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A melody. Something unfinished.

I glance at him. “What’s that?”

He pauses, like he hadn’t meant to let it slip. “Something I was working on.”

I arch a brow. “Something new?”

Dane hesitates, then nods. “Came to me earlier. Just a few beats.”

I let the sound settle in my head, rolling the notes over in my mind. It’s raw, unpolished – but something about it feels right.

The weight in my chest shifts, something slotting into place.

Music.

It’s always been our tether, the one thing that connects us no matter what else is going on. And Evie – she may fight everything else, but music isn’t something she has to resist. It doesn’t demand anything from her.

“We could play for her,” I say, the idea forming as I speak it aloud. “When she wakes up. Give her something familiar to hold onto.”

Dane’s eyes flick to me, assessing. Then, slowly, he nods. “It could help.”

Right now, she needs all the help she can get.

Dane doesn’t hesitate. He claps me on the shoulder, firm and certain. “I’ll sort food.”

I nod. “I’ll get a couple of instruments, bring them to the nest.”

We don’t waste time. The moment Evie wakes, she’ll be on edge again, and if we’re not ready – if we push too hard – she’ll dig her heels in deeper.

Dane moves towards the kitchen. He’s good at this. Grounded. Practical. If anyone can get her to eat, it’s him, I’m sure of it.

I head the other way, towards the lounge, where a few of our instruments are scattered from the last time we picked them up. A battered acoustic leans against the arm of the sofa, familiar as an old friend. I grab it, then hesitate.

She might respond to something softer. Something less demanding.

I shift through the cases until I find what I’m looking for – a smaller instrument, one that Blaise sometimes plays when he’s restless. A mandolin. The sound is light, plucked notes carrying an almost lullaby quality when played right.

This will work.

I tuck the instruments under one arm and make my way back to the bedroom, meeting Dane on the way with bottles of water and electrolyte drinks.

The scent of her heat still clings to the air, heady and sweet, but beneath it, Blaise’s scent lingers strongest. He’s wrapped in a blanket of Evie’s sweet floral rain, a scent that should be comforting, yet feels like an intrusion now. Like I’m encroaching on a moment between the two of them that I shouldn’t be here for.

Which is ridiculous because they’re both fast asleep.

I’m acutely aware of how tangled together they are as I step into the room, pausing just inside the door.

She’s there, curled up against the pillows, her eyes still closed. But even in sleep, she holds a tension in her body, a quiet resistance in the way her shoulders are drawn up, as thoughbracing for something – maybe me. Maybe the weight of what’s coming.

I set the instruments and drinks down quietly, the soft thud of the mandolin casing almost lost in the haze of the room. The dim lighting throws shadows across her face, highlighting the curve of her jaw, the softness of her lips. There’s something haunting about her, even now, in her vulnerable state.

I move to sit on the edge of the recessed mattress, careful not to disturb her too much. My fingers brush lightly over the mandolin, just enough to let the strings hum, testing the tension, the sound.

“I don’t want to disturb you,” I whisper, though I’m not sure she’s even hearing me. The words feel too heavy, too fragile to be spoken in this space. But the pull is undeniable. The need to dosomething, anything, to bridge the distance between us.

Her eyelids flutter, then lift, just a fraction, as if she’s unsure whether to fully awaken. Her gaze meets mine, bleary at first, then sharpens, as if she’s trying to process me in the dim light. Her breath catches slightly, and I know she’s feeling it –thatfeeling. The one that clings to the room, to us, whether we acknowledge it or not.

I let the mandolin’s strings hum once more, a soft, gentle note.