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I delete the nastiness. Report the threats. Then I put my phone down and go find Peanut, who lets me scratch behind her ears until she makes that ridiculous hiccup-squeak that always makes me laugh.

I’m not alone anymore.

And every time I catch sight of my reflection – of the faint silver bond marks on my neck like softened moons – I remember that.

They’re real.

They’re healed.

And they’re mine.

DANE

She laughs more now.

Not loud or showy – just soft, surprised sounds, like they slip out before she remembers to be afraid. I notice it first in the kitchen, watching her steal bites from Xar’s mixing bowl, fingers dusted with sugar, eyes bright with mischief. Or when she hums under her breath while watering the rosemary we planted out back, barefoot and sleepy in one of my old shirts.

Evie’s never been still. She vibrates with energy, always has. But now…stillness lives in her, tucked between the beats. In the way she sighs when she nestles against me at night. In how she doesn’t startle when I touch her waist. In the way she trusts the silence.

That stillness is hard-won.

And I’ll guard it with everything I have.

Some days, the memories claw back. The break-in. The headlines. The sheer helpless rage of not being able to protect her from it all. I check the locks more than I need to. I linger by the windows. I worry.

But then I hear her downstairs – working through a new chorus barefoot in the studio, voice rising like a tide – and I breathe again.

We made it.

She chose us.

And now, all I want is to give her the kind of peace she used to think she’d never deserve.

XAR

We built her a new nest.

All of us. Together.

Two weeks of hauling pillows and testing textures, of arguing over lighting and scent layering. Dane measured the floor plan like he was blueprinting a fortress. Blaise made it his mission to find the softest damn blanket in the country. And me – I paid attention. Watched the way she reacted to touch, to fabric, to warmth. Logged it all like it mattered more than lyrics.

Because it did.

The first time she stepped inside – barefoot, eyes wide, fingers pressed to her mouth – I thought my chest might crack open.

It’s not about the nest itself. Not really.

Not the plush rugs or the woven throws or the perfectly placed diffusers. Not even the soft light spilling across the room or the curve of her body when she melts into it like it belongs to her.

It’s what itmeans.

It’s hers.

Hers to rebuild.

Hers to protect.

Hers to rest in without fear.