Benji sat on the stoop beside him, laces already double-knotted, backpack straps hooked over both shoulders. He looked between the empty driveway and his father with the patience of someone who'd watched this exact scene play out a hundred times.

Mattheo's hand twitched toward his hair before he caught himself, shoving both hands into the pockets of his charcoal overcoat instead. The silver ring on his index finger clicked against his keys.

The console beeped. Benji tilted his head, dark curls falling over his forehead—the same unruly curls, the same stubborn set to his jaw. He was a miniature mirror in a tiny leather-trimmed bomber jacket.