Gabriel watched him in silence. Then he asked the question Kelvin was least prepared for.
“Are you going to go away again?”
Kelvin’s chest tightened.
The honest answer contained too many adult dangers—Raymond, the press, the people who had already started watching the house.
So he gave the only answer he knew was true.
“No.”
Gabriel studied him one more moment, then nodded as if filing the answer away for later testing.
“Okay,” he said.
Then he mentioned a math problem he couldn’t solve upstairs.
Kelvin offered to help.
That was how it began.
Not with a dramatic embrace. Not with tears. With fractions.
Three-fourths plus one-half.
Gabriel had neat handwriting and crossed out mistakes with one clean line, never scribbling, never making a mess.
Kelvin showed him how to find a common denominator.
Gabriel understood quickly, and when the answer clicked, a quiet spark lit behind his eyes.
“You’re actually quite good at maths,” the boy said with solemn surprise.
Kelvin almost smiled. “Thank you.”
He stayed two hours that day.
Then longer on the next visit.
Then longer still.
He helped with an ocean project. Judith cooked without asking him to stay, and he stayed without announcing he would. At the kitchen table, talking about sea creatures while food simmered on the stove, Kelvin felt something he had not felt in years:
Normal.
Not easy. Not simple. But real.
When he left that evening, Gabriel walked him to the door and said, “Next Saturday.”
“Next Saturday,” Kelvin promised.
Judith stood behind the boy, watching.
“He likes you,” she said quietly once Gabriel had gone inside.
“He’s remarkable,” Kelvin replied.
Then his expression changed. “I’m going to deal with Raymond.”
Judith’s face hardened. “Carefully.”
“I know.”
“People with a lot to lose do dangerous things.”
Kelvin met her eyes. “I understand.”
But three streets away, a dark car sat with its engine off.
Inside, a man on the phone said, “He came back. He went inside this time.”
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