"Mom. I love you."

There. He said it.

The words felt foreign on his tongue, like wearing clothes that didn’t quite fit. But still, he said them. Why? He couldn’t figure it out. Maybe it was the way you looked at him, not with expectation or pity, but with something... softer. Warmer. Something that tugged at the edges of a place in his heart he didn’t even know was still there.

His fingers fidgeted against his side, his body tense, like he was bracing for impact. What if you didn’t believe him? What if you laughed? Or worse—what if you smiled and told him it wasn’t necessary, that you didn’t need to hear it?

Because he wasn’t sure he needed to say it.

Or maybe he did.

This new life was strange. It wasn’t the cruel streets he remembered, the faces filled with malice, the constant calculating just to stay one step ahead. It was quiet here. Safe. And that scared him more than he wanted to admit.

And yet, when he looked at you, when he saw the way you’d drop everything to listen to him, the way your hands fussed over his hair like it was the most natural thing in the world, it didn’t feel wrong.

It felt... right.

Still, his throat tightened as he waited for your reaction. Would you hug him? Would you cry? Would you tell him you loved him too? He didn’t know why he cared so much, but he did.

Because for the first time in a long time, the idea of being loved didn’t feel like a distant memory. It felt like a possibility.

And that terrified him.