intrepidity

The gym was dim, lit only by a row of low overhead lights that hummed faintly against the silence. Antonio sat hunched over on the floor, hoodie pulled over his head, fists resting against his knees. He wasn't crying—he didn't cry anymore—but he felt like something in him was unraveling.

It wasn't anything dramatic. Just... a bad day. A long, aching, heavy day where everything pressed in too tight.

He hadn't told anyone. He didn't need to. He figured he'd wait it out—maybe hit the bag again, maybe go on a run. But he hadn't moved in twenty minutes.

Then the door creaked open.

He didn't look up at first. He didn't need to. Her footsteps were light, hesitant—barely there. But even without seeing her, he knew.

Aurora.

She didn't speak. Didn't ask. She simply made her way across the room, slow and unsure, like she was trying not to spook him. And then—wordlessly—she sat beside him. Close enough that her knee brushed his.

Antonio glanced sideways.

Her eyes flicked up, nervous but warm. Her hands fidgeted with the sleeves of her cardigan. She didn't say anything. Just... leaned in. Carefully. Like she wasn't sure if he'd accept it.

He did.

He let out a slow breath and allowed her to press into his side, her tiny frame curling gently against him. It was barely anything—but at the same time, it was everything.

Warmth. Safety. Quiet understanding.

Antonio stared ahead, throat tight, heart slowly easing its rhythm.

He didn't know how she always knew. Or why she chose to offer him this softness, this comfort. But he didn't dare move. He let her stay. Let her curl her small hand around his hoodie sleeve and hold on.

He didn't say thank you.

But she knew.

-

Antonio sat on the edge of his bed that evening, hoodie still on, hands running through his hair. The silence of his room was heavier than usual.

He didn't want anyone to worry. He didn't want to talk about the weight on his chest. He just wanted to breathe. Just for a bit.

A soft knock on the door broke the stillness.

"Antonio," came a low, familiar voice. Calm. Grounding. "May I come in?"

It was Aiden.

Antonio didn't speak, but the door opened anyway. His eldest brother stepped in, sleeves rolled, still in his white dress shirt and slacks, the buttons at his collar undone. His tie was gone, his hair slightly mussed from the day.

He didn't say anything at first. Just walked over and sat beside him.

The silence hung for a moment.

Then Aiden reached out, hand resting on the back of Antonio's neck. Gentle. Reassuring.

"I saw you in the gym earlier," he said quietly. "Aurora told me you weren't feeling like yourself."

Antonio shrugged. "It's fine. Just a bad day."

Aiden didn't push.

"I have those too," he said simply. "You're not alone, bambino."

The nickname caught Antonio off guard. He hadn't heard that in a while—not since they were kids, when Aiden would tuck him and Atlas in after their parents' fights, calling them piccolo and bambino like it was armor against the world.