Page 54 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

A year ago, crowds like this would have sent me spiraling into dissociation. Every face was a threat, every camera a weapon aimed at my vulnerability. Roche had weaponized my need to perform, turning my natural magnetism into the trap that kept me captive.

Now I adjusted the microphone and moved into position at the podium, surveying the speech I'd rehearsed a dozen times.

Community members, social workers, and clinic staff filled the rows of folding chairs before me, all gathered for the grand opening ceremony.

These people weren't here to consume me but to support something we'd built together.

"Welcome, everyone." The murmur of conversation died as I stepped onto the podium. "Seeing this many people here today means more than I can say."

I took a breath.

"When we first dreamed of this center, I honestly didn't know if anyone would show up for the opening.

The fact that you're all here tells me we're not alone in this fight.

I was never fortunate enough to have met Tyler while he was alive, but his death changed me forever.

It was because of him that I met my fiancée.

Because of him that I found my place in this strange, new country.

Because of him..." I swallowed back a wave of emotion.

"Because of him that this place exists."

I gripped the podium.

"Tyler Graham wanted simple things," I continued, my voice growing stronger as I found my rhythm. "Top surgery. An apartment with a real bed instead of a sleeping bag in a tent. Antibiotics for his friend Calvin when Calvin got sick. The dignity of being seen as human rather than expendable."

My eyes found Hunter in the crowd, remembering his stories of Tyler's dreams, his hope for transition, his fierce loyalty to the other homeless kids he tried to protect.

"Tyler died believing no one cared enough to fight for him," I said. "He was wrong. His death taught us that every person's life has meaning. That love can transform even the deepest tragedy into lasting hope."

"This center exists because Tyler Graham deserved better," I concluded. "And because everyone who walks through these doors deserves the chance he never got: the chance to live openly, safely, and surrounded by people who see their worth."

I gestured to the building behind me. "The Tyler Graham LGBTQ+ Resource Center is more than just a building. It's proof that love can resurrect the dead parts of people and teach them to live again."

In the crowd, people wiped tears from their eyes.

"This center won't fix everything wrong in the world," I continued.

"Fixing the world is a big job, but it starts with small gestures like the donations you made to help us open this center, and that will help keep the center's lights on for the coming year.

It's neighbors helping neighbors and communities like this coming together that make the world a better, brighter, safer place. "

I picked up the scissors from the podium. "It's now my honor to declare the Tyler Graham LGBTQ+ Resource Center open to the public."

I stepped back and cut the ribbon, the silver blades catching sunlight as they closed. The crowd erupted in applause and cheers.

Tyler Graham would never see this moment, but somewhere in the applause, in the tears on strangers' faces, in Hunter's arms reaching for me, Tyler's spirit lived on.

This was Tyler's real funeral. Not the ceremony where we'd first met over his corpse, but this celebration of the life his death had made possible.

Hunter reached me first, his body colliding with mine.

His cologne mixed with his skin's scent, flooding me with memories of him pressing me against walls, beds, floors.

His new tattoo of a phoenix rising from the ash peeked from beneath his collar, wings spread wide across skin that had once proclaimed him not worth saving.

I traced the edge of the phoenix through his shirt fabric, remembering the day the artist had finished the final detail.

Hunter had examined his reflection in the mirror and smiled like he was seeing himself for the first time.

The DNR/DNI letters were completely gone, buried beneath symbols of rebirth and flight.

"Do Not Resuscitate" had become "Refuse to Surrender."

"Your mother is watching, mon loup," I murmured. "I think she's already planning which wedding venue to show us next."

"Don't start with the French unless you want me to drag you into a bathroom right now." He pressed against my hip, promising marks without bruises.

I laughed, pushing him back slightly as Annie approached with the first wave of well-wishers. "Later," I promised, straightening my tie. "We have responsibilities first."

We made our way through the crowd, shaking hands and accepting congratulations. Every person who thanked us had no idea we'd built this center on both compassion and vengeance, or that our hands had created this sanctuary through both legal means and bloodshed. Two sides of the same justice.

Hunter's steps slowed as we passed a small group near the clinic entrance.

Three people in their twenties, standing together but apart from the other guests.

The young woman had short auburn hair and clear eyes that no longer held the hollow desperation I remembered from Wright's files.

The two men flanked her protectively, one tall and lean with careful posture, the other stockier with new muscle filling out clothes that actually fit.

"Emma," Hunter said quietly. "David. Ben."

They turned, and Emma's face broke into a tentative smile. "Mr. Song. I wasn't sure you'd remember us."

"Of course I remember." Hunter's voice carried warmth I'd rarely heard him use with strangers. "How are you adjusting?"

"Better," David said, his voice stronger than it had been. "The new names took some getting used to, but..." He gestured toward the center. "Places like this make it easier to start over."

Ben nodded toward me. "Thank you. Both of you. For what you did." His eyes held knowledge he couldn't voice here, surrounded by innocent guests who'd never know how close these three had come to being Wright's next casualties.

"You did the surviving," I replied. "We just opened a door."

Emma stepped forward, pressing a folded piece of paper into Hunter's hand. "We wanted you to have this. All of us who made it out. We're not the only ones building new lives because of what you two started."

Hunter unfolded the paper carefully. Inside, a dozen signatures surrounded a simple message: "Tyler's name means hope now. Thank you for making sure it wasn't just tragedy."

Hunter hugged her.

"You did good work here," River said as he approached.

"It's a start," I replied.

“There’s something you should see.” River's eyes met mine. He pulled out his phone, showing me a news headline from this morning: "Pharmaceutical Executive Found Dead in Apparent Suicide: Victoria Nash Leaves Behind Questions About Research Practices."

"They made it look natural," River said quietly, pocketing the device. "Professional work."

"They?"

"Got a note this morning. Unsigned." River reached into his jacket and showed me a playing card, the Ace of Spades. "Just said, 'You're welcome.'"

My eyes drifted to Algerone standing beneath the cherry tree, weathered hands resting on his cane. When our gazes met, he gave the slightest nod, a gesture carrying the weight of promises kept and debts settled.

River drifted back to Theo's side, positioning himself protectively between his partner and the crowd. When a donor stepped too close to Theo while talking, River's posture shifted subtly. The man instinctively backed away without even realizing why.

Hunter's shoulders stiffened as his parents approached. His mother wore a tailored blue suit, silver-streaked hair pulled into a perfect chignon.

"The speech was excellent," Mrs. Song said, giving me a quick nod. "Clear and compelling. I’m sure you’ll have donations pouring in."

She reached toward Hunter and brushed his shoulder. His eyes widened slightly at the unexpected touch.

"You look good," she said, grinning from ear to ear.

Hunter swallowed hard. "Thanks, Mom."

"Your father and I are proud of the work you're doing here."

When his father embraced him, the tension fractured into something vulnerable I rarely witnessed.

Mrs. Song turned to me, eyes softening at the corners. "Thank you for bringing him back to us." Her hand briefly squeezed mine. "For taking care of him when we couldn't."

I nodded, throat tight. I straightened my sleeve, focusing on the perfect break of fabric against my wrist instead of the ache spreading beneath my ribs.

"By the way," Mrs. Song added, glancing between us with the hint of a smile, "your father and I found a venue that might work for the wedding. Nothing extravagant, just a lakeside property with good parking. We can discuss it over dinner next week."

"What your mother means," Mr. Song said, his voice gentler than hers, "is that we'd like to get to know the man who helped our son find his way back." He clasped Hunter's shoulder. "The center is impressive. You've built something important here."

"Hunter did most of the work," I said. "I just gave him a place to heal." My eyes met Hunter's. "He's the strongest person I know."

Hunter's hand found mine, squeezing once. The gesture said more than words could.

"We'll see you both for dinner next Saturday," Mr. Song said and waved as they were pulled into another conversation nearby.

"I’m glad your folks are coming around more," I said.

“That’s thanks to you.” His thumb traced the sharp line of my jaw, the gesture tender despite the calluses earned through months of construction work on the center.

"We saved each other," I said simply.