He looks away, jaw working.
For a second, I see him again—the boy on a Brooklyn rooftop, hands ink‑stained from fixing other people’s gear, eyes too old for his age, holding me like I was the only soft thing in his universe.
The boy who put a pen in my hand and said, *Sign here, little star. Let me take one weight off your shoulders.*
“You could have told me,” I say. “You could have trusted me with the truth.”
He smiles then. It’s not nice.
“I could have,” he agrees. “And then you would have done exactly what you’re doing now—told me you’d rather die than let me make choices for you. Except then you’d be nineteen and broke with no label, no lawyer, and no way to fight him when he came with papers and guns. You think stubbornness is a bulletproof vest?”
“I think you underestimated me,
