The apartment smelled like lavender and fresh paint — like someone had tried to scrub the past away, but it still lingered in the corners like a bruise.
Ava stepped in first, cradling Adrien to her chest, a sleepy little bundle in pale blue. Her body ached in places she didn't know existed before childbirth, and yet… her arms felt full. Her heart, fuller.
Alex held the door open in silence. He hadn't said much during the car ride — just the occasional glance in the mirror at Adrien, and an offhanded, "Put his cap on, it's windy."
She didn't know what to expect from him. He hadn't been there in the delivery room. Hadn't held her hand through the twelve hours of agony. Hadn't kissed her forehead when Adrien cried for the first time.
She wasn't even sure he'd cried at all.
But here he was. Carrying the baby bag like it was filled with glass, following her into what was supposed to be their home.
It didn't feel like home anymore.
He set the bag down and hovered near the doorway, hands twitching at his sides. "Want me to set up the crib?"
Ava nodded. "It's in our… in the bedroom."
They hadn't talked about sleeping arrangements. She didn't know if she wanted to.
She laid Adrien down on the couch for a moment, carefully swaddled, and her fingers lingered on his cheek. He was so warm. So tiny. So hers.
And somehow — she still felt alone.
Alex emerged from the bedroom minutes later, sleeves rolled up, hair mussed, a rare trace of effort in his expression. "It's done."
"Thanks," she said softly.
They stood there, across from each other, Adrien between them — the ghost of everything they'd been and everything they couldn't be.
He stared at the baby. "He has my jaw."
She didn't look up. "He has my eyes."
Silence again. That awful silence.
She picked Adrien up again, kissed his head, and whispered something only he would hear. He yawned and snuggled into her chest, trusting her completely. Needing nothing else.
Alex sat down heavily, elbows on his knees. "He doesn't cry much."
"He knows I'll come when he does."
Another silence. A longer one.
He reached out — not to her, but to Adrien — and let his finger rest beside the baby's curled hand. "Does he… know who I am?"
Ava finally met his eyes. "He knows who I am."
And maybe that was enough.
Because when Adrien grew up, she wasn't going to lie. She wasn't going to rewrite history with sunshine.
She'd tell him everything.
But for now, he was just a baby.
And she was just a girl holding on, even if she was falling apart inside.
She carried Adrien to the bedroom, her bedroom now, and rocked him gently. Hummed the lullaby her mother used to sing. Pretended, for a second, that this was enough.
Behind her, the door clicked shut softly.
Alex didn't stay.
Not that night.
Not really.
Not the way she needed him to.
---
Everyone told her the hardest part would be the sleepless nights.
The feeding schedules. The diapers. The exhaustion.
No one told her it would be him.
Alex changed after Adrien was born — no, he'd already changed long before that, but now he didn't even pretend. The charm he once wore like a second skin was gone. Left behind was something colder. Sharper. Easier to provoke.
Ava could never predict what would set him off.
Sometimes it was Adrien crying too long in the middle of the night. He'd snap at the sound, shout from the other room. Slam doors. Once — when she couldn't calm Adrien fast enough — he stormed in, eyes wild, fists clenched.
"Shut him up, Ava! You're his mother, aren't you?"
He never laid a hand on Adrien.
But she took every blow meant for him.
A misplaced bottle, a shirt folded the wrong way, a tired look in her eye — all it took was one spark.
And then she couldn't walk for days.
The bruises were no longer places she could hide. Her body felt like glass held together by willpower and fear.
But what hurt more was that he never apologized anymore. He'd just leave. Disappear for hours or days. Come back smelling like cheap perfume and liquor. Dump a bag of groceries on the kitchen counter like that made it even.
She stopped asking where he went.
Stopped trying to make him stay.
Sometimes, in the dark, when Adrien was curled against her chest and the silence hummed with danger, Ava would stare at the ceiling and remember the boy who once held her hand like it was his lifeline. The boy who blushed when she kissed his cheek.
Where had he gone?
And how had he left such a monster behind?
Adrien whimpered softly beside her.
Ava pulled him closer.
"You'll never become like him," she whispered. "I promise you that."
Even if she had to bleed to protect him.
Even if it meant breaking herself to build a better world for her son.
---
There were nights she would kneel on the kitchen floor — knees bruised, pride shattered — and beg him.
"Please, Alex… just stop."
Tears would blur her vision, her voice would break, but she'd still clutch at his wrist, his shirt, anything.
"I'll do better. I swear. Just don't hurt me again. Please."
She hated the sound of herself.
Hated the way she'd crumble, how her body would instinctively shrink away whenever he so much as raised his voice. But she'd still beg. Because sometimes, the beatings weren't the worst part.
Sometimes, it was the silence that followed.
The way he'd look at her like she was nothing. Walk past her like she didn't exist.
She would've taken a slap over that cold indifference.
"Look what you've turned me into," she whispered one night, crouched against the bathroom wall, holding Adrien in one arm and clutching her stomach with the other, pain shooting through every limb. "I used to be someone. I used to smile."
But Alex didn't care. He never listened. Not really.
His apologies, when they came, were mechanical.
"I didn't mean to."
"You shouldn't have made me angry."
"You know how much I love you."
But love wasn't supposed to feel like this. Love wasn't supposed to make you feel like you'd die if you stayed — or if you left.
And still, she'd beg.
Because in her heart, a small part of her still believed in that boy who once kissed her knuckles after a fall. The one who carried her books. The one who blushed.
She didn't know when he died.
But she missed him more than anything.
---
It was a Tuesday.
The kind of grey, silent morning where even the wind felt too tired to howl. Adrien was barely two months old, fussing in her arms as she tried to warm milk on the stove. She hadn't slept. Her body ached in all the places his anger left fingerprints.
Alex stormed in — late, smelling like someone else's perfume.
"Shut the damn baby up," he snapped, tossing his jacket onto the floor like she was his maid.
She didn't speak. Just nodded, holding Adrien a little tighter, humming softly against his tiny ear.
But the kettle whistled a second too loud.
And that was all it took.
He lunged.
In an instant, the hot steel pot clattered across the floor, her back hit the counter, and she heard the faint cry of her baby falling from her arms into the crib beside her.
Her scream wasn't out of fear.
It was rage.
"Don't you ever touch me in front of my son again!" Her voice cut through the air, sharp and hoarse. "I let you ruin me, but you won't ruin him."
He froze. Just for a second.
It was the first time in years she'd raised her voice.
She was shaking — not out of fear this time — but fury.
"Get out," she whispered. "Get the hell out."
He laughed. Thought it was cute.
She turned, grabbed the phone, and for once in her life — didn't flinch.
"I'll call the cops, Alex."
Something in her eyes had changed. Something that made even him take a step back.
Maybe it was the way she stood, shielding Adrien. Or the way she no longer looked like the girl he used to break. She looked like a mother. A fighter.
And he left.
Slamming the door behind him.
She collapsed to the floor, Adrien wailing in her lap.
But she smiled through the tears.
Because she'd finally done it.
She'd begged for years.
And today, she said no.