Sebastian's POV
I didn't mean to come home early.
Practice ended quicker, the guys all bailed on lunch, and I figured I'd just crash at home, grab a shower. Quiet. Simple.
I pushed the door open.
And froze.
She was in the living room. Not standing. Not talking. Not yapping about strawberries or fabric samples or why I needed more iron in my diet.
No.
She was sitting on the couch, legs curled under her like she used to when I was a kid and sick. Her head was resting on Ray's shoulder. Ray had one arm around her, like always, solid and silent. Her eyes were red. His shirt was damp on one side.
She'd been crying.
My mom — Ava Langford, the woman who could talk a CEO into giving her their company and still have time to pack me a Bento box with smiley faces — was crying.
Quietly. Softly. Like her heart was too full and she didn't know where to put it anymore.
I stood there.
Invisible.
Unmoving.
And I saw it — the way Ray looked at her. Like she was the center of gravity. Like everything in his world bent toward her, even when she didn't know it.
She whispered something I couldn't hear, and he said something back, and her fingers twisted into his sleeve.
I didn't mean to eavesdrop. But I also couldn't move.
Because in that moment… I saw something I'd never really let myself think about before.
Maybe she needs me too.
Not in the way she used to — not the hold-my-hand-cross-the-street way.
But in the be-kind-to-her heart way. The don't-roll-your-eyes way. The "say I love you back when she says it even if your friends are around" way.
She was still her.
Still the woman who used to cry outside my kindergarten gates.
Still the one who memorized my favorite snacks and ironed my school shirts with lavender-scented spray.
Still the one who stayed up till 4 a.m. with me the night before my science fair because I forgot the model volcano was due.
I'd been so caught up in being seventeen, in growing up, in space, that I forgot she was growing up too. In a way where I needed her less.
And maybe that's the part she didn't know how to live with.
Maybe that's what was breaking her.
I took a step back, let the door click shut louder than necessary.
She looked up fast, startled. Wiped her face like I hadn't seen it. Smiled — all too fast, all too bright.
"Sebby," she chirped. "You're back early!"
Ray didn't move. He just looked at me. No judgment. Just quiet understanding.
I walked over. Sat on her other side.
And before she could say anything else, I leaned my head on her shoulder — the same way I used to when I was five and tired and too proud to say it.
She froze.
Then her fingers slowly reached up and threaded through my hair.
My voice came out quieter than I meant.
"I missed you, Mom."
She broke.
But this time, when she cried, it wasn't sadness.
It was relief.