Chapter Forty-Three: The Little Gentleman
Sleep was a slippery, elusive thing. The throbbing in her ankle had subsided to a dull ache under the ice, but a new, mundane discomfort asserted itself: the smell. The faint, clinging scent of hospital antiseptic and the day's stress on her silk blouse and trousers. She felt grimy, trapped in the uniform of a very long, very difficult day. The pristine sheets of Aris's guest bed felt like a reproach against her skin.
She tossed gently, trying not to jostle her ankle, the city's endless light painting slow arcs across the ceiling. Just close your eyes, she told herself. It's just for one night.
A soft, almost imperceptible sound at the door made her freeze. Not a knock. A tiny shuffling. The handle turned with a faint click.
The door opened just a crack, a sliver of dim hallway light cutting into the room. And there, silhouetted in the gap, was a small, solemn figure.
Rihan.
He was dressed in blue dinosaur-print pajamas, his dark hair tousled from sleep. In one hand, he clutched a folded item of clothing—another pajama top, this one covered in green stegosauruses. In his other hand, held with great care, was a single, slightly squashed chocolate gold coin, still in its foil wrapper.
He stood there, peering into the dim room, his big brown eyes wide and watchful. He didn't speak. He didn't come in. He just observed, like a tiny scientist assessing a new and unusual specimen in the habitat.
Amaya's heart melted. All the tension, the pain, the surreal awkwardness of the night dissolved in the face of this silent, earnest offering. She propped herself up on her elbows, careful not to make any sudden moves.
"Hi, Rihan," she whispered, her voice soft and warm. "It's Amaya. From the restaurant, remember?"
He blinked slowly, processing. Then, with a deliberation that was heartbreakingly adult, he took two small steps into the room. He stopped a few feet from the bed, holding out his treasures. He pointed first to the chocolate, then to her, then mimed putting something in his mouth. For your hunger. Then, he held up the tiny dinosaur shirt, looked from it to her, and gave a small, decisive nod. For your clothes.
The sheer, adorable absurdity of it—this small boy believing his child-sized pajama top could possibly fit her—broke through the last of her defenses. A genuine, bubbling laugh escaped her, soft and full in the quiet room. It wasn't a polite chuckle. It was pure, unfiltered delight.
Rihan's eyes widened further at the sound, but a flicker of something—not a smile, but a faint, pleased light—passed through them. He had caused this reaction. He had made the sad, hurt lady laugh.
"Oh, sweetheart," Amaya said, her eyes crinkling. "Thank you so much. That is the kindest thing. You're a perfect little gentleman." She reached out her arms, an open invitation, forgetting for a moment all the professional boundaries, all the complicated history with his father.
For a second, he hesitated, his gaze darting to the door and back. Then, as if deciding the risk was worth the reward, he shuffled forward. He placed the chocolate coin and the folded dinosaur shirt carefully on the edge of the bed, right next to her hand. Then, to her surprise and utter joy, he climbed onto the mattress with quiet determination and walked on his knees to where she lay.
He didn't say a word. He simply leaned into her open arms and rested his head against her shoulder, his small body warm and solid and trusting. It was the same silent craving for comfort she had seen in Lina, but somehow purer, less burdened by trauma. This was just a little boy, awake in the deep night, reaching out to a person who had laughed at his gift.
Amaya's breath hitched. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close, her cheek resting against his soft hair. He smelled of baby shampoo and sleep. She pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his head, the gesture instinctive and maternal. "You are so wonderful," she murmured into his hair. "Thank you for my presents."
He stayed like that for a long minute, his breathing slow and even against her. Then, he pulled back just enough to look at her ankle, which was still propped on the pillows. He pointed at it, a question in his eyes.
"I hurt it," she explained softly. "Your daddy is helping it feel better with ice."
Rihan nodded, as if this made perfect sense. He looked from her ankle to her face, his expression thoughtful. Then, with great seriousness, he leaned over and blew a soft, gentle puff of air onto the bandaged joint, his version of making it better.
Tears sprang to Amaya's eyes, hot and sudden. This child. This quiet, observant, deeply kind little soul. In that moment, any lingering, abstract anger she harbored towards Aris for having a child with someone else evaporated. How could she be angry at the existence of this?
The bedroom door, which had been left ajar, was pushed open a little wider.
Aris stood in the doorway, frozen. He was out of his dress shirt, wearing a simple grey t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair even more disheveled. He must have been checking on Rihan and found his bed empty. His gaze took in the scene: his son curled trustingly in Amaya's arms, the chocolate and tiny pajama top on the bed, the look of radiant, tearful affection on Amaya's face as she held the boy close.
His expression was unreadable in the shadows, but his body was rigid with a tension that seemed to suck the warmth from the room. It wasn't anger. It was something more profound—a stark, defensive alarm. He had built walls around this child, high and impregnable, and in one vulnerable, unguarded moment, Amaya had been invited inside them by the guard himself.
"Rihan," Aris said, his voice low but cutting through the intimate quiet. "It is time to return to bed."
Rihan turned his head to look at his father, but he didn't immediately move from Amaya's embrace. He looked back up at Amaya, as if for confirmation.
"It's okay, sweetie," Amaya whispered, her voice husky. "You should go with Daddy. And thank you again. You made me feel so much better."
Slowly, Rihan extricated himself. He picked up the chocolate coin from the bed and pressed it firmly into her hand, insisting she take it. Then, with one last, solemn look, he slid off the bed and padded silently to his father.
Aris's hand came down to rest on his son's shoulder, a possessive, anchoring gesture. His eyes met Amaya's over the top of Rihan's head. The gold flecks in his hazel irises seemed to glow in the dim light. There were no words of thanks for comforting his son. No acknowledgment of the sweet, bizarre scene. There was only a deep, unsettling intensity, a silent re-establishment of the boundary she had just, however innocently, crossed.
"Sleep," he said to her, the single word a final command. Then he turned, guiding Rihan gently but firmly from the room, pulling the door closed behind them with a soft, definitive click.
Amaya was left alone again, the chocolate coin warm in her palm. The ghost of a small, warm weight against her chest. And the chilling certainty that in showing kindness to his son, she had somehow trespassed into a territory more forbidden than his office, his car, or even his home.
She looked at the tiny green stegosaurus shirt, still folded neatly beside her. She picked it up, bringing it to her face. It smelled like Rihan—soft and clean and sweet. A lump formed in her throat.
She was in trouble. Not because of a sprained ankle, or a lost key, or a complicated professional history.
But because a little boy in dinosaur pajamas had just handed her a piece of his world, and she knew, with a despairing clarity, that she wanted to keep it.