We lay there for a long time after.
Not talking. Not moving. Just breathing in the dark with his head on my chest and my fingers in his hair and the tattoo – the day my mother left – still warm under my fingertips. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was the kind that happens when two people have run out of walls to hide behind and are sitting in the rubble deciding what to build next.
He started talking without preamble. No lead-in, no transition. Just his voice against my skin, quiet and stripped bare.
"Elena. My mother. Married my dad at twenty-two. Had me at twenty-four. Left at thirty-four." A pause. "Packed a bag while I was at school. Drove away. Didn't come back."
I kept my fingers moving through his hair. Didn't stop. Didn't tense. Just listened.
"No note. No custody fight.
