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Shira arches a brow.“Poetic.”

“We’ve had help,” Xar says, and looks up at me.

Shira catches it.“Evie, did you collaborate?”

I nod, cheeks warming. “Some lyrics. A few melodies. Nothing official.”

“She’s being modest,” Blaise says. “Three songs are hers. One of them made me cry.”

I bury my face in his shoulder. “Don’t say that on camera.”

Shira’s smile widens.“Too late.”

Then she softens, tilting her head slightly.

“One last question,” she says gently.“And I’ll respect whatever answer you give. But for the record – Evie…are you Honey?”

The air stills.

Dane’s arm curls tighter around me. Blaise rests his chin on my shoulder. Xar laces our fingers again.

I lift my head. Look straight into the camera.

And smile.

“I’m exactly who I want to be.”

Shira laughs softly.“Fair enough.”

Eventually, the cameras go dark. The call ends. And just like that, the world quiets again.

No more questions. No more flashbulbs or accusations. Just the steady rhythm of my heartbeat and the weight of my alphas beside me.

I sink back into the couch, tucked into Dane’s side. Xar leans against my legs where he’s still on the floor, his head resting against my knee, and Blaise sprawls out at the other end, smirking faintly like he just got away with something.

Maybe he did. We all did. We didn’t just survive it. We told our story onourterms. And somehow, that makes all the difference.

The house still smells faintly of strangers, but less so. The wind has aired it out. The window that was smashed for the person to get in has been repaired. Blaise swept the floors and did a stellar job of tidying the communal spaces, and Dane took down the broken photo frame and put it in a drawer, even though we both know he’ll fix it.

But the studio – the nest – none of that’s been touched.

They’re waiting for me. So that together, we can rebuild.

The guys carry in new pillows, blankets, soft throws, a weighted duvet, even a new hoodie with Xar’s scent freshly marked into the collar. Dane takes his time layering each item, checking that I nod before adding the next. Blaise finds a candle that smells like smoke and sugar and lights it on the shelf.

And when I crawl into it – this space they made for me all overagain– I don’t cry.

I just breathe.

Slow. Deep. Safe.

Maybe this nest is even more perfect than the others. Because this one we built together, without resistance, fear or doubts. Just acceptance, love and a hope for a better future.

The studio takes longer because the guys want to expand it and make it a space big enough for the four of us. But we get there.

Xar re-strings the guitar he salvaged. Dane wires in a new mic. Blaise hauls in the upright piano from the living room, even though it nearly takes all three of them to manage the stairs.

My lyric sheets are gone, but the words aren’t.