Page 84 of The Bastard's Lily

“Still hers,” I whisper back.

The night hums with engines and laughter, a life we built from blood and second chances, and for the first time I can remember, everything feels exactly where it’s meant to be. Out in the yard, the brothers start gathering plates and folding chairs, while laughter drifts through the trees. Someone cranks a hose to wash frosting off the picnic tables. Grimm is already hauling trash bags to the back of a truck, singing something off-key that makes Ash shake his head.

Inside, the cabin is soft and still. Calla and I carry Beau down the hall together. He’s half asleep, arms looped around my neck, rainbow sprinkles still stuck in his hair. His little leather vest slides off easily; the stuffed fox never leaves his grip.

We ease him onto the bed and tuck the quilt around his shoulders. Calla brushes a thumb across his forehead and whispers, “Happy birthday, baby.”

He mumbles something about dinosaurs and drifts deeper.

I lean down and press a kiss to his temple. “Love you, buddy.”

Calla and I stay there a moment longer, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest while the low rumble of bikes and quiet voices filter in from outside. The low growl of engines fades one by one until the night settles back into crickets and pine. From the window, I watch the last taillight disappear down the dirt road.

Calla leans against the doorframe, hair a loose tumble, eyes soft and steady. “All quiet,” she whispers.

I lock the deadbolt, turn off the porch light, and reach for her hand. “Finally, just us.”

The house is warm with the scent of cake and wood smoke as we move down the hall. We peel off the day's clothes, damp from the night air, until the steam of the shower wraps us in quiet. Water slides over skin, the chaos of the party rinsing away until there’s nothing left but her heartbeat against mine.

Later, we slip beneath the quilt, the world outside fading to dark and silence. I pull her close, our breaths falling into the same rhythm, the weight of everything we’ve survived and everything we’ve built settling around us like a promise.

Ghosts don’t knock when they return—they stay, breathing beside you in the dark, until you realize they were never ghosts at all.

The Mother-Fucking End