Angela Lopez barely slept. Even now, two years after giving birth to Jackson, the shadows of her past still crept into her mind when the house was quiet and dark. She had been through so much — the Fiera, the kidnapping, the threats — all for the little boy who now slept soundly down the hall.

Jackson wasn’t a newborn anymore, but that didn’t stop Angela from checking. Every night — sometimes twice, sometimes three times — she’d slip out of bed, careful not to wake Wesley, and tiptoe down the hallway.

Tonight was no different.

She gently pushed open the door to Jackson’s room. The soft nightlight cast a golden glow across the room, painting her son’s cheeks in warmth. He was sprawled out on his little bed, a dinosaur plush tucked under one arm. Angela knelt beside him, heart steadying only when she laid her hand on his tiny chest.

Rise. Fall. Rise.

She exhaled. Then she moved carefully — fingertips brushing along his ribs, making sure each one felt right. Down to his little legs. No bruises. Arms — nothing swollen, nothing wrong. She touched his head gently, feeling for bumps she knew wouldn’t be there. Then finally his neck. Still whole. Still perfect.

Still hers.

The same night, Jackson woke up vomiting, and she hadn’t hesitated — scooped him into her arms, cleaned him, whispered soothing Spanish lullabies, and carried him to her room. He'd slept between her and Wesley, tiny hands fisted in her shirt.

Wesley had grumbled in his sleep, only to wake up with Jackson’s foot in his face and smile through it.