Linda was curled in the center of the bed like a question mark, knees hugged to her chest, arms locked around her shins as if sheer grip strength could keep her from flying apart.

Shoulders shaking with the kind of silent sobs that hurt to watch.

Her favorite cloud-print pajamas—the ones Sarah had saved up for years ago—were twisted around her hips, thin cotton clinging damp to her skin.

One strap had slipped off her shoulder, baring the soft upper swell of her breast. Her thighs were pressed tight together, trembling, slick with tears or the lonely, desperate slide of her own fingers earlier—she'd never say which.

She looked small. Fragile. Undone.

And heartbreakingly, achingly wet—

Peter's chest caved in. All the god-level power in the universe, and the only thing that mattered right then was that his mom was breaking in half on a bed too big for one person.

"Mom," he said, voice barely above a whisper.

She jolted like he'd shouted, head snapping up. Red-rimmed eyes went wide—caught, exposed, every wall she'd built during daylight hours collapsed in the lamplight. For a endless second she just stared, nightgown askew, breast half-bared, thighs still clenched around the ache she couldn't name out loud.

"Peter—" His name cracked in her throat, shattered. "I didn't— I thought—"

"I know." He crossed the room in three long strides, climbed onto the bed without waiting for permission—because when had he ever needed it from her when she was like this?

He pulled her into his arms the same way she'd pulled him into hers a thousand times: nightmares, scraped knees. She'd always been the safe place.

Tonight, he was hers.

She shattered.

Completely.

The sobs she'd muffled into her pillow all these days tore out of her now—raw, ragged, soaking his t-shirt as she buried her face in his chest. Her body shook against him, soft and warm and trembling, years of exhaustion and terror and loneliness pouring out in waves.

Her fingers clutched at his back like she was afraid he'd vanish if she let go.

He could feel the frantic hammer of her heart against his ribs, the damp heat of her tears, the way her hips shifted restlessly even now—her body still wired with fear.

"I've got you," he murmured into her hair. "I'm here. You don't have to hold it together anymore."

She cried harder at that—like someone had finally given her permission to fall apart.

And for the first time in days, the noise in Peter's head quieted. His cock softened, exhaustion crept in at the edges, the cosmic punchline kicking in right on cue: only here, only against the steady rhythm of his mother's heartbeat, could the unstoppable force of Peter Carter finally, truly rest.

He didn't let go.

Neither did she.

He pulled her into his arms exactly the way she'd done for him a thousand times—back when the monsters were under the bed instead of in the headlines, when her heartbeat had been the only proof the world hadn't ended yet.

Her body folded against his, soft and warm and trembling, the thin cloud-print cotton doing absolutely nothing to hide how desperately she needed contact she'd denied herself for years.

Peter just held her. Tight. One hand stroking her hair, the other wrapped around her waist, anchoring her the way she used to anchor him.

And then she broke.

Not a dainty movie cry. A full, ugly, soul-deep unraveling—sobs that came from the marrow, the kind only possible after you've watched bullets fly toward the people you love most and realized all your fierce, endless love is useless against metal and hate.

The kind that carried every buried midnight terror, every guilty throb of want she'd shoved down since the first time she'd caught herself staring at her own son a little too long.

Her whole body shook with it, face buried in his chest, soaking his t-shirt like she was trying to drown the fear in cotton.

"I'm sorry," she choked out between gasps, the words spilling messy and raw. Her hips shifted without permission, pressing forward, seeking the hard line of his thigh like muscle memory from dreams she'd never admit aloud.

"I'm so sorry—you shouldn't have to see me like this, I'm supposed to be—"

"Shh. Stop." He tightened his hold, one hand cradling the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair the way she used to do when thunder scared him witless.

The other rubbed slow circles between her shoulder blades, feeling the heat radiating through that ridiculous, beloved pajama top, the stiff peaks of her nipples dragging against him with every hiccupping breath.

"You're allowed to fall apart, Mom. You're allowed to be human. Hell, you're allowed to be a mess who's secretly horny at 3 AM. I'm not keeping score."

"But you need me strong—"

"I need you alive," he said, voice rough. "I need you honest. I need you to stop pretending you're bulletproof when I can feel you shaking."

He eased back just enough to see her—mascara tracks down flushed cheeks, lips swollen from biting them, eyes dark and ancient with everything she'd never said.

God, she was beautiful in the wrecked, real way that punched the air out of him.

"Let me take care of you for once. Body, soul, and every guilty pulse between your legs you think I haven't noticed."

Fresh tears slipped free, catching the lamplight like tiny traitors. Her hand slid down his chest—hesitant, trembling—stopping just above the waistband of his cotton pants, fingers curling like they wanted to keep going and didn't dare.

"You're my son," she whispered, voice cracking. "I'm supposed to protect you."

"You already did." He caught her hand, pressed it flat over his heart so she could feel how hard it hammered for her.

"Every double shift, every skipped meal, every time you chose me over that asshole and his money. You protected me my whole life. And yeah, maybe you protected me from noticing how you sometimes looked at me like I was the only man left on earth—but I noticed anyway."

A wet, broken laugh escaped her. "Of course I had to choose you." Her thumb brushed his lower lip, lingering, hungry. "You were mine the second they put you in my arms. You've always been mine. In every way that matters… and some that definitely don't."

The words hung there, electric and forbidden and true.

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