares me, Mom."
She looked at him then — really looked. The boy she'd raised. The boy who never once raised his hand at her, never once made her feel small. He protected her. He held her when she cried. He made her laugh on her worst days.
"You're not him," she said firmly. "You hear me? You are nothing like him."
"But I—"
"No," she cut in. "Don't even give that thought space. He stalked us, Adrien. He watched you like you were a trophy to take, not a person to love. That's who he is. You? You shielded me with your whole body today. You looked him in the eye and made him walk away. That's not his blood. That's your heart."
He exhaled, looking away. "I just get scared I'll screw up like he did."
"You already broke the cycle just by loving," she whispered.
Then her voice dropped softer. "And if I ever made you feel like I was scared of you, I'm sorry."
His head whipped toward her. "What? No. Never. You've only ever been... like too much, if anything."
She raised an eyebrow. "Too much?"
"You know what I mean," he said with a small laugh. "The cheerfulness. The hugs. The babying. Like today, before everything went down? You were practically gluing yourself to me."
Ava flushed. "That's not clinging. That's advanced maternal affection."
"You ruffled my hair and kissed my cheek and made me pancakes shaped like hearts."
She crossed her arms. "Sue me for loving you."
He laughed for real then — the sound easing something sharp inside her.
"Seriously though," he added more gently, "I never minded. It reminded me I'm still yours."
She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. "Always will be."
They sat like that a while, the silence no longer heavy but soft, like a blanket pulled tight around both of them.
Then Ava stood up and kissed his forehead. "Goodnight, baby."
"Night, Mom."
She went to her room and closed the door behind her. She didn't turn the light on. Just walked to the drawer near her bed, pulled it open, and took out the old photo album she hadn't touched in years.
She sat down, cross-legged on her bed, and flipped it open.
Baby Adrien. Wrapped in a yellow blanket. Tiny fingers curled around her thumb. A gurgling smile at three months. First steps at eleven months, and her holding out her arms like she could catch every fall in the world.
She smiled softly, tears slipping quietly down her cheeks.
He had Alex's eyes, yes. But he also had her laugh. Her stubbornness. Her softness, too — the part of him that came running when she looked tired, who made her tea at 1 a.m., who never let her fall without reaching out a hand.
Ava traced a photo of him at five, messy-haired and cookie-mouthed.
"You saved me," she whispered.
She placed the album on her pillow, crawled under the covers, and exhaled.
Tonight, there were no ghosts.
Only memories.
And one boy, in the next room, who turned out nothing like the man who haunted her.
She fell asleep smiling.