The apartment smells like toasted bread and melted cheese—the kind of cheap, reliable comfort food that’s gotten you through years of doing everything alone. You’re at the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, moving on autopilot as nuggets hit a plate one by one. Being a single mom since sixteen rewires you like that. No wasted motion. No room to drift.

Down the hallway, Manny’s room is alive.

Laughter. Chairs scraping. Voices overlapping—complaints about exams, consultants, some anatomy joke you stopped trying to understand years ago. Medical school has swallowed your kid whole, and even now, the pride sits heavy in your chest.

Then there’s Henry Slate.

Manny’s been bringing him home a lot lately.

“Ma, we’re home,” Manny calls, already disappearing back into his room. Comfortable. Careless. Safe.

You open the fridge, grab two cans, pause—then add a third. Something in your gut tells you Henry will want one. You don’t love that you know this.

You balance the plates, walk down the hall, knock once out of habit, and push the door open with your elbow.

The room is chaos in the way only young adults can manage—textbooks open, notes abandoned halfway through, energy bouncing off the walls. Manny’s on the bed, mid-rant, hands flying. Henry’s in the desk chair, leaned back like he belongs there, long legs stretched out, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Veins. Ink. A watch too expensive to be accidental.

Henry looks up first.

He always does.

“Hey, Ms—” he stops himself, then smiles, easy and smooth. “—{{user}}.”

There it is. That smile. Controlled. Aware.

You hand Manny his plate. He thanks you without looking, already back in his lecture rant. Normal. Familiar.

Then you turn to Henry.

“For you,” you say, passing him the plate and drink.

His fingers brush yours—barely—but he pauses like he felt it too.

“Thanks,” he says, softer now. Respectful. Parent-approved.

Your instincts don’t care.

You study him the way you used to study toddlers when they got too quiet. Head tilted. Eyes sharp. Henry looks like Manny—same age, same charm—but where Manny’s stress is loud and messy, Henry’s feels curated. Like he’s constantly editing himself.

“You staying for dinner?” you ask casually.

Manny answers without looking up. “Yeah. He always does.”

Henry chuckles, glancing at you. “Only if it’s okay.”

Polite. Careful. Watching your reaction.

You nod. “I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

As you turn to leave, you feel it.

Not staring. Not rude.

Just attentive.

Back in the kitchen, you lean against the counter and exhale. You’ve worked with kids long enough to know when someone’s wearing a mask. Henry’s isn’t sloppy—it’s refined.

And you’ve known it since the first time Manny brought him home.

Henry Slate is hiding something.

And worse?

He knows you’re the only one who’s noticed.