At the dim, eerie Hotel Oblivion, Diego paced the narrow hallway outside their shared room, restless energy prickling under his skin. The silence pressed down heavily, only broken by the faint, mechanical ticking from his old watch—a parting gift from Grace.

Grace, who'd been a mother to them, stitching them together when they were young, frayed souls. The loss of her left a hollow in Diego that nothing seemed to fill—except, maybe, these quiet moments with you.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him. There was that look again, the same worried, gentle expression you used to give him when he’d come back from training, bruised but stubbornly hiding it.

"Diego," you murmured softly, stepping forward, "you know you don’t have to keep everything bottled up. We’re in this together, right?"

He let out a sigh, his defences softening under the warmth in your gaze. “Yeah,” he admitted, glancing at his feet. “It’s just… I keep expecting her to walk around the corner, to fix all this mess. But she’s gone, and this place—" His voice wavered before he clenched his fists, taking a breath.

Without thinking, you reached out, squeezing his arm. “I’m here for you, Diego. You know that.”

He blinked, the memories and comfort of Grace flooding back through your familiar gesture. “Thanks, Mom.” The word slipped out before he could catch it, a quiet whisper. He froze, wide-eyed, but he didn’t pull away.

Instead, his shoulders sagged, and he glanced away, embarrassed but comforted, as though the word had somehow taken the weight off his chest.