Mom kisses my forehead, whispering she’ll bring me some soup tomorrow morning. Aria stays until the nurse insists she needs sleep, too, and I kiss her cheek before she goes.
The room finally empties, quiet settling over everything. The curtain stays closed, but now that I’m alone, my body wants to move—not for me, but for her.
I wait until the hall is quiet, the last nurse rounds the corner, and I’m certain no one is coming back in.
Then I push myself gently out of the bed. My ribs ache, shoulder throbs, and legs protest with every step, but I make it across the small space anyway. I slide my fingers around the curtain and pull it back.
She’s lying on her side, hair pushed over her shoulder, bruises faint under the soft glow of the night light. She’s breathing evenly. Peacefully. Her arm is wrapped loosely around a pillow like she’s reaching for something she can’t quite grab.
My heart twists. I’m at her bedside before I realize I’ve moved.
“Ella,” I whisper.
She doesn’t wake. I glance at the door, then at her again. Screw it.
I ease myself onto the edge of her bed, slow and careful, fitting myself behind her the way my body has wanted to since I opened my eyes. She stirs as the mattress dips, her breath catching for a second, but then she relaxes, like she’s been waiting for this.
I tuck an arm around her waist. She sighs, soft and sleepy, leaning back into me like she’s done it a thousand times, and that’s how I know I’m not going anywhere.
Not tonight. Not ever.
“Sleep, sweetheart,” I whisper against her hair. “I’ve got you.”
Her fingers curl around mine, and in the quiet, with her heartbeat steady against my chest, I let my eyes close again—not because I’m weak or hurting or tired.
But because she’s here. Alive. Safe. Mine.
And that’s enough to let the world fade for a little while.
29
ELLA
The sun feels different when you’ve almost died.
It sounds dramatic, I know, but that’s exactly how it feels. The light hits my skin in a softer, sweeter way, like the world is reminding me that I still get to wake up, breathe air that doesn’t smell like smoke or fear, and feel the warmth of this place I’ve always called home.
A whole week in the hospital made everything outside feel too bright at first, but after everything we went through, bright isn’t overwhelming; it’s a blessing.
Cole stands beside me as we step out of Dad’s truck, both of us still a little stiff and sore. My ribs complain every time I twist toofar. His shoulder is wrapped under his shirt, and I know every movement tugs at the healing bruises he tries so hard to hide. But he’s here, I’m here too, and that’s enough.
The scent of mesquite smoke reaches us before anything else. Then the sound—laughter, plates and glasses clinking, Luella squealing somewhere near the porch—and I swear my heart does something like a somersault.
A huge banner is strung between two posts: WELCOME HOME, ELLA & COLE!
And then, as if the banner isn’t enough, my entire family—my chaotic, loud, overprotective, infuriating, beloved family—erupts into cheers.
Ava is the first one to barrel into me, careful not to squeeze too hard. “You’re home,” she cries against my hair. “You’re really home.”
“I’m really home,” I whisper back.
Behind her, Beck lifts Oliver high enough for him to wave. Jace is parked near the grill with Tessa beside him, Daisy leaning against his chair. Zane stands near Dad, arms crossed but eyes soft. Even Quinn looks a little misty-eyed as she bounces baby Luella on her hip.
And then there’s Flora, holding a tray piled high with desserts like she brought an entire bakery’s worth of comfort. She smilesat Cole the second she sees him, that soft, motherly, relieved smile.
“My boy,” she says, and her voice cracks.
Cole stiffens for a second before he lets her pull him into her arms. His breath shakes—barely audible, but I hear it. I feel it. It makes my throat burn.
