Chris stood at the bottom of the stairs and glanced up, checking his wristwatch. 7:30 PM. He should be halfway to work by now.
How do parents even manage this? He sighed and rested his hands on his hips, his polished shoes tapping softly against the tiled floor.
"I'm sorry, Uncle!" Nolan called from upstairs. He jogged down the stairs in a yellow sweatshirt that complemented his light skin, ripped jeans, and white sneakers. His damp, charcoal-black hair clung to his forehead, and his face glowed like morning light.
Relief washed over Chris, and his brows lifted slightly as Nolan came into view.
Nolan jumped down the final step, clutching a black backpack. "I'm ready!"
Chris looked at him and ruffled his hair. "Your hair's still wet. You should've dried it properly."
When Nolan looked up and grinned, something flickered in Chris. He blinked. A rush of warmth flooded his face, and he quickly looked away, clearing his throat as he shoved his hands into his pockets.
"There's no time for that." He nodded toward the door. "Let's go."
"Where are we going?" Nolan asked, following eagerly. "Tell me!"
"Just follow me. Quietly."
"But where?"
Their voices faded into the stillness of the house as they shut the door behind them.
Chris parked his car in an open lot, then unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out.
"Get down," he said shortly, not glancing at Nolan.
Nolan quickly unbuckled, grabbed his backpack, and stepped out—but froze the moment his feet touched the ground.
The cold morning air tousled his hair and dulled the light in his eyes.
Standing a few steps away was his aunt's husband.
Nolan's body trembled. His grip tightened on the straps of his bag, and tears welled up in his eyes as he looked at Chris.
Chris looked at Mr Damian, averting Nolan's gaze. His chest tightened, a heavy thud echoing in his ribs. His stomach twisted.
"I've spoken to the officer, Mr Damian," he said, his voice steady. "She'll let you know when you're to come in and make an official statement for custody. From now on, you're responsible for the boy." He paused, straightening his back. "And I'm sure you don't want to spend the rest of your life in jail."
Chris glanced at Nolan—and his breath caught. The boy's lips trembled. His eyes were red, though he hadn't shed a single tear yet. Chris looked down and saw Nolan's knuckles turning red from how tightly he clutched his backpack.
"Thank you, Mr Alder," Mr Damian said. "I'll keep him out of my wife's sight. She's still grieving and... angry."
Chris didn't respond. He couldn't. He couldn't stop staring at the boy's trembling hands. His own lips parted slightly, quivering as a dull ache throbbed in his chest.
Before he realized it, the words slipped out—soft, broken:
"I'm… I'm sorry." His voice cracked like a thread pulling loose. He reached out and placed a hand on Nolan's shoulder as the boy's tears finally fell. He gave it a gentle squeeze—his only way of saying what he couldn't put into words—then turned away.
Chris walked back to his car, feeling Nolan's eyes on him the whole way. He shut the door with a loud slam, the sound echoing like a final goodbye. His hands shook as he fumbled with the gear, stomped on the accelerator, and gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white.
The tires screeched against the pavement, howling like they felt the same pain he did.
And just like that, Chris drove away, leaving Nolan behind.
Nolan sniffled and wiped his tears with the back of his hand. His aunt's husband placed a hand on his shoulder and exhaled. "Let's go home now, Nolan."
Nolan didn't respond. His gaze remained fixed on the gate where Chris's car had disappeared.
A bittersweet smile tugged at his lips—the kind that only comes when goodbye carries a little hope.
"Thank you," he whispered.