Page 23 of Enzo

Touch-starved. Care-starved. I could feel it in every line of him. How lightly he leaned on me at first, like he didn’t want to be a burden, didn’t want to ask too much—then all at once, he was there, clinging as if this was the first warmth he’d had in years.

I closed my eyes, let my hands rest on the small of his back, grounding him.

Groundingme.

His hair was soft against my jaw, freshly washed and still smelling of that lemon shampoo I’d left in the bathroom cabinet. I pressed my nose to it without thinking, breathing him in. Not in a way that crossed any lines—just to remind myself that he was real. That he was here. Delicate and brave and tucked into my arms like he’d always belonged there. Mine to look after. To protect. I wanted to gather him up, take him away from every nightmare he’d ever survived. Feed him, wrap him in blankets, make sure he never went cold. I wanted to leave cocoa warming on the stove and soft clothes folded in his drawer. I wanted to build him a world where he never had to flinch again.

“I’ll hug you,” I murmured, lips brushing the side of his temple, “whenever you want me to.”

“Just you,” he mumbled into my chest. “Not the others.”

God.

My throat tightened. I felt a hundred feet tall that he trusted me like that. Like this. And terrified of breaking it.

I didn’t say anything as I felt the rhythm of his breathing start to even out.

And he didn’t let go for so long I thought maybe he’d fallen asleep in my arms.

He uncurled himself, and I let him go, and he offered me a soft smile, then hugging the wall, shoulders hunched but no longer caved in, he padded toward the stairs. He paused outside his door, head tilted in my direction. “Night, Enzo.”

I swallowed. “Night, Robbie.”

He closed the door to his room, and I sat in the kitchen for a while longer, staring at the cooling cocoa in my mug, processing the hug and then already turning over the people I’d need to call about the ID.

Because Robbie was serious about becoming someone new.

And I’d do whatever it took to make that happen.

* * *

Three days later,I was under the hood of an ancient Honda with more rust than frame—when I heard the soft creak of the upstairs steps. I didn’t need to look up right away. I knew it was Robbie and that he’d taken the scissors, lenses, and the box dye up to the bathroom, and I didn’t want to follow my instincts and stare.Play it cool, Lorenzo.But when I finally saw him, I swear the breath caught right in my throat. Robbie stood at the bottom of the stairs, blinking in the bright garage light. His hair was short—cropped, jet-black, and still wet. The soft white-blond waves were gone, replaced by something sleeker, sharper. And his eyes… a flat brown with the contacts, and different from the wild colors I knew.

He looked… good. He was filling out a little now, not quite so hollow. Still thin, still breakable, but he had color in his cheeks. His Redcars T-shirt clung to him in a way that made it impossible not to notice how narrow his waist was, how the sleeves hung a little too loose over his upper arms. His sweats were slung low on his hips, and he looked as if he belonged at Redcars. Like any other guy rolling through the shop. Older. Wiser.

He walked a few steps forward, shoulders squared, chin up, and Rio gave a low, exaggerated wolf whistle. “Damn.Who let the hottie in?”

Robbie flushed, hands twitching at his sides as if he didn’t know what to do with them. He glanced at me.

“Is this okay?” he asked, voice softer than his posture, all the uncertainty rushing back in.

I nodded. Managed a smile. “Yeah,” I said, rough and too low. “Yeah, Robbie. It’s okay.”

He was someone else entirely now. Not just because of the dye, the lenses, or the sharp new haircut. It was the way he carried himself—upright, steady, as if he believed, even for a fleeting second, that he could disappear the right way. The safe way. No one looking at him would ever guess he was the same kid we’d found trembling beside a heap of garbage bags. And part of me ached—for the soft waves of his hair, the uneven color of his eyes—but what mattered more was this: the way he stood. Like he wasn’t afraid to take up space.

And the way he smiled, shy and crooked, when Rio grinned and added, “Seriously, though. Someone call the cops—this guy’s got model energy.”

I laughed, and the sound didn’t feel forced. Robbie’s shoulders relaxed a little. He was still healing and figuring himself out; hiding and afraid.

But today?

He was here. He was alive.

The others drifted back to what they were doing—Logan muttering about the bank, Rio pretending to tidy up but mostly scrolling on his phone. Jamie heading out to Carters on a cookie run when Robbie turned toward me.

“Enzo?” he said, quiet but clear. I glanced up from the counter, and his hands were fidgeting, twisting the hem of his Redcars tee. “Can you hold me?”

He hadn’t asked since that night. The one where everything cracked open, and he let me in for a heartbeat.

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