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I find them again, bit by bit.

Late at night. In the quiet. In the way Blaise hums to himself when he thinks I’m asleep. In the way Dane taps rhythms on the counter while waiting for his coffee to brew. In Xar’s soft voice when he reads over the latest arrangement, always catching the line I’m most unsure of and repeating it like it’s already perfect.

And one night, it all clicks.

The words. The melody. The feeling in my chest that’s not grief anymore – but something warmer.

Hope.

We call itSurvivor’s Lullaby.

It’s not polished. It’s not perfect.

But it’s ours.

I sing the first verse, voice low and aching.

Xar’s harmony rises like a shield around me. Dane plays drums – steady, grounding. And Blaise, for once, doesn’t try to take the spotlight. He plays bass behind us and hums the final line against my skin when I falter.

We don’t record it in the studio.

We record it in the nest.

One take. No edits. Just candlelight and quiet love.

We frame the first print of the lyrics and hang it above the fireplace.

A song for the girl I used to be.

And the woman I am now.

It’s late when we finally talk about it.

The future.

I’m curled against Xar’s side on the newly fitted porch swing, wrapped in a blanket, listening to the sea crash far beyond the trees. Blaise stands leaning against the railing, grumbling about the goats despite the fact that they’ve helped him grow his social media following into the millions and he loves them. Dane sits on the steps below us, elbows on his knees, staring at the stars.

“I don’t want to be famous,” I say quietly.

None of them speak for a moment.

Then Dane nods.

“You don’t have to be.”

“But you are,” I say. “All of you. And you love it. You were made for it. The stage, the lights, the roar of it all – it feeds you.”

“It does,” Blaise admits. “But so do you.”

Xar lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles. “We’ll find a balance.”

“But how?” I whisper. “When the world wants to pull you forward and I just want to stay here?”

“Then we give them just enough,” Dane says. “We tour. We release the album. You stay here if that’s what you need. Or come when you want. But the rest? That’s ours. The nest, the studio,the porch, your songs – ours. They don’t get to have that. This life, here, with you, is ours. No one else’s.”

Blaise flicks ash into the wind. “We make the rules, honeybee. No one else.”

“And if I want to write my own stuff?” I ask, voice small. “If I want to make music…but quietly. On my terms.”