Jason remained at the table, tracing a finger along the smooth surface. Everyone had scattered to their separate corners of the bunker—their separate lives within this shared prison. The chair where his father had sat remained askew as if even the furniture carried Richard's impatience.
He thought of his mother's tight smile this morning. The way her hands had trembled slightly while arranging the silverware. Something in her eyes had seemed... distant. More so than usual. Their carefully maintained routines kept everyone functioning, but beneath that veneer, Jason sensed something unraveling.
With a sigh, he pushed back from the table. Maybe he should check on her.
The corridor to his parents' room felt longer today. He rehearsed what he might say—some casual question about her day, perhaps an offer to help with whatever project she'd assigned herself. Before he realized it, he'd reached their door, his mind so preoccupied he simply turned the handle and stepped inside.
The room was warm and a bit messy with clothes left on the floor. His mother stood with her back to him, completely nude, toweling her damp hair. Jason froze.
Time seemed to suspend. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't even breathe. His mother's body was slim but curved, her skin pale in the artificial light. A drop of water traced down her spine, following the gentle indentation to the small of her back before disappearing. The sight struck him with a force he wasn't prepared for—not just shock at the intrusion, but an unwelcome flicker of appreciation. His mind rebelled against the sensation, a hot flush of shame spreading across his face as he stood there, paralyzed between the instinct to flee and the sudden, terrible awareness of her as a woman rather than simply his mother. The confined space of the bunker had never felt so suffocating, so wrong, as in this frozen moment of accidental trespass.
His chest tightened. This was his mother. But in that frozen moment, she was also simply a woman—the only woman besides his sister he'd seen in forty days. The only woman he might ever see again.
The realization horrified him. He backed away silently, easing the door closed without a sound. In the hallway, he pressed his back against the wall, heart hammering against his ribs.
What the fuck was wrong with him? Disgust crawled through his stomach. He rubbed his eyes hard as if he could physically erase the image. Maybe this was what isolation did—warped the mind, and blurred boundaries that should remain absolute. Maybe they were all slowly losing themselves down here.
After several deep breaths, he knocked properly.
"Mom? You in there?"
"Jason?" Her voice sounded muffled. "Just a minute, honey."
He heard movement, drawers opening and closing. When she finally opened the door, she wore a faded blue sweater and loose pants, her hair still damp.
"Did you need something?" she asked.
"Just wanted to check on you." He kept his eyes fixed on her face. "You seemed... I don't know. Off at breakfast."
She smiled that same tight smile. "I'm fine. Just tired."
"Mom." His voice softened. "We don't have to pretend. Not with each other."
Her expression wavered, the tight smile crumbling at its edges. She gestured him inside with a small wave, then closed the door behind them with a soft click that seemed to seal them into their own private world.
"There was a time I would've said some things just aren't meant to be shared. What happens between a husband and wife should stay private, maybe for a therapist, or a close friend at most. …Certainly not your children. But lately... it's been heavier. It builds. And the truth is, I don't have those people anymore. No friends. No experts. Just you. So... please, don't judge either of us too harshly for what I'm about to say."
"Your father and I..." She sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles whitening. "Things haven't been right for a long time. Even before all this." Her voice dropped to just above a whisper as if the walls themselves might carry her confession back to Richard.
Jason sat beside her, careful to leave space between them. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight. "I know," he said simply because he did.
The tension between his parents had been there for as long as he could remember. He never knew exactly when it started—only that it was always… there. Maybe before, when life was bigger and noisier, it was easier to ignore. Easy to believe it wasn't his concern. But here, sealed underground, the silence made everything louder. Their distance wasn't abstract anymore. It had weight. Shape. It lived in the pauses during breakfast, in the way they never looked at each other, in the way his mother smiled too tightly and his father didn't notice.
His mother took a deep breath, staring at her clasped hands. "There was an accident, about ten years ago. Your father was working on that big project—the one that kept him away for weeks at a time."
Jason nodded. He remembered that year—his father had been more absent than present, always chasing some breakthrough that would cement his legacy in the tech world.
"He was injured. Not in the way that shows on the outside." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "The doctors said it was nerve damage. Richard called it... losing his male pride."
The weight of her meaning settled between them. Jason kept his eyes on the wall ahead, giving her the space to continue without his gaze adding to her discomfort.
"At first, I just wanted to help him heal. I told him it didn't matter, that we could find other ways to be close." Her voice wavered slightly. "But Richard couldn't accept it. Something in him... hardened. It was like watching him slowly replace parts of himself with metal and wires. The man I married disappeared, piece by piece."
She twisted the wedding band on her finger, a habit Jason had noticed over the years.
"I tried everything. Counseling. Romantic getaways. Even suggesting... alternatives." A flush crept across her cheeks. "But he couldn't bear what he saw as pity. The more I reached out, the further he retreated."
Jason thought of his father's obsession with his tablet, the way he seemed more comfortable with screens than people. It made sense now—a man who felt diminished seeking control wherever he could find it.
"The last few years, we've just been... roommates. Sharing space, not life." She gave a small, tired laugh. "And now we're stuck in the ultimate shared space, aren't we?"
When she finally looked up, her eyes were dry but reddened. Jason recognized the expression—the same quiet dignity she'd always maintained, even when hurting.
"I know I can't fix this," he said softly, "and it's not my place. But if there's anything I can do to bring even a little bit of joy back into your life—to see that old light in your smile again—I'll do it." He hesitated, then reached for her hand. "You're not alone."
For the first time that day—maybe the first time in weeks—her smile reached her eyes. She squeezed his hand, then reached up to touch his cheek.
"When did you become such a strong young man?" The pride in her voice was unmistakable. "Sometimes I still see the little boy who needed me to check for monsters under the bed, and then I blink, and here you are—wiser than I was at twice your age."
The compliment warmed something in him, chasing away the lingering shame from earlier. He stood, suddenly aware that they both needed space to process.
"I should let you rest," he said, moving toward the door. Then, glancing back with a crooked smile, he added, "Also... thanks for opening up. We can discuss my session fee later. I haven't decided what I charge yet."
He didn't know if anything had truly changed between them—some wounds ran deeper than words. But the way her smile caught the light—for the first time in weeks—felt like sunlight cracking through concrete.