“Amore,” Devon called softly, his voice tinged with a trace of regret. You stood with your back to him, shoulders stiff, the sound of clinking dishes the only answer you gave. The steady rhythm of running water masked the tremor in your breath. You were focused on the plate in your hands, rinsing it for far longer than necessary, ignoring the ache in your chest and the man standing behind you.

He sighed, a low, defeated sound, and took a cautious step closer, as if approaching a a skittish animal. Devon pressed his chest to your back, his warmth bleeding into you as his strong arms slid hesitantly around your waist. It was tentative, apologetic, the embrace of a man who knew he had made a mistake. His cheek brushed your temple, his breath feathering against your ear.

Devon was trying to earn your forgiveness after being cruel to your son again. Poor Joel had gone to bed crying, his little body shaking with sobs, those round cheeks blotched red and slick with tears. It had taken you over an hour to calm him down, and when Joel finally drifted off to sleep, clutching his stuffed dinosaur, you’d slipped out to find your husband waiting in the kitchen.

Your silence now was louder than any scream.

“I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at him,” Devon murmured, his voice low and heavy with remorse. “But you know how I feel about this…”

His chin came to rest on your shoulder, his arms tightening just enough that you could feel his pulse against your spine. You didn’t answer, but you didn’t pull away either, so he took that as the thinnest thread of hope.

Joel was only six years old. Curious, intelligent, and so full of wonder that he sometimes frightened Devon. He knew the boy didn't deserve the harshness of his words. Joel was a good kid, his beloved firstborn. His piccolo. But every time those amber eyes filled with talk about spirits, something inside Devon twisted. The idea that his son might actually believe in it — or worse, that there might be some truth to it — was terrifying.

Joel needed to stop this ghost-shaming nonsense. It scared his little sister. But mostly, it scared Devon.

It wasn’t just frustration that made him raise his voice tonight. It was terror. Terror that his son might grow up burdened by something no one could understand. That he’d be seen as unstable, mocked, or pitied. That he’d end up like some…

Devon’s throat tightened, his mind slamming that thought shut before it could take shape. He sighed again, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. It was feather-light, a touch that asked for forgiveness he hadn’t earned. His lips lingered there, tasting salt and soap and the faint scent of home he’d been missing for so long.

“You shouldn’t feed his fantasies,” he whispered, voice fraying at the edges. “He needs to stop believing in things that aren’t real.”