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Chapter Text

In the summer of 1990, Olivia Corinthos arrives in Port Charles with nothing but a fraying duffel, a silent six-year-old son, and a past buried under bruises and secrets. Running from the horrors of her childhood and the shadow of an uncertain paternity, she finds refuge at Kelly’s Diner, thanks to the fierce kindness of Ruby Anderson and the unexpected friendship of a sharp-tongued teen named Carly Spencer.
But just as Olivia begins to believe in safety again, her past comes crashing through the diner door in the form of Michael "Sonny" Corinthos—the only boy who ever made her feel whole. Now a young social worker assigned to the local youth center, Sonny has no idea the quiet boy he’s coaching on the baseball field might be his own. As old wounds stir and the truth threatens everything Olivia’s fought to protect, she must decide: will she finally let Sonny into the life she built from ashes—or keep hiding behind the lock she placed on her own heart?

Chapter Text

📍 Port Charles, New York
🗓 July 10, 1990
🌦 Humid, gray-skied morning, 78°F
________________________________________
The bus hissed at the curb with a long exhale, the engine sputtering like it, too, was exhausted from the ride. Olivia gripped her son’s hand tighter and pulled the canvas duffel over her shoulder. The zipper was broken, and one strap was fraying, but it had made it this far. She had made it this far. Six years, four states, two cities, a handful of kind strangers, a thousand nights spent listening for footsteps outside a cheap motel door—and now, finally, Port Charles.
It didn’t look like much from the bus stop. A sleepy town tucked against the water, where the buildings were old and leaned a little from age, like tired sentinels still standing watch. But the air smelled like salt and frying oil, and the streets were quiet enough that Olivia could actually hear her own thoughts. That was new. That was… unnerving.
Dante tugged at her hand, not whining, just needing reassurance. He was six now, but small for his age—thin arms, big dark eyes, and the kind of quiet that made people nervous. Not because he was strange. Because he was watching. Always. Like he didn’t quite trust the world not to tip sideways again.
“Here,” Olivia murmured, kneeling beside him. Her voice cracked, dry from too many hours on the road. She brushed his curls from his forehead, gently, and forced a smile. “New place, baby. We’ll try this one for a while, huh?”
He nodded once, solemn. He didn’t ask where they were sleeping. He never did anymore.
They walked. Past a closed hardware store. Past a laundromat with one machine rattling behind fogged glass. Past a church with its doors open and a fan blowing the scent of candles onto the street. Olivia didn’t go in. She hadn’t been inside a church since she ran—not since she sat on a wooden pew in Brooklyn with blood drying on her thighs and a secret swelling in her belly. God might still love her. She wasn’t sure she could return the favor.
Kelly’s Diner was tucked into the curve of the street like it had always been there. The sign out front buzzed with age, and the screen door squeaked when she pulled it open. It was late morning, between rushes. A teenage waitress was wiping down a table in the corner, and a few old-timers nursed coffee by the window. It smelled like bacon grease and warm pie crust.
And behind the counter, drying a mug with a towel and an eyebrow already raised, was Ruby Anderson.
Olivia knew her name because she'd heard it from a woman at the shelter in Syracuse—“Try Port Charles. Ask for Ruby at Kelly’s. She’s tough as nails but fair.” The woman had handed her a torn scrap of paper with the address scrawled in pencil, then pressed a peanut butter sandwich into Dante’s hand and whispered, “You’re doing the right thing, mama. Don’t stop.”
Ruby looked at her for a long moment—really looked. Olivia didn’t drop her gaze. She squared her shoulders, pushed Dante slightly behind her, and cleared her throat.
“Name’s Olivia. Olivia… Corinthos.” Her voice only trembled a little. “I heard you might have work. Maybe even a room.”
The towel stilled in Ruby’s hands. Her eyes flicked to Dante, then back to Olivia. She said nothing at first, just set the mug down, walked out from behind the counter, and came to stand in front of them.
“Been on the road?” Ruby asked.
“Yeah.”
“Long time?”
“Too long.”
“You runnin’ from something?”
Olivia’s jaw twitched. “Someone.”
Ruby nodded. Like she knew that kind of running. Like she’d done it herself, once. “You got papers?”
“No,” Olivia admitted. “But I can work. I can clean, cook, wait tables—whatever you need. I just—” She stopped herself. She’d said just until I get on my feet too many times. Too many feet had fallen out from under her.
“I’ve got a boy to feed. That’s it.”
Ruby turned, walked back behind the counter, and filled a clean mug with milk. She slid it across the counter toward Dante, who hesitated, then took it in both hands and drank without saying a word.
“You’ll work mornings,” Ruby said, like it was already settled. “Before the lunch crowd. And again after dinner, once he’s in bed.”
Olivia blinked. “The room—”
“You’ll take the one upstairs. Small, but it’s got a window and a lock. I’ll take it outta your check.”
Tears sprang to Olivia’s eyes before she could stop them. She nodded quickly, blinked hard, and swallowed them down. “Thank you.”
Ruby didn’t soften. She just reached for another mug. “Don’t thank me. Just don’t run off in the night with the silverware.”
Olivia let out a weak laugh, the first in… she couldn’t remember how long.
________________________________________
That night, after Dante fell asleep on the mattress upstairs—one arm tucked beneath his chin, the other still clinging to the tattered corner of his blanket—Olivia sat by the window and stared out at the quiet street. The cicadas were loud. The streetlight flickered. Somewhere, a boat horn sounded from the harbor.
She rested her forehead against the glass. Her whole body ached—her back, her feet, her heart. But for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t afraid of what came next.
She didn’t know if this town would keep them. If this Ruby woman would change her mind. If someone would come looking.
But she knew this: they had a room with a lock. They had hot food. They had each other.
And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

📍 Kelly’s Diner, Port Charles
🗓 July 13, 1990 – Evening
🌙 Clear sky, breeze off the water
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The night had a softness to it, rare and welcome. Not warm exactly, but not biting either—just that in-between kind of July air that settled like a sigh over the sidewalks. Olivia sat on the back steps of Kelly’s, elbows on her knees, a cigarette burning between her fingers. She wasn’t supposed to be smoking—not with Dante upstairs—but he was finally asleep, and she needed something. A crutch. A breath. A sin.
The breeze played with the ends of her hair. Her back ached from the shift, and her legs still had bruises from the bus bench in Elmira. But for once, no one was shouting. No one was knocking. She could hear herself think. That alone felt like a luxury.
Inside, the diner was winding down. Ruby had closed early—some kind of plumbing issue in the back, nothing dramatic, just another piece of an aging building groaning through another decade. Olivia had stayed behind to help mop the floors, not because she was asked but because it felt good to be useful. To be something besides a runaway, a liar, a girl who should’ve never survived that motel bathroom floor.
The screen door creaked behind her. She turned fast—instinct—but it wasn’t Ruby. It wasn’t anyone she knew.
It was a tall kid. Maybe 20, if that. Hands stuffed in the pockets of a faded leather jacket, hair too neat for someone who clearly didn’t care much about appearances. Quiet face. Blue eyes too calm for the world.
He had a duffel over one shoulder and something squirming inside his coat. At first Olivia tensed—reflex, always—but then she saw the paws.
A puppy. Small. Dirty. Ribs too visible under a patchy coat of black and white fur. It wriggled, licked his chin, and made a sound halfway between a sneeze and a whimper.
The kid looked down at Olivia like she was part of the scenery—unthreatening, noted and filed—and nodded.
“She here?” he asked, gesturing toward the diner with his chin.
“If you mean Ruby, yeah. But she’s gonna kill you if that thing pisses on her linoleum.”
He cracked the faintest smile. “I’ll mop.”
The puppy wriggled harder, and Olivia laughed—really laughed, sharp and sudden and too loud for how tired she was. It startled her.
“Who are you?” she asked, still smiling.
“Jason Quartermaine.” He said it like it didn’t mean anything. Like it wasn’t a name people whispered with either envy or annoyance around town. “She said she keeps old towels under the counter. Thought I’d try to dry him off.”
“You found him?”
“Behind the gym. Near the bins. Probably been there a while.” He looked down at the squirming thing with quiet affection. “No collar. Looks like hell.”
“So do most of us,” Olivia said before she could stop herself.
Jason’s eyes flicked up again. Sharper this time. Not unkind, just observant. The kind of glance that clocked everything without asking for more than you were willing to give.
“You need anything?”
It was a weird question. Sincere. Flat. Not flirtatious. Not pitying.
She shook her head. “I’m good.”
And then, from the screen door behind them: a yawn. A pad of small feet. And Dante.
He must’ve woken up from the quiet, or the breeze, or that unshakable instinct that told him when his mother wasn’t three feet away. He wore the same threadbare T-shirt he’d had on all week and rubbed his eyes with a fist. Olivia started to rise, heart pounding like it always did when he wandered at night—but then he saw the dog.
And everything stilled.
Not his breath. Not his stance. But his face. His whole expression shifted—eyes wide, lips parted, body pulled forward like gravity was tugging him toward something he didn’t even realize he wanted.
The puppy whined.
Jason knelt, let the thing wiggle out of his jacket and onto the wooden step. It was shaky, barely able to stand, but it stumbled forward, nosed at Dante’s socked foot, and gave a small wag.
Dante dropped to his knees so fast Olivia flinched.
“Gentle,” she whispered automatically, but her voice was thick.
Dante didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. His hands—careful, reverent—lifted the puppy against his chest. He tucked it close like something precious. Like something breakable.
Jason watched, then stood slowly. “You can borrow him,” he said to Dante. “Until he gets strong.”
Dante nodded, mute. Eyes wide.
Jason looked at Olivia. “I’ll ask Ruby.”
She nodded, throat burning.
________________________________________
Later, when the diner was locked and the lights dimmed, Olivia sat at the edge of the mattress upstairs and watched her son sleep with that scrawny pup curled against his ribs.
He hadn’t let go once.
She pressed her palm to her chest, like she could steady the ache.
She didn’t know if they’d stay in Port Charles forever. She didn’t know if this Jason kid was always that decent or just had a good day. She didn’t even know if the dog would make it through the week.
But for the first time in months, Dante looked like a little boy.
And that?
That was enough.

Chapter Text

📍 Kelly’s Diner, Port Charles
🗓 July 14, 1990 – Late Morning
☀️ Hot, sticky air and buzzing cicadas
________________________________________
The breakfast rush had finally thinned, and Olivia was wrist-deep in sudsy water, her arms sore from scrubbing pans that hadn’t seen steel wool in a decade. She’d tied her hair up with a bread twist from the junk drawer, and sweat was dripping down the back of her neck when the front door flew open with a crack that made Ruby mutter under her breath.
“She’s early,” Ruby said without even glancing up. “God help us all.”
The woman who stepped inside didn’t walk so much as arrive. Blonde hair pulled back in a messy knot, jeans torn at the knee, black tank top clinging to sun-warmed skin and the kind of attitude that made people step aside whether they meant to or not. Not flashy—just sure. The confidence of someone who didn’t ask permission to exist.
Carly Spencer dropped a canvas bag on the counter and snapped open a can of soda from the fridge like it was her diner, not Ruby’s. She didn’t look at Olivia right away. She was too busy talking, voice sharp but not unkind.
“The bus was late again,” Carly said, popping the tab. “And the guy next to me smelled like tuna salad and loneliness. I swear to God, Aunt Ruby, next time I’m walking.”
Ruby didn’t miss a beat. “You live fifteen blocks away.”
“Which is apparently closer than your patience.”
Olivia turned just enough to glance over her shoulder. Carly caught her movement and, at last, their eyes met. Olivia felt that same instinctive flicker of defensiveness she always did around strong personalities—especially women with edges sharp enough to cut—but Carly didn’t size her up like a threat. Just… cataloged her.
“New girl?” Carly asked, nodding toward Olivia with the barest hint of curiosity.
“Olivia,” Ruby said. “Started three days ago. She and her boy are upstairs for now.”
Carly took a long sip of soda, studying her. “He yours?”
Olivia nodded. “Dante.”
“How old?”
“Six.”
That seemed to shift something. Carly set her drink down, leaned on the counter with her hip, and said, “That his puppy?”
Olivia blinked. “You saw him?”
“Hard not to. Jason brought the mutt in yesterday, looked like a mop with mange. Kid was holding him like he was made of diamonds.”
Olivia’s lips curved into something small but warm. “He doesn’t usually light up for strangers.”
Carly shrugged. “Jason’s not really a stranger. Just… Jason. Guy shows up, fixes things, disappears again like some kind of blue-eyed fairy godmother.”
There was a beat of shared silence before Carly added, more softly, “That’s good, though. For your kid. That he lit up, I mean.”
Olivia nodded slowly, watching Carly more carefully now. There was something behind the sarcasm—a steel backbone, yes, but also something bruised. Familiar.
“You got kids?” Olivia asked.
Carly snorted. “Hell no. Not unless you count my mother, and she’s a full-time job without diapers. But I help out with Lucas sometimes—my cousin. He’s four. Adorable when he’s not screaming.”
Olivia’s smile came easier this time. “Screaming’s a phase.”
“So’s most of childhood,” Carly said dryly. “I skipped half of mine.”
Ruby barked a laugh. “She launched out of childhood like a damn bottle rocket.”
Carly turned to Olivia again, this time with a smirk that was a little warmer, a little earned. “Well. Welcome to Port Charles, Olivia. If anyone gives you shit, let me know. I don’t fight clean, but I win.”
Olivia huffed a soft laugh, but her throat felt tight. It wasn’t the offer. It was that Carly meant it.
“Thanks,” Olivia said. “I might take you up on that.”
________________________________________
That night, upstairs with Dante curled around the scrawny puppy, Olivia stood by the window with the fan humming against the heat. Downstairs, she could still hear the tinny radio and Carly’s laughter in the kitchen. Loud. Unapologetic. Solid.
Olivia didn’t have sisters. Never did. But tonight? For the first time in years, she wasn’t sure she’d be alone forever.
She flicked off the light and curled beside her son. And in the dark, she let herself believe in small beginnings.

Chapter Text

📍 Kelly’s Diner, Port Charles
🗓 August 5, 1991 – Morning
☀️ Overcast, heat pressing through the clouds
________________________________________
The bell above the door rang as Sonny stepped into Kelly’s for the first time. Not that he noticed it. He was too busy wiping sweat off the back of his neck, still half-tasting the stale bus air that had clung to his clothes since Syracuse. His duffel bag weighed heavier than it should have, but he kept it slung over one shoulder—reflex. No matter how many degrees you earned, you didn’t just forget how to carry your life in one strap.
The diner was warm, smelled like bacon and burnt coffee, and hummed with quiet morning life. Not a bad start. A place like this was… safe. Ordinary. Real. And Sonny needed real.
He was supposed to check in at the youth center down by the wharf at noon—his first official gig as a social worker. He’d packed his transcripts, a clean shirt, and a folder full of hope. What he hadn’t packed was appetite, but the ache in his gut wasn’t just from hunger. It was nerves. It was memory. It was the weight of everything he’d kept buried under years of bruises and silence and the sick sound of Deke’s belt clearing a loop.
He slid onto a stool at the counter, nodded politely to the woman behind it—older, sharp-eyed, with a presence that said she ran the place without raising her voice.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Sonny replied. The “ma’am” came out soft but natural. He didn’t know who she was, but he respected her already.
“Coming up. You new in town?”
“Just got in this morning. Starting at the youth center.”
She nodded like that meant something. “We could use more people like you.”
The mug hit the counter a second later, black and steaming. Sonny reached for it—then paused.
He felt it before he saw her.
The air shifted. His skin prickled. Some part of him—the part that remembered Brooklyn stoops and summer sweat and a girl’s laughter like windchimes in the dark—went still.
And then he heard it. The sound of a tray clattering against the tile.
He turned. Slowly.
She was standing by the swing door to the kitchen, apron tied crooked at her waist, a stack of dishes at her feet. One had cracked in half. Her hand was shaking.
“Olivia?” he said.
It came out hoarse, like he hadn’t used her name in years. Because he hadn’t. Not since she disappeared. Not since that letter—three lines long, no return address—I’m safe. Don’t look for me. Please.
For a second, she didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Then her lips parted, and she took half a step forward before she caught herself. Her face was thinner. Paler. Her eyes just as fierce, just as wide.
“Sonny?”
It was barely a whisper. A prayer. A warning.
He stood slowly. “Jesus, Liv—”
“Don’t,” she said, fast. Not cruel. Just panicked. Her fingers twitched like she didn’t know whether to reach for him or run.
The older woman behind the counter—Ruby—stiffened. “You know him?”
Olivia didn’t look away from Sonny. “We grew up together.”
That wasn’t the half of it. Not even a tenth. But Sonny nodded slowly, eyes never leaving hers. “Yeah. We did.”
Ruby folded her arms, reading the room with an expert’s eye. “You want me to toss him?”
“No,” Olivia said quickly. Then again, quieter. “No. I just… I didn’t know he was coming.”
“I didn’t either,” Sonny said, voice rough. “I didn’t even know you were alive.”
Silence stretched between them. Thick. Complicated. The kind of silence you couldn’t fill with questions, only time.
She bent down and gathered the dishes with shaking hands. He crouched to help, their fingers brushing for half a second.
“Still cleaning up after me,” she said, smiling faintly.
He didn’t smile back. Not yet. He was still too stunned. Too full of things he couldn’t say. Where did you go? Why didn’t you tell me? Was it me? Was it him?
But he didn’t ask any of that. He just looked at her.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded. Lied. “Yeah.”
“You got someone?”
She hesitated. Swallowed. “I’ve got a son.”
His stomach dropped, but he kept his face calm. “You married?”
“No.”
He let that settle. Just nodded, because any other reaction would’ve been too much in front of Ruby and the grease-slicked counter and the ghosts that had just pulled up a seat beside them.
“I’m here now,” he said. “I’m working with kids. Kids who’ve been through… a lot.”
She blinked, and he saw it then—the crack in her armor. The flicker of something soft. The memory of safety.
“That tracks,” she said.
He stood. She stood. The tray was back in her hands. And the space between them was full of years they couldn’t say out loud.
Ruby cleared her throat. “If you’re sticking around, Michael, we’ve got good coffee and decent pie.”
He glanced at Olivia. “I think I might.”

Chapter Text

📍 Kelly’s Diner – Upstairs Apartment
🗓 August 6, 1991 – Early Morning
☀️ Warm, golden sun creeping over the harbor
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The world was quiet in that soft, early hour before the town woke up. Birds fluttered past the window. The harbor air drifted in faint and clean. Olivia stood barefoot at the glass, one hand curled tight around her coffee mug, the other pressed lightly to the curtain’s edge. She hadn’t slept. Not really. Just dozed on and off, every time Dante shifted in the bed beside her, every time the creak of a car outside made her breath catch.
But now? Now her heart was pounding for a different reason.
He was there.
Down on the sidewalk, standing just outside the gate of the community center across the street, was Sonny.
Not a ghost. Not a memory warped by time or trauma. But real. Solid. Twenty-two years old with the weight of survival in his shoulders and the soft burn of purpose behind his eyes. He looked like someone who knew how to hold things together—until he didn’t. His hair was damp from a quick shower, curls tighter at the edges, and he wore dark jeans and a ribbed sweater that clung just enough to show he hadn’t been skipping meals lately.
She knew that sweater. Not the exact one, maybe, but something close enough to make her chest tighten. She remembered the way he used to wear old cotton pullovers in the fall—slightly too big, always rolled at the wrists, like he was trying to hide how thin he'd gotten some weeks. She remembered leaning against him on the stoop one night in October ’83, her head on his shoulder, the smell of burnt leaves in the air and his hand tugging gently at the chain around his neck like it kept him tethered. He hadn’t said much that night. Neither had she. But they didn’t need to. That was before everything shattered. Before her whole life became a secret.
Now that chain still hung at his throat, dulled with time but unmistakable. She’d given it to him in the middle of a hot Bensonhurst summer—cheap as hell, half green by August—but he’d worn it like it meant more. Maybe it did. He was touching it now, just like he used to when the noise in his head got too loud.
She bit her lip. Hard.
He didn’t know.
Not really.
He didn’t know that the last time she saw him, she was already pregnant. That she’d run not because she stopped loving him—but because she was terrified he’d try to save her, and get himself killed in the process.
He didn’t know that her son—their son, maybe—was upstairs, still curled around a puppy in bed, a mop of black hair sticking to his cheek, safe because she’d clawed her way through six years of dirt and ash and silence.
And he didn’t know that every time she looked at that boy, she saw both of them. Sonny’s eyes. Her father’s jaw. Vito’s shadow. Her own blood trying to choke her.
She hadn’t told a soul. Not Ruby. Not Carly. Not even Jason, who saw more than he ever let on. Because if she said it out loud, it would be real. And if it was real, Sonny might look at her like she was ruined. Or worse—he might try to forgive her for something unforgivable.
She took a slow breath, eyes locked on him.
He ran a hand through his hair. Exhaled. And then, finally, opened the center’s door and stepped inside.
Gone.
The moment passed.
She stood there for a long while, coffee cooling in her hand. Still trembling. Still alive. Still not ready.
But maybe tomorrow, she thought. Maybe tomorrow she’d let him see Dante.
Or maybe not.
Maybe she’d wait until Dante called him “Sir” with those shy eyes and Sonny would just know.
Either way, the clock was ticking. And everything she’d built—this quiet, hard-won safety—was about to be tested.
Because Sonny was back.
And Olivia didn’t know whether to pray for strength… or mercy.
________________________________________
📍 Kelly’s Diner – Kitchen
🗓 August 6, 1991 – Late Afternoon
🌤 Still hot, the kind of heat that clings to your ribs
________________________________________
The back kitchen of Kelly’s was quiet—just the soft hum of the fan on the counter and the sharp clink of a paring knife against the cutting board. Olivia stood at the prep sink, peeling potatoes with a rhythm that kept her hands moving and her thoughts from crowding in. She’d peeled half a bag already. Ruby hadn’t asked her to, but she needed something mindless. Something physical. Something safe.
Ruby leaned against the walk-in door, arms crossed, watching Olivia with that same unshakable calm she always carried. Like a boulder in the river. Unmoved by the current. But not unkind.
“You’ve been quiet,” she said eventually. “Quieter than usual.”
Olivia shrugged, eyes on the potato in her hand. “Long day.”
“You dropped a tray yesterday.”
Another shrug. “It happens.”
“And you haven’t looked out the window once today. First time since you moved in.”
That made Olivia pause. She set the knife down. Exhaled. “You don’t miss much, do you?”
Ruby uncrossed her arms. Walked over slowly. “Only what don’t matter. This?” She nodded toward Olivia’s stiff shoulders. “This matters.”
Olivia wiped her hands on a towel, then gripped the edge of the sink like it might hold her up.
“He’s not just someone I knew in Brooklyn,” she said quietly.
Ruby waited.
“His name’s Michael. But I always called him Sonny. Everyone did. He was… he was the only safe place I had back then. Before everything got bad.”
Ruby didn’t interrupt. Just nodded once.
“I met him when I was ten. I was already… things were already happening by then.” Her voice didn’t crack, but it got thinner, stretched tight. “Sonny didn’t know. Nobody knew. But he used to sit with me on the stoop when my brothers were out, or when my mom was gone. He’d talk about running away. About making something better.”
Ruby’s jaw tightened slightly. She said nothing.
“I think he would’ve come with me, if I asked him to. But I didn’t. I left in ’83. November. Cold as hell. I didn’t even say goodbye.”
“And he’s the father?” Ruby asked, not with judgment—just clarity.
Olivia closed her eyes. “I don’t know.”
A long silence followed.
Ruby moved to the counter and turned off the fan. The sudden quiet pressed in heavy.
“He was gentle with me,” Olivia said, softer now. “That was rare. Maybe the only time. But I was already… I didn’t know what love was supposed to feel like. I just knew it wasn’t what Vito—” Her throat locked. She didn’t finish the name. She didn’t have to.
Ruby reached over. Placed a hand on Olivia’s back. Warm. Steady. “You don’t have to explain more. Not to me.”
“I named Dante after him,” Olivia whispered. “Sonny’s last name. I didn’t mean to, but when they asked me, I panicked. I couldn’t say Falconeri. I couldn’t even say my own.”
Ruby nodded slowly. “So you gave him the only name that felt safe.”
Tears burned behind Olivia’s eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. “He’s a good man, Ruby. He stayed. He finished school. He’s a social worker now—working with kids like we used to be.”
Ruby’s voice was quiet, rough with age and something deeper. “You still love him?”
“I never stopped.”
“And does he know?”
Olivia shook her head.
“You planning to tell him?”
“I don’t know,” Olivia said. “If I do, it changes everything. And if he looks at me different—if he looks at Dante and wonders if he’s the monster’s—I don’t know if I could survive that.”
Ruby was quiet for a long time. Then: “You’ve survived worse.”
Olivia let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.
“Maybe,” she said. “But I’m tired of surviving. I want to live. And I don’t know if I get to have both.”
Ruby squeezed her shoulder, then let go. “Well. One step at a time, baby. One truth at a time.”
________________________________________
📍 Port Charles Youth Center
🗓 August 6, 1991 — Midday
🌤 Humid, sharp sun, pavement radiating heat
________________________________________
The front doors stuck when Sonny pulled them open. Paint chipped along the edges, and the hinges groaned like they hadn’t been oiled in years. Not much to look at from the street—just a squat brick building with metal grates over the lower windows and a faded sign that read PORT CHARLES COMMUNITY OUTREACH in letters one storm away from peeling clean off.
But to Sonny, it looked like a fortress. A place where hope might still have a fighting chance.
He stepped inside and immediately caught the scent of old floor wax, paper, and summer sweat. The hum of a box fan echoed from the hallway. Somewhere down the corridor, sneakers squeaked on gym floors and someone shouted, “Miss Perry, he stole my Walkman again!”
Sonny exhaled and smiled faintly. He hadn’t been in the building more than thirty seconds, and already it felt like home.
A woman in her fifties with a short, no-nonsense haircut and a clipboard tucked under her arm approached him near the reception desk. She looked him up and down, professional but warm. She’d seen his type before—the fresh graduates with idealism in their eyes and trauma in their bones.
“You must be Mr. Corinthos,” she said.
“Michael,” he corrected gently, then added, “Or Sonny, if that’s easier.”
She nodded. “I’m Teresa Clark. Program director. I read your file. Your references spoke highly of you.”
Sonny gave a modest shrug. “I try to keep my head down. Help where I can.”
Teresa studied him for a beat. “You’ve seen some things.”
He didn’t flinch. “Yeah.”
“Good. You’ll need that.” She handed him a ring of keys and a schedule clipped to a manila folder. “We’ve got a few new intakes, couple of truants, a handful of court-ordered cases, and about twenty kids just trying to survive the summer without getting caught in anything too stupid.”
Sonny nodded. This he understood.
“I’ll walk you through later,” Teresa said, “but for now, we’ve got a drop-in art session in room twelve and open court in the gym. Go where your gut takes you.”
She turned on her heel before he could thank her. Just like that—he was in.
Sonny lingered by the wall for a moment, adjusting the strap of his duffel across his shoulder. His fingers brushed the chain around his neck. Olivia had given it to him almost a decade ago, and he still wore it—still touched it when he needed something to hold him steady. Seeing her yesterday had cracked something open in him. She looked… older. Sadder. Stronger. She hadn’t run away from him. She’d run from something much darker. He could see that now. And maybe she didn’t want to be found. Maybe he shouldn’t push.
But the ache in his chest said otherwise.
A blur of motion caught his eye—a kid, maybe twelve, darting down the hallway with a ratty backpack and too-large sneakers. Sonny stepped aside just as the boy slammed shoulder-first into a vending machine and cursed under his breath.
“Hey,” Sonny said calmly. “You alright?”
The boy glared up at him. Skinny, wild-haired, and carrying a storm in his face. “You’re not my f***in’ dad.”
Sonny didn’t react. “Didn’t say I was.”
“Then back off.”
Sonny leaned against the wall, arms loose at his sides. “You’re bleeding.”
The boy blinked, then looked down. His elbow had scraped the vending machine—nothing serious, but enough to sting.
“You should clean that,” Sonny said. “We’ve got a first aid kit in the rec room.”
The boy hesitated. Then spat on the floor and said, “Whatever,” before slamming through a side door.
Sonny watched him go, chest tight.
That was him once. Just noise and fists and fear pretending to be rage.
________________________________________
An hour later, Sonny found himself sitting on the edge of a folding chair in a small art room with cracked tile and a mural halfway painted across one wall. A few kids were coloring quietly at the long table, heads down, eyes flicking up only when he said something. He kept his voice low, his posture open. Never stood unless he had to. Made sure he didn’t block the door.
He knew the rules. Even unspoken ones.
“Mr. Sonny?”
He looked up. A girl—eight or nine, brown braids, chipped nail polish—held out a drawing.
“It’s a wolf,” she said. “But nice.”
He smiled and took it gently. “I like that. We need more nice wolves.”
She grinned and skipped back to her seat.
Later, when the afternoon sun had moved low enough to streak through the dusty windows, Sonny sat in the empty gym and let his shoulders fall back against the wall. Sweat clung to the back of his neck. His boots tapped lightly against the floor. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t easy. But it felt right.
He thought about Olivia. About the boy she’d mentioned.
He didn’t know what he was hoping for—redemption? A second chance? Maybe just… the truth.
Whatever it was, he had time. He was here now. And he wasn’t leaving.

Chapter Text

📍 Port Charles Youth Center – Gymnasium
🗓 August 7, 1991 – Early Afternoon
☀️ Heat shimmer on the sidewalk, air sticky-sweet with sun
________________________________________
The gym doors creaked when they swung open, just wide enough for a boy to slip through—slight, sharp-eyed, dark curls sticking to his temples. He wore a faded red T-shirt and scuffed sneakers that had seen better days. A mutt trailed him—more fur than dog, still too skinny, but trotting loyally beside him like it had known him forever.
Dante paused inside the doorway, blinking in the light. The gym was cooler than outside, the high windows casting long blocks of dusty sunlight across the floor. Echoes lingered—of sneakers squeaking, of laughter, of a whistle long since blown. But right now, it was still.
He didn’t mean to wander in. He was just waiting for Ma. She was helping Miss Ruby unload boxes behind Kelly’s, and she told him to stay on the porch. But the puppy had barked and tugged, nosing across the street, and before Dante knew it, the big brick building was in front of him, its door slightly ajar like it was waiting.
Inside, a man was sitting alone on the far bench—head tipped back, fingers laced over his stomach, boots planted like he was anchoring himself to the earth. He looked up when the door clicked shut.
Sonny froze.
The boy couldn’t have been more than seven. Thin, but not fragile. Eyes like dusk, deep and watchful, the kind of eyes that didn’t flinch easy. And that face—so familiar it made Sonny’s chest ache. Not because he recognized him. But because he felt him.
Sonny sat up straighter, elbows on his knees, watching as the kid took a few cautious steps inside, puppy close at his heels.
“Hey there,” Sonny said, soft and low. “You lost?”
The boy didn’t answer right away. Just tilted his head, like he was trying to decide if Sonny was safe.
“No,” he said finally. “Just waitin’.”
“For who?”
“My mom.”
Sonny nodded. “Good reason to wait.”
The dog sniffed the floor, then padded forward. Sonny held still, let it come. It nudged his boot and gave a hopeful little whine.
“She yours?” Sonny asked, glancing back at the boy.
“Kind of,” the boy said, a shrug in his voice. “She came with us.”
“From where?”
Another pause. A flicker of something unreadable passed across the boy’s face.
“Nowhere,” he said.
Sonny felt that answer down to the bone.
“Nowhere’s a good place to start from,” he said gently. “Nobody expects anything from you there.”
The boy’s eyes narrowed just a little, like he didn’t know what to do with a grown-up who talked like that. He wandered closer, the dog curling up at Sonny’s feet without hesitation.
“What’s her name?”
“Doesn’t have one yet,” the boy said. “Ma says I should wait. Till we know if she’s staying.”
Sonny’s jaw tightened, just a fraction.
“That’s fair,” he said. “But if she does stay? You gonna pick a good one?”
The boy shrugged again. “Maybe.”
A beat passed. Sonny leaned forward, elbows on his knees again.
“You want to shoot hoops?” he asked. “You don’t have to. But you can.”
The boy hesitated.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
Sonny stood, crossed to the rack, and picked up a worn basketball. He bounced it twice, soft thuds echoing through the gym. The boy reached out with both hands, caught it like muscle memory. Like he’d done it before. Sonny smiled.
“Nice grip.”
The boy didn’t smile back—but his eyes stayed on Sonny’s face for a second too long. Like he recognized something too.
“What’s your name?” Sonny asked.
Another pause. Then—
“Dante.”
It landed in Sonny’s chest like a dropped weight. Not just the name—but the sound of it in that voice. Like thunder from far off.
Sonny’s fingers twitched toward the chain at his neck, but he forced them still.
“You play, Dante?”
The boy gave the smallest nod.
“Good. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
________________________________________
📍 Kelly’s Diner – Upstairs Apartment
🗓 August 7, 1991 – Evening
🌙 Window cracked, warm breeze, the smell of dish soap and summer air
________________________________________
Dinner was quiet, the way Olivia liked it after a long shift. The fans were humming in the window, and Dante sat cross-legged at the small table, his plate of spaghetti half-eaten and the puppy curled under his chair like a shadow. Olivia had cooked too much again—habit from leaner years—but Dante didn’t seem to mind. He was chewing slower than usual, head tilted like he was thinking about something he couldn’t quite name.
She was mid-sip of her water when he spoke.
“Ma?”
“Mmm?”
“I went across the street today.”
Olivia froze. Her fork clinked against the plate.
“What street?” she asked carefully, throat already tightening.
“Community place. Where the big building is.”
She set her glass down. “You crossed the street by yourself?”
“The puppy went,” he said. “I followed her. She wanted to sniff.”
“And you followed a dog across the street, into a building you didn’t know?”
He squirmed under her gaze. “I didn’t go far. Just the gym. There was a man there. He talked to me.”
Olivia’s pulse started to hammer.
“What man?”
Dante picked up a noodle with his fingers—still not quite trusting forks when he didn’t have to—and shrugged. “He had curly hair. Boots. Sweater even though it’s hot.”
Her hand twitched against the table.
“And a chain,” Dante added.
Olivia’s breath caught.
“Chain?”
Dante nodded. “Gold. Not real shiny. Kinda like yours, but smaller.”
Olivia’s blood went cold.
Sonny.
He still wore it. After all these years. And her son—their son, maybe—had wandered straight into his presence like it was nothing. Like the universe hadn’t just pulled two magnets across a room and made them hum.
“What’d he say to you?” she asked, keeping her voice steady only by force of will.
“He asked my name. Said I could play ball if I wanted.” Dante reached for his water. “He didn’t make me. He just let me shoot.”
That was the part that hit the hardest—because that was Sonny. Always offering. Never demanding. Even at fourteen, he’d never pushed her, never touched her unless she reached first.
“He tell you his name?” Olivia asked.
“Nope. Just smiled a lot. Like he knew stuff.” Dante took another bite, then added offhandedly, “He looked like he could be someone’s dad.”
The fork slipped from Olivia’s hand and hit the plate with a clatter.
Dante jumped.
“Sorry,” she breathed. “It slipped.”
She reached for it quickly, but her fingers were numb. Her chest felt tight, like something old and buried had started clawing its way back up.
Dante watched her with quiet curiosity. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she lied. “Just tired.”
But her heart was pounding. Because Sonny had seen him. Spoken to him. Touched his name with his mouth and didn’t even know.
And Dante… Dante had looked into the eyes of the man who might be his father and said, He looked like someone’s dad.
Olivia stood, collecting the plates with shaking hands. She didn’t trust herself to speak.
“Ma?” Dante said again, more quietly this time.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Can I go back tomorrow? Just for a little?”
She gripped the sink and stared out the window at the orange sky fading into dusk.
“We’ll see,” she said. But her voice sounded strange to her own ears.
Because she wasn’t sure if she was saying yes for Dante’s sake… or because part of her wanted Sonny to feel it too.
The knowing.
The gravity.
The truth.

Chapter Text

📍 Kelly’s Diner – Front Porch, Port Charles
🗓 August 8, 1991 — 6:14 a.m.
🌤 Early morning breeze, pavement still cool from the night
________________________________________
Olivia stepped out into the quiet morning like she was trying not to wake the world. The screen door let out a soft groan, and she winced, even though she knew Ruby was already downstairs banging through prep like she’d slept with a spatula in one hand.
She hadn’t meant to come down yet. Not this early. Not like this—barefoot, cardigan slipping off one shoulder, last night’s tank top knotted at the waist, and sleep still creased at the corners of her eyes.
But something in her had been restless. Tied up since yesterday. Since he walked back into her life and helped her pick up a pile of shattered plates like no time had passed. Like the last eight years hadn’t cracked her open and stitched her back together wrong.
And now here he was.
Sonny stood at the edge of the porch, coffee mug in hand, one boot hooked behind the other at the ankle. He didn’t turn when she stepped outside—he didn’t need to. He’d felt her.
“I was wondering if you’d come out,” he said, voice low and even.
“I wasn’t planning on it,” she said, stepping out fully. “Didn’t expect you to be out here.”
He gave a small shrug without looking at her. “Didn’t expect to see you again, either. We’re both losing bets lately.”
She moved to the far end of the porch and sat on the bench, careful to keep a cushion of space between them. She didn’t want to be touched. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But she couldn’t stay upstairs pretending nothing was shifting under her skin.
They were quiet for a moment. The breeze passed between them. The town hadn’t woken yet—no clatter from the diner, no delivery trucks. Just birds and the low hum of memory.
“I saw you,” Sonny said finally. “That first day. Before you dropped the tray.”
She closed her eyes. Damn him. “Yeah?”
“You were standing in the kitchen doorway. Just… watching. And I thought for a second I’d imagined you.”
She exhaled. “I thought the same thing.”
He looked down at his coffee. “You ran fast.”
“I had to.”
“I know.”
She turned slightly, studying his profile. Older. Harder in the jaw. Still wearing that chain, dull and worn, like it had been through just as much as the man who wore it.
“I didn’t leave because of you,” she said, soft. “You know that, right?”
“I figured.” His voice was quiet. “You looked scared. Not like someone who got bored and vanished.”
“I wasn’t scared of you.” She paused. “I was scared of what would happen to you if you found out.”
His jaw shifted, a flicker of muscle there. “Was it someone close?”
She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.
Sonny’s eyes stayed on the street, but his voice dropped a note. “I would’ve gone with you, Liv.”
“You were fourteen.”
“You were pregnant.”
She flinched. Not from the truth. From the fact that he felt it.
He sipped his coffee. “That boy—yesterday. At the gym. He looked about seven.”
Her heart stopped.
“He didn’t give a last name,” Sonny continued, casually, like he didn’t see the way her spine had straightened. “Said he was waiting for his mom. Had a dog with him.”
Olivia didn’t move.
“Said his name was Dante.”
That one word—Dante—settled between them like ash from a fire she hadn’t meant to light.
Sonny turned his head. Not accusatory. Just curious. Just… aware.
“That your boy?”
She looked down at her hands, mug trembling just a little in her grip. “Yeah. He’s mine.”
Something flickered in Sonny’s eyes. Not accusation. Not pain. Just recognition. Like he was staring at the edge of a puzzle, not yet seeing the full picture—but knowing it mattered.
“He’s got instincts,” Sonny said. “Good ones. Quiet. Knows how to read a room.”
“Yeah,” Olivia said, voice thin. “He learned that young.”
Another pause. Another breath.
“I didn’t know his name when we talked,” Sonny added. “But when he said it, something just… stuck.”
Olivia didn’t answer.
He turned back to the street. “You don’t have to say it.”
“I’m not ready to.”
He nodded, slow. “Okay.”
They sat there a moment longer—two people on the edge of something too big to name.
“I’m not leaving,” Sonny said, quiet but firm.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“I know.”
He looked at her again, soft this time.
“I just wanted you to know that I’m still the same guy who helped you pick up broken pieces.”
She looked at him. Finally.
And for a breath, for a blink—she let herself believe it.
________________________________________
📍 Port Charles Youth Center – Office
🗓 August 8, 1991 – Late Morning
🌤 The air thickening, light streaking through dusty blinds
________________________________________
Teresa Clark had been with the youth center for fifteen years. Long enough to tell when a new social worker was just putting in hours—and when one was carrying something they couldn’t say out loud.
Sonny Corinthos, fresh degree and all, wasn’t just here for the paycheck. He watched the kids too closely. Didn’t flinch at the hard cases. And when she caught him staring out the window for the third time that morning, fingers absently brushing the gold chain at his chest, she closed the file in her lap and said, “Spit it out.”
He blinked, caught. “What?”
“You’ve had your head in the clouds since you walked in. Something bothering you?”
He hesitated. Just enough to confirm she was right.
“There was a boy in the gym yesterday,” he said slowly. “Maybe seven. Real quiet. Dark hair. Came in with a puppy.”
Teresa leaned back in her chair. “That could describe about half the kids that drift through here.”
“He said his name was Dante.”
Something flickered in her eyes. Small. But there.
“Did he cause any trouble?”
“No.” Sonny shook his head. “He was respectful. Curious. Polite. Just... watching everything. I asked if he wanted to shoot around, and he did. Nothing big.”
“So why’s he sticking in your head?”
Sonny looked down at the file on the desk. Ran his thumb along the edge. Then:
“He reminded me of someone. That’s all.”
Teresa studied him again—longer this time. Sonny didn’t fidget. Didn’t smile. He just waited. That was the thing about him. He waited quiet. And it made people want to talk.
She exhaled. “He’s not one of ours officially. No file. No intake. He wandered in a few times over the last month. Stays close to the porch usually, sits with the dog. Keeps to himself.”
“He say where he lives?”
“No. But I’ve seen him near Kelly’s. I think he’s with Ruby’s girl upstairs. The one with the dark eyes and the quiet voice.”
Olivia.
Sonny didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But the name thundered through his chest.
“He give you a last name?” he asked casually, like the answer didn’t matter when it already did.
Teresa shook her head. “Nope. Just Dante. Doesn’t talk about school or friends. He’s always watching though. Smart kid. Good instincts.”
Sonny nodded. His mouth was dry.
“Okay,” he said. “Just wanted to make sure he wasn’t slipping through the cracks.”
“He isn’t.” Teresa’s voice softened slightly. “You worried about him?”
Sonny stood slowly, adjusting the files under his arm. “Yeah. But not because I think he’s in trouble.”
Teresa didn’t push. “Well, if he comes around again, I’ll keep you posted.”
“Thanks.”
He stepped toward the door.
“Hey, Michael?”
He paused. Looked back.
“Trust your gut,” she said. “It’s not always gentle, but it’s usually right.”
He gave her a quiet nod, then walked out into the hallway. The floors echoed under his boots.
Dante.
He said the name once in his head. Then again.
And then he went back to work—because he wasn’t ready to ask Olivia the real question.
Not yet.
But he would be.
Soon.

Chapter Text

📍 Port Charles Youth Center – Back Field
🗓 August 10, 1991 — Late Afternoon
🌤 Humid sky, light breeze off the water, cicadas buzzing in the weeds
________________________________________
The sun was beginning its slow slide behind the edge of the city when Dante pushed open the back gate of the youth center again. He didn’t knock. He didn’t even pause. The dog—still unnamed—trotted ahead like she belonged there, nose to the grass, tail wagging slow and steady.
Sonny was already outside, crouched near the storage shed, sorting through a box of warped wiffle bats and scuffed gloves. He looked up when he heard the gate creak. No surprise this time. No flinch.
He just smiled.
“You came back.”
Dante shrugged. “Ma said I could.”
Sonny stood, dusting off his hands. “Glad she did.”
The boy nodded, then wandered a little closer, not quite meeting Sonny’s eyes. He had a stick in one hand, dragging it through the dirt like he was drawing without thinking. The dog circled, flopped down in the shade of the bleachers, and sighed.
It was quiet. Warm. The kind of stillness that wasn’t awkward—just patient.
“You play ball?” Sonny asked eventually, thumbing toward the open field behind them.
Dante shrugged again. But there was a flicker of something in his face—interest, hesitation, maybe even hope.
“Not really,” he mumbled. “Not the way they do here.”
“How’s that?”
“Fast. Loud. Lotta yelling.”
Sonny nodded. “Yeah. That kind of ball’s not for everyone.”
He reached back into the box and pulled out a worn leather glove. The stitching was frayed at the edges, but the shape was still solid. Still trusted. He held it out.
“This one’s quieter. Just catch and throw. Nothing more.”
Dante looked at it. Then at Sonny. Then back at the glove.
“You ever pitch?” Sonny asked, keeping his tone casual.
Dante’s fingers twitched. “Sometimes. With Ma. In the alley behind the diner.”
“Ever hit?”
He nodded. “But we don’t got real bats.”
Sonny smiled. “Lucky for you, I do.”
He stepped back toward the field and picked up a half-dented bucket of baseballs. Set it gently near the mound. Laid the bat across the grass.
Dante moved slowly. Not reluctant, just cautious. He walked like a boy who was used to escape routes. Like he never stood too far from a door.
Sonny handed him the glove. “Here. Try it on.”
It was too big, of course. But Dante flexed his fingers inside it and nodded.
“It’s good.”
“You got a favorite position?” Sonny asked, stepping back toward the mound.
Dante tilted his head. Thought for a second. “Shortstop,” he said. “I like seeing everything.”
Sonny’s throat tightened at that.
“Good answer,” he said, soft. “That was mine.”
He picked up the ball. Rolled it in his palm. Then, with a gentle underhand, tossed it Dante’s way.
The boy caught it.
Clean.
Not a sound.
Sonny raised a brow. “You sure you’ve never played?”
Dante smirked—barely—but it was there. A flash of pride. Of something warmer than he usually let show.
“I watch the Yankees,” he said. “On the diner TV. Sometimes they let me.”
Sonny’s chest thudded. “Yeah?”
“Ma said they were your team.”
He tossed another pitch—just a touch faster this time. Dante caught it again. Stepped into it. His stance wasn’t polished, but it was instinctive. Natural.
“You know Don Mattingly?” Sonny asked.
Dante’s eyes lit up. “Number 23. First base. He’s the best.”
Sonny grinned. “Smart kid.”
They kept throwing. Back and forth. No pressure. No coaching. Just rhythm. Motion. Trust.
After a while, Sonny jogged over and grabbed the bat.
“Want to try hitting?”
Dante hesitated.
“You don’t have to.”
“No—I want to.”
Sonny nodded. “Okay. Come here.”
He helped Dante adjust his grip, showed him how to plant his feet. Didn’t crowd him. Just gave him the shape of it. The feel.
“Bend your knees a little. Keep your elbows loose.”
“Like this?”
“Yeah. That’s it.”
He stepped back, tossed the first pitch underhand.
Dante swung. Missed.
Sonny didn’t flinch. Just smiled. “Try again.”
The second pitch, he made contact. Just a tap. But it echoed sweetly off the aluminum.
The dog barked.
Dante lit up.
It was the kind of moment that cracked open something in Sonny’s chest. Not pride. Not joy.
Recognition.
He wasn’t sure how. Wasn’t sure why. But this kid felt like gravity. Like a shadow he’d been chasing for years without realizing it.
He pitched again. And again. Let the sun slip lower as the swing got stronger. Straighter.
And then, finally, he just said it.
“You’re good, Dante.”
The boy looked at him. Sweaty hair sticking to his forehead. Eyes bright. Breathing hard.
“Thanks,” he said. “You too.”
________________________________________
Later, when Dante left, the dog trotting beside him again, Sonny stayed behind. Stared at the glove still lying in the grass. The bat half-buried in clover.
He didn’t know the whole story.
But he knew something now.
And that something had eyes like dusk and a swing just like his.
________________________________________
📍 Kelly’s Diner – Upstairs Apartment
🗓 August 10, 1991 – Early Evening
🌤 Air heavy with heat, fans turning lazily in the windows
________________________________________
The front door slammed upstairs as Dante burst in, the dog’s nails clicking on the worn linoleum behind him. Olivia looked up from the counter, her hands still wet from rinsing dishes. She was already tired—her feet ached from the double shift, and the sweat at the nape of her neck hadn’t dried since noon—but her son’s face stopped her in her tracks.
He was glowing.
Hair stuck to his cheeks, shirt stained with grass and dirt, arms flailing as he dropped the glove—a real glove, not the mismatched thrift store one they kept in a milk crate—onto the chair.
“Ma!” he called, breathless. “He pitched to me!”
She dried her hands slowly. “Who did, baby?”
“The guy from the gym,” he said, like it was obvious. “The one with the boots and the chain. He let me hit, and he said I had a good swing.”
Olivia froze.
Her hand still gripping the dishtowel, she turned to face him. “You were at the youth center again?”
“Yeah,” Dante said. “You said I could.”
She nodded, distracted. “I did.”
He plopped down at the table, bouncing in the seat like he couldn’t hold still.
“He showed me how to grip the bat—like this.” Dante mimicked the stance, elbows bent just right. “And he didn’t yell or anything. Just kinda... showed me. And he knew all the Yankee players. Even Mattingly.”
The name hit her like a stone in the chest.
She turned back to the counter, staring blindly at the faucet.
Of course he did.
Dante kept going, oblivious to the way her shoulders had tensed. “He said shortstop was his favorite. That’s mine too. You can see the whole field from there. That’s what he said.”
“Did he say his name?” she asked, too quietly.
Dante shook his head. “No. But I think he’s from Brooklyn. He talks like the guys on the corner used to.”
Olivia gripped the edge of the sink.
He didn’t say it. He didn’t know. But the pieces were forming faster than she could stop them.
“And he let you bat?” she asked.
“Yeah. Five times. I hit three. One almost hit the fence.” Dante’s voice was proud now—glowing. “He said I had instincts.”
Tears burned behind her eyes.
Not just because Dante was happy.
But because Sonny saw him. Really saw him.
Not as a kid from a diner or a boy with no last name. But as his.
Even if he didn’t know it yet.
Even if he couldn’t say it.
She turned and leaned against the counter, trying to smile.
“He didn’t ask you anything else? About me?”
Dante shook his head. “Nope. He just said I could come back.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
But her throat was tight. Her hands were shaking. And her mind was already spinning with the question she’d been avoiding for seven years.
How much longer can I keep this secret?
She watched her son take a sip of water and lean over to scratch the dog behind the ears.
She saw the curve of his shoulders. The shape of his jaw. The quiet focus in his eyes.
Sonny’s eyes.
She looked away before she started crying.

Chapter Text

📍 Kelly’s Diner – Back Alley (smoke break corner)
🗓 August 11, 1991 — 8:47 PM
🌒 Muggy night, shadows clinging to brickwork, porch light humming low
________________________________________
Olivia lit her cigarette with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.
The pack had been buried in the back of her nightstand, wrapped in a tea towel under a stack of Dante’s drawings. She hadn’t touched it in months. But tonight—tonight she needed something that bit back.
Carly leaned against the side wall, arms folded across her chest, one boot heel kicked into the concrete. Her hair was a little frizzier than usual, humidity curling the ends, and she hadn’t bothered with makeup after the dinner rush. Just her usual lip balm and eyes that didn’t miss a damn thing.
“You wanna tell me what’s eating you alive,” Carly said finally, “or do I get to keep guessing?”
Olivia exhaled slowly. Smoke curled past her lips and into the muggy dark. She didn’t answer. Not right away. She just stared at the fence across the alley, at the glint of broken glass caught in the weeds, at the life she’d tried to build out of ash and half-truths.
Carly didn’t push. Not yet. She just waited. Olivia was the only person in town she didn’t bulldoze. Maybe because she knew—deep down—that Olivia had already been crushed once. Maybe more than once.
“It’s Sonny,” Olivia said finally. Her voice was raw.
Carly blinked. “Sonny? The new guy?”
Olivia nodded.
Carly blew out a breath. “Jesus. What, did he hurt you? Did he—”
“No,” Olivia said quickly. “No. He didn’t do anything wrong. He helped me. Back then. Before.”
Carly studied her. “Okay.”
“I left him behind.”
“That much I figured.”
“I didn’t tell him I was pregnant.”
Carly’s eyes sharpened like a blade being drawn. “Liv…”
“I didn’t know who the father was,” Olivia said, voice cracking. “I still don’t.”
That stopped everything. Even the hum of the porch light felt quieter.
Carly pushed off the wall. Came closer. “What do you mean?”
Olivia’s hands were trembling again. She pressed the cigarette to her lips just to keep them from moving.
“I was fourteen,” she said. “He was twenty-four. My brother.”
Carly’s face didn’t move. Not a flicker. But her hands curled into fists.
“Liv…”
“It started when I was ten,” Olivia whispered. “By the time I figured out what was happening to me wasn’t just bad dreams or being a ‘bad kid’... I was already hiding bruises. I was already lying for him.”
Carly made a sound like a growl buried under her breath.
“And Sonny…” Olivia’s voice cracked again. “He was the only person who ever looked at me and saw something good. Something worth saving. We weren’t just kids sneaking kisses in stairwells—he saw me. The part of me that was already bleeding. And that summer—God, it was barely even July—we were lying in the grass behind the old handball court. It was hot, and quiet, and I said yes for the first time in my life. Not because I was scared. Not because someone told me I had to. But because I wanted him.”
Carly didn’t speak. Didn’t even breathe.
Olivia swallowed hard. “And after… he held me. We didn’t talk much, but I remember thinking—this is the only real thing I’ve ever had.”
Her fingers found the chain again, thumb running over the edge of the worn gold.
“He gave me this not long after. Said I could keep it until I felt safe. I think maybe he knew something was wrong. But I couldn’t say it. Not then.”
Carly stared at the chain. Then at Olivia’s face.
“I left the Bronx in November,” Olivia went on. “Five months along. Had Dante alone in a motel room. Never told a soul who his father might be. Never even let myself say Sonny’s name out loud. Not until he walked into that diner last week and my whole world cracked open again.”
Silence. Heavy. Dense.
Carly reached for the cigarette. Olivia handed it over.
“You think Sonny knows?” Carly asked, after a long drag.
“No,” Olivia said. “Not yet. But he’s already met Dante. And he—Carly, he pitched to him. And Dante lit up. He was glowing.”
Carly let the smoke out through her nose. “Then he’s gonna find out.”
“I know.”
“You gonna tell him before he puts it together himself?”
“I don’t know how,” Olivia whispered. “How do you look someone in the eye and say, ‘Hey, you might be the father of my child—or maybe my abuser is’?”
“You don’t,” Carly said flatly. “You don’t say it like that. You start with ‘I trusted you. I loved you. I was a kid, and I was broken, and you made me feel human.’ You start there. And if he’s the man you say he is, he’ll walk through the rest with you.”
Olivia’s chin trembled. She looked away.
Carly stepped closer. Put a hand on her arm. “You raised a damn good kid, Liv. I don’t give a shit whose DNA’s in him. You built that boy out of nothing but guts and grace. But Sonny deserves to know he might’ve had a son for the last seven years. And Dante deserves to know why he’s already got that man’s instincts in his bones.”
Olivia swallowed hard.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “Yeah, he does.”
Carly pulled her into a hug. Held her tight.
“You don’t have to do it alone,” she said. “Not anymore.”
And Olivia—shaking, broken, but still standing—let herself believe it.

Chapter Text

📍 Kelly’s Diner – Upstairs Apartment Hallway
🗓 August 13, 1991 — 9:36 PM
🌘 Cool air sneaking through half-open windows, the street quiet
________________________________________
He shouldn’t be here. Not this late, not without calling. But Sonny’s feet had a mind of their own, and tonight, they brought him back to Kelly’s.
The diner downstairs was dark, chairs flipped onto tables, the counter wiped clean. Ruby had locked up hours ago. But he knew Olivia was still awake. He could feel it—like static under his skin.
He stood outside her apartment door, the old wood warping slightly at the edges, the faint smell of detergent drifting out through the crack at the bottom. He heard soft footsteps inside. A radio murmuring low. Then the creak of floorboards near the kitchen.
He knocked.
Soft.
Once.
The door opened halfway, chain still latched. Olivia’s eyes met his—and something in her face changed the second she saw him.
She already knew.
“Sonny,” she breathed.
“I’m not here to cause trouble,” he said gently. “I just… can we talk?”
A beat.
She hesitated, then undid the latch and let the door fall open.
He stepped inside quietly, eyes sweeping the room. Dim light from a side lamp lit the table. A dish towel draped over one chair. Two bowls in the sink. A folded blanket on the sofa.
He noticed the chain around her neck next. His chain. Still there.
Dante’s voice echoed in his head.
He said shortstop was his favorite… that’s mine too.
He talks like the guys on the corner used to.
He pitched to me.
Sonny rubbed the back of his neck. He hadn’t slept much. Not since Dante said the name.
He turned to face her. “I’m not gonna dance around it.”
Olivia didn’t move.
“I met your boy,” he said softly. “Dante.”
She exhaled, slow. Controlled. Like someone walking out on a wire and refusing to look down.
“He’s a good kid,” Sonny said. “Smart. Kind. Got a good heart.”
“I know.”
“He reminds me of someone,” Sonny added. “Someone I used to know a long time ago. Someone I loved.”
Olivia’s hand gripped the edge of the table.
Sonny didn’t look away. “You left in November. ’83.”
Her voice was paper-thin. “Yeah.”
“Five months would’ve put conception in July.”
Silence.
He took one slow step closer.
“Liv… were we together then?”
She blinked. And he saw it. The exact second her courage cracked.
“Yes,” she whispered. “We were.”
The air thickened.
He nodded, but his voice came low and rough. “And your brother?”
Her eyes closed.
“I was fourteen,” she said. “He was twenty-four. It had already been happening for years. I didn’t know how to stop it. I didn’t know how to name it. But that summer, you—” her voice broke “—you were the only thing that felt real. The only thing that felt mine.”
Sonny’s throat tightened.
“I didn’t run because of you,” Olivia said. “I ran because I couldn’t protect a baby from that house. And I didn’t know… I didn’t know if he was yours or—” She couldn’t say it. Not even now.
“I knew something was wrong,” he said quietly. “I knew. But you wouldn’t let me in.”
“I couldn’t,” she said. “I was drowning.”
He stepped forward again. Close enough now to see the tear in her left sleeve, the way her arms folded tight across her body like she was holding herself together.
“You should’ve told me.”
“I couldn’t face it,” she whispered. “Not if there was even a chance—”
“Don’t,” he said, voice suddenly hard. Not at her. For her. “Don’t protect him. Not even in your silence.”
She flinched.
And then—
Sonny reached out. Slowly. Carefully. Gently touched her hand.
“He’s mine,” he said, not as a question, not with certainty of blood—but with truth. “Whether I made him or not.”
She let out a breath that turned into a sob.
“You’d still take him?”
“I already have.”
He pulled her into his arms. She didn’t fight it. Just folded. Shaking.
And for the first time in eight years, Olivia Falconeri let someone hold her without fear.

Chapter Text

📍 Kelly’s Diner – Upstairs Apartment
🗓 August 14, 1991 – 3:17 AM
🌌 Window cracked open to the hum of crickets and midnight breeze
________________________________________
The floor creaked under Sonny’s boots, but the apartment didn’t stir.
He hadn’t meant to stay this long. They’d talked for hours after the truth came out—quiet, cautious hours stretched between tea mugs and the space where wounds used to be. Olivia hadn’t cried much after that first collapse. She just looked tired. Hollowed-out in a way he hadn’t seen since Brooklyn. He stayed. Because she didn’t ask him to leave. Because he couldn’t make his legs move. Because the boy was still in the next room.
Now, in the hush of deep night, the apartment was still.
The kind of still that only came after confession. After collapse. After someone you love finally gives up pretending they’re fine.
Sonny stood in the doorway of the bedroom, back to the wall, arms crossed like it would keep him from falling apart.
The sight hit him harder than anything had in years.
Olivia was curled on her side, her dark hair tangled across the pillow, face slack with real sleep. Her arm was draped over the boy beside her—Dante, tiny and tangled, his knees tucked up, head buried in her chest like he’d slept there every night of his life.
Which he had.
Just not with Sonny watching.
Dante’s little fist clutched the collar of her nightshirt. Her other hand rested on his back, thumb still twitching softly, like she was soothing him even in her dreams. Between them, the stray dog was tucked in like a third heartbeat.
Sonny swallowed hard.
This wasn’t just a bed. It was a fortress.
It was seven years of mornings he’d never kissed the top of Dante’s head. Seven years of holding his breath for every fever, every nightmare, every first scraped knee. Seven years of Olivia whispering lullabies into the dark and never once saying his name.
His throat burned. His chest ached.
Not with anger. But with grief.
He didn’t blame her. Not anymore. The truth was too ugly, too tangled in blood and silence and pain. But standing here now, watching his son sleep, all Sonny could feel was loss.
Dante shifted in his sleep and murmured something—too soft to catch—but his foot kicked out, brushing Olivia’s shin. She didn’t wake. She just pulled him in closer, like second nature.
Jesus Christ, Sonny thought, look what you built out of nothing.
A broken girl. A motel birth. No help. No family. Just a teenage mother and a boy she refused to let sink.
And here they were.
Alive. Intact. Fierce in their quiet way.
Sonny stepped back a little, pressing his hand to the wall, needing something solid to hold onto. He looked at the chain around Olivia’s neck—his chain. Still there. Still worn. Still warm from where it had rested on her skin.
And for the first time in years, he prayed.
Not to be forgiven.
But to be worthy.
________________________________________
📍 Kelly’s Diner – Upstairs Apartment, Kitchenette
🗓 August 14, 1991 — 5:41 AM
🌅 Morning haze just breaking, birds starting to stir
________________________________________
The kitchen was small—two burners, a dented toaster, cabinets that creaked when they opened—but it was clean. Lived-in. He could see Olivia in every corner of it. A chipped mug with red lipstick near the sink. A dish towel looped through the drawer handle. A handwritten note taped to the cabinet above the stove: Don’t forget milk — Ruby’ll yell.
Sonny rolled up his sleeves.
He didn’t sleep. He hadn’t even tried. After watching Olivia and Dante wrapped around each other in sleep, he'd retreated quietly to the kitchen and stared at the blank stove until the sky began to pinken.
He needed something to do. Something with heat and rhythm and purpose. Something he could finish.
So he cooked.
He found eggs in the fridge, a half loaf of bread, and two apples in a cracked ceramic bowl on the counter. There was butter. A little sugar. No milk, but he could work with that.
He sliced the bread thick, dipped it in egg, and laid it gently in the pan. The sizzle grounded him. It sounded like control. Like peace. Like maybe if he could just get this French toast right, he could earn back a sliver of the years he missed.
He didn’t let himself think about school drop-offs or Little League games or birthday candles he never got to light. That grief was too big to touch just yet. Right now, he just needed to flip the toast before it burned.
When the first batch was done, he laid it on a plate and reached for the apples. Sliced them into thin ribbons, sautéed them with butter and the last of the sugar. The smell filled the kitchen—warm and soft and good.
He didn’t hear Olivia at first.
She stood barefoot in the doorway, hair mussed, one of his old shirts hanging to her knees—something she must’ve stolen before she ran. Her arms were crossed, but her expression wasn’t guarded.
It was awed.
“You’re cooking,” she said, like it didn’t quite compute.
Sonny didn’t look up. Just flipped another slice. “Seemed like the least I could do.”
She stepped in slowly. “That smells like cinnamon.”
“It’s not. It’s the pan,” he said. “Overheated the sugar a little.”
She smiled softly. “Smells like childhood.”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t trust his voice.
She crossed to the counter and picked up a piece of toast. Took a bite. Her eyes fluttered shut. “Jesus.”
He shrugged, lips twitching. “Guess I didn’t forget everything.”
She looked at him then. Really looked.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to earn your way in.”
“I know that too.” He paused. “But I need to give something. You’ve already given him everything.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was reverent.
A creak from the bedroom broke it.
Dante appeared, one sock on, hair wild, shirt twisted from sleep. The puppy trailed him, yawning. He rubbed his eyes and blinked at the kitchen like he didn’t recognize it.
Then his nose twitched.
“Something’s burning?” he mumbled.
Olivia laughed. “Not yet.”
Sonny turned, set a plate down in front of him.
Dante climbed into the chair slowly. Watched him. Then watched the food. Then looked at his mother.
“You made this?”
Sonny nodded. “Yeah. Hope that’s okay.”
Dante stared at him for a long beat. Then picked up his fork and took a bite.
He chewed. Swallowed.
Then: “It’s better than Ruby’s.”
Olivia nearly choked on her coffee. “You can’t say that.”
“She doesn’t hear me upstairs.”
Sonny grinned, but it was quiet. Tentative.
“Thanks, kid.”
Dante kept eating. The dog whined. Olivia fed her crust from her plate.
Sonny sat, finally, across from the boy who might be his son. And for a moment—just one—they were a family.
Messy. Fragile. Unnamed.
But real.
And Sonny clung to that like the world depended on it.

Chapter Text

📍 Kelly’s Diner – Upstairs Apartment, Dante’s Bedroom
🗓 August 15, 1991 – Just past 9:00 PM
🌛 Quiet night, fan whirring softly, the dog curled by the door
________________________________________
He should’ve been asleep by now.
The room was dark except for the low glow of a nightlight in the corner, casting soft shapes across the floor. Olivia sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing the blanket up to Dante’s chest like she always did, fingers brushing his hair back from his forehead, warm and familiar.
But he wasn’t drifting like usual.
He was watching her.
Still. Quiet. Wide-eyed.
“Ma?” he asked softly.
She hummed. “Yeah, baby?”
He swallowed. “That guy. The one who made breakfast.”
She went still. Just for a second. But he felt it.
“What about him?”
Dante’s voice didn’t wobble. He didn’t look away. “Is he my dad?”
The question landed in the room like a stone dropped in still water. No crash. Just ripple after ripple, stretching out wider than either of them could see.
Olivia blinked. Her hand froze in his hair. She tried to breathe.
“Why do you ask that?” she asked gently.
Dante shrugged under the blanket. “He looks like me. Kind of. And he talks like you used to when you’re mad.” He paused. “And he said shortstop was his favorite too.”
She closed her eyes. Of course.
He added, even softer, “He didn’t look at me like other people do.”
Her heart shattered.
She looked down at her son—this boy she built from nothing but willpower and fear and fierce, aching love. And she realized something: he already knew. He wasn’t guessing. He was offering her a way in. A door.
She swallowed hard. “I don’t know for sure,” she said.
Dante blinked. Confused. But listening.
“I got hurt, baby,” she said gently. “Back before you were born. And there was someone who wasn’t kind. Who did things to me that I couldn’t stop.”
His eyes darkened—not fully understanding, but sensing enough to hate it.
“But Sonny…” she said, voice thick now, “Sonny was kind. He was the only good part. And he loved me. I loved him too.”
Dante’s mouth twisted, like he wanted to cry but didn’t want to be a baby.
She cupped his cheek, brushing her thumb beneath his eye.
“So maybe he’s your dad by blood,” she said. “Or maybe not.”
Dante’s voice was barely a whisper. “Do you want him to be?”
Her throat burned. “I want you to have someone in your corner who would die before he ever let anyone hurt you. And yeah… I think he already is.”
Dante nodded slowly. Not crying. But softer. Safer.
“Okay,” he said.
She leaned in. Kissed his forehead.
And when she pulled back, he asked—
“Do I call him that?”
“Only if you want to,” she said. “There’s no rush.”
He nodded again. Then turned onto his side, the puppy curling tighter against his back.
And Olivia sat there long after he fell asleep, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding with everything she had just said—and everything she finally didn’t have to hide anymore.

Chapter Text

📍 Kelly’s Diner – Front Steps
🗓 August 16, 1991 – 11:42 PM
🌙 Moon high, air still warm, streetlight buzzing overhead
________________________________________
The diner was locked for the night. The last of the chairs flipped. The kitchen cleaned down to the floorboards. Ruby had gone upstairs with a muttered “If y’all’re gonna be out there brooding, keep it down,” and Olivia had just smiled.
Now she sat on the top step, elbows resting on her knees, cigarette burning between two fingers she hadn’t bothered to steady. The smoke curled slow into the summer air, and for once, she didn’t feel like she had to outrun it.
Sonny came out a minute later, letting the screen door hiss shut behind him. He didn’t say anything. Just eased down beside her, shoulder to shoulder, like that’s where he’d always been.
She handed him the cigarette without asking. He took it.
They passed it back and forth in silence for a while. Let the town breathe around them. Let the weight of the past few days settle without tipping them over.
Finally, Sonny spoke. His voice was low. “He asked you, didn’t he?”
She didn’t pretend not to know what he meant. “Yeah.”
He nodded. “What’d you say?”
“I told him the truth. Or the part that matters. That I don’t know for sure, but I believe it. And that he gets to decide what he calls you.”
He stared out at the street. At the flickering traffic light three blocks down. At the sky.
“And what about you?” he asked, not looking at her. “What do you call me now?”
She exhaled. Flicked ash off her knee. “I never stopped calling you home, Sonny.”
That shut him up for a minute.
When he finally turned his head, she was already watching him.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he said. “Not with all the missing years. Not with the weight of what might be behind him.”
“We start slow,” Olivia said. “We let him come to you. Let him feel it’s his choice.”
“And you?”
She looked down at her hands. “I’m tired, Sonny. Not of you. Just of being afraid. Of pretending I don’t want what I want.”
He tilted toward her, voice a little rough. “And what do you want?”
She met his eyes.
“I want to stop surviving. I want to live. With you. With him.”
Sonny reached out and took her hand—no drama, no squeeze—just warmth. Just there.
“We try, then,” he said. “That’s all. No promises. Just effort.”
“That’s more than I ever had.”
“You’ve got it now.”
The cigarette burned down between them.
When she rested her head on his shoulder, he didn’t move. Just leaned into it, chain cool against his collarbone, her breath brushing his neck.
And for the first time since they were kids in Bensonhurst, they weren’t running anymore.
They were home.

Chapter Text

📞 If You or Someone You Love Needs Help
No one should have to carry their story alone. If you or someone you know is living with abuse, trauma, or fear — you are not alone. Help is available.
________________________________________
🇬🇧 UNITED KINGDOM (England, Scotland, Wales & Northern Ireland)
• National Domestic Abuse Helpline (England & Wales)
Run by Refuge — 24/7, free, confidential
📞 0808 2000 247
🌐 www.nationaldahelpline.org.uk
• Scottish Domestic Abuse & Forced Marriage Helpline
📞 0800 027 1234 (24/7)
🌐 www.sdafmh.org.uk
• Live Fear Free (Wales)
📞 0808 80 10 800
🌐 www.gov.wales/live-fear-free
• Women’s Aid UK
🌐 www.womensaid.org.uk
Includes online chat & local support directory
• Men’s Advice Line (male survivors)
📞 0808 801 0327
🌐 www.mensadviceline.org.uk
• Galop (LGBTQ+ domestic abuse support)
📞 0800 999 5428
🌐 www.galop.org.uk
• Childline (under 19s)
📞 0800 1111
🌐 www.childline.org.uk
________________________________________
🇮🇪 IRELAND
• Women’s Aid Ireland
📞 1800 341 900 (24/7)
🌐 www.womensaid.ie
• Safe Ireland
🌐 www.safeireland.ie
Directory of local support services
• Dublin Rape Crisis Centre
📞 1800 77 88 88 (24/7)
🌐 www.drcc.ie
• TENI – Trans Equality Network Ireland
🌐 www.teni.ie
________________________________________
🇺🇸 UNITED STATES
• National Domestic Violence Hotline
📞 1-800-799-7233 or Text “START” to 88788
🌐 www.thehotline.org
• RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network)
📞 1-800-656-HOPE (4673)
🌐 www.rainn.org
• StrongHearts Native Helpline
Culturally appropriate support for Native American communities
📞 1-844-762-8483
🌐 www.strongheartshelpline.org
• Love Is Respect (for teens & young adults)
📞 1-866-331-9474 or Text “LOVEIS” to 22522
🌐 www.loveisrespect.org
• The Trevor Project (LGBTQ+ youth)
📞 1-866-488-7386 or Text “START” to 678678
🌐 www.thetrevorproject.org
________________________________________
“Survival is not shameful. Speaking is not weakness. Healing is your right.”

“No one should carry their story alone. If you or someone you love is living with abuse, please know: you are not alone, and help is available.”