Chapter 21 The Quiet Hours
The Quiet Hours
The rain softened, then thinned to a chilly mist as we crossed into the quieter streets, our steps syncing to the hush of early morning.
My world: wet pavement gleaming with fractured neon, a jukebox of distant sirens, the tang of ozone and overripe trash.
The only star in this universe was Aiden, orbiting close enough to graze but never quite touching, except for that lingering heat where his hand had found my wrist.
We slipped into a rhythm, old and easy. “So,” I said, kicking at a bottle cap, “if I quit Neon, what’s your brilliant plan? Open a wolf-run daycare?”
He barked a laugh: sharp, genuine, startling for how it sliced the gloom. “You’d be the worst den mother in North America.”
“Flattery? You’re going to have to work harder if you want me to join the pack,” I shot back.
He angled his head, grinning. “You say that like I’d actually want you corrupting the pups.”
I gave him my best dead-eyed stare. “I’d teach them to read, swear, and make Molotov cocktails out of juice pouches. Admit it, I’m the role model you always needed.”
Aiden let out a strangled sound, caught between a laugh and a low growl. “Alright, but you’d have to wear something outrageous.”
“I’d only do it for the irony,” I shot back, glancing at him with a smirk. His grin widened, eyes glinting with mischief, as if he were concocting a wild scheme just for kicks. “Picture it: me, strutting around with snacks and a first-aid kit, ready for anything.”
He raised an eyebrow, challenging me. “And what’s the first emergency? A rogue juice pouch explosion?”
“Hey, those things can be lethal! You underestimate the power of a juice pouch gone rogue,” I retorted, enjoying the playful exchange as we navigated the slick sidewalk.
Our laughter danced in the damp night air, a bright spark against the cool, muted backdrop.
Maybe this was the secret: keep things moving fast enough, and nothing could catch us.
Not memories, not longing, not the slow grind of loneliness.
“So where did you learn to brood, anyway? Is there a school, or do you just get born that way?”
He stopped walking, hands shoved in his jacket pockets and looked up at the ragged clouds as if searching for a constellation only he could see. “It’s part of the gig, I guess.”
“What gig?”
His lips quirked. “Being what I am. Even before the wolf, I was built for it.”
There was a story there, a real one, not just the supernatural window dressing. I couldn’t help but be curious. Instead, I looped my arm through his, surprising us both. “Well, if you ever get tired of the brooding gig, there’s an opening in sarcasm.”
He made a show of considering it, his arm warm and oddly reassuring. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
My building loomed ahead, six stories of crumbling brick and fire escapes. We lingered at the threshold, neither of us reaching for the buzzer. I cleared my throat. “You want to come up?”
Aiden hesitated. His eyes flicked to the glowing window where Mateo’s nightlight burned, then back to me.
“Only if you want me to.”
It was my turn to hesitate, every neuron screaming yes, every scar reminding me to say no. I nodded anyway, and we crossed the tiled lobby, up the battered stairs, and down the muggy hallway to my door.
I fumbled for keys, but my hands shook, nerves or adrenaline or the aftershock of being seen, really seen, for the first time in ages.
Aiden watched, silent, the way you watch a bird edge closer to your palm.
Patient. Gentle. The door swung open, and warm air greeted us.
I half expected to see Mateo’s face peeking from behind his bedroom door, but the apartment was still.
The sense of home pressed in ragged, cluttered, stubbornly ours. We stood just inside, shivering a little, dripping on the tile. “I should…” he started but didn’t finish.
I cut him off with a gesture. “Stay. Just for a minute.”
So we did.
Silence stretched. Not awkward, but a thick, suspended thing, like the moment right before a storm breaks.
He looked at me, really looked, and for once I didn’t flinch. Finally, he laughed under his breath. “You know, when I imagined seeing you again, I always pictured something smoother.”
“Oh yeah?” I swiped at my wet hair, daring him to elaborate. “What, you thought I’d swoon?”
He grinned, all teeth and trouble. “No. I pictured you launching a coffee mug at my head. Or maybe a stapler.”
I smiled, lips twitching. “There’s still time.”
We both laughed, and for a heartbeat it was just us, no monsters, no secrets, nothing but the bright pulse of something that could almost be called hope. Then, from down the hall, Mateo’s door squeaked open.
Mateo stood there in an oversized T-shirt, hair smashed on one side, eyes sharp despite the hour. “Why is there a guy in our living room?”
I turned, startled. “Hey, baby. Everything okay?”
He nodded, then looked past me, gaze landing on Aiden. His expression shifted. He looked at Aiden the way boys look at men they’re trying to measure.
I bent to Mateo’s level, the way you do when you’re desperate to shield a child from the world but know you’re already too late.
“Hey, kiddo,” I said, my voice softening into the register reserved only for him. “Do you remember Aiden?”
My heart thudded in my chest, every parental instinct on red alert, like if I asked wrong, if I said the wrong word, all my carefully-constructed illusions would collapse, and the monsters would come flooding in.
Mateo blinked, the sleep barely chased from his eyes, then looked past me at Aiden. He cocked his head.
“He’s the guy from the dream,” he said, words simple and uninflected, as if he’d just announced the weather.
The apartment seemed to contract. It made the hair on my arms stand up, made me want to cross myself even though the last time I’d set foot in a church was for a funeral.
I swallowed, shaking off the chill. “That was just a nightmare, baby. Remember? Bad dreams aren’t real.”
Mateo didn’t argue; he never did, but there was something off in the way he yawned and wandered into the living room, like he wanted to keep one eye on the adults in case they started bleeding secrets.
He dropped onto the couch, knees pulled to his chest, and grabbed the old stuffed wolf from the armrest, just holding it like something familiar.
For months, he’d been having strange dreams: a glowing river, a blue stone pendant, a strange woman who called his name. I’d chalked it up to cheap horror movies, but now those dreams had found a face, and that face was standing in my living room.
Aiden, for his part, looked mortified. He raised a hand, palm open in a cautious greeting, but his eyes were fixed on Mateo with a kind of desperate, wild tenderness I’d only ever seen on National Geographic specials.
“Hey, Mateo,” he said, voice careful, as if speaking too loud might shatter the kid into pieces. “It’s… been a while.” He hesitated, then shifted his gaze to me, searching for permission, for a script.
Mateo didn’t respond, just stared at Aiden. The silence was brittle, a pane of glass stretched to its limit.
I cleared my throat. “Mateo, why don’t you head to bed? It’s getting late, and I’ll come tuck you in, okay?”
He hesitated, glancing between Aiden and me, his brow furrowing as if he were weighing the gravity of this moment.
Finally, he nodded and slid off the couch with a soft thud.
The quiet of the apartment enveloped him as he padded down the dimly lit hallway, his feet whispering against the worn wooden floor.
I exchanged a glance with Aiden, who stood still as a statue, his face etched with concern and uncertainty.
“Goodnight, Mateo,” Aiden murmured, his voice a gentle whisper, as if he were afraid to disturb the delicate magic weaving through the room.
“Night,” Mateo replied, his eyelids fluttering like the wings of a tired moth.
With each step, the tension in his small frame began to melt away, surrendering to the comforting pull of sleep as he disappeared into the sanctuary of his bedroom.
I gestured for Aiden to sit and wait for me on the couch, while I followed Mateo into his room.
He left the door cracked, not wide open, not closed.
The nightlight hummed in the corner, unnecessary but still plugged in.
Comic books and headphones were strewn across his desk, the kind of mess he insisted was “organized.”
Mateo got into bed and pulled the blanket up, not all the way, just enough. He kept glancing toward the door.
“I know they’re not real,” he said before I could start. “I’m not five.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
He glanced at the door again. Subtle. Quick.
“They just feel real,” he added, like he hated admitting it.
I sat on the edge of the mattress. “You don’t have to act like they’re nothing.”
“I’m not acting,” he said defensively.
“Okay.” I kept my voice steady. “Then tell me what makes them weird.”
He studied me for a second, measuring. Deciding.
“They don’t feel like dreams,” he muttered. “They feel like… something’s there.”
Then he shrugged, like he hadn’t just said something that heavy.
“Okay,” I said evenly. “If you want to talk about it, you know where I am.”
He rolled onto his side, facing the wall. “Yeah.”
I hesitated, then brushed my hand briefly over his hair quickly, not lingering. He didn’t shrug me off. Didn’t lean in, either.
“Try to sleep.”
“Mm.”
I stood and moved toward the door. It stayed cracked. He didn’t ask me to close it.
In the hallway, the quiet pressed in. I stood there longer than I meant to, listening for movement, for voices, for anything that didn’t belong.
Mother. Protector. Liar.
The roles blurred more each day.
Mateo had never asked about his father. Not once. I could never decide if that was mercy or strategy. He was old enough to see the gaps in his own story. Old enough to know when a name was being avoided.