The renovations upstairs were finally done. That had been a whole project of its own—Lunchbox and I had sketched it out over the course of our first thirty-six hours home. We had most of what we needed in storage, but we’d made two trips to town to fully stock the house and to pick up everything else.
It took us a week, but we’d devoted our time to the renovation. Knocking out the wall between my bedroom and hers doubled the size of the space. We’d painted it, letting herchoose the palette after we’d sanded it smooth. Her choices included Indigo Ink for the “accent” wall, golden umber for the carpet and earthier accents on the curtains—seriously choosing those had been amusing—and walnut for the wood.
“The darker grain stands up beautifully against Indigo, and creates a high-contrast look with the umber. It’s luxe, but also grounded,” she’d said, when she held up the samples together. “Do you like it?”
Of course we liked it. Grace had come to life while she sorted through all the options and she’d made all of us choose from her favorites.
“It has to reflect all of you too.”
In the end, the room came together beautifully. It still boasted the largest bathroom in the house and there was room to add an electronic fireplace that boasted multiple colors.
Voodoo had made a good call with that one. We’d added a pair of sofas up there to the space, once we’d finished the custom-built bed that took up one whole wall of the room. It would fit all five of us quite comfortably.
Lunchbox supervised the carpentry once Voodoo sourced the custom mattresses—apairof Alaskan kings. They were the biggest I’d ever seen. But Alphabet had hunted down bedding in the same shades of umber and matching indigo for the pillows to match the room.
I’d never spent that much time thinking about how somethinglooked. Functionality? Yes. Comfort? Yes. But looks? At the same time, I would have spent twice as much time on all of that because Grace had come back to life while we worked on it.
She didn’t know the first things about sanding, hammering, painting,orbuilding, but didn’t shy away from a single activity. Not once. Though after the first time she threatened to throw a hammer, we established rules.
The last had been the art and the photos—she’d wanted pictures of us on the wall. All of us, so…we’d gotten to work. It was still in progress, but I had my own favorite up there. One that someone had snapped of her sound asleep and curled up against my chest. I had no idea which of them had taken it or when, but it went with the one of her curled up with me in the back of the van in France.
The day we finished, that was where all of us slept—including Goblin. What surprised me most wasn’t the bed itself—it was how natural it felt now. Crawling in beside her. Feeling her pressed between us, safe and sound, her breathing softening as she drifted off—it was everything. The first few nights had been awkward as hell. Too many limbs. Too much shared warmth. Too much awareness.
Occasionally needing to smack the boys upside the head and once threatening to send them to their own rooms. Though, admittedly, Grace’s laughter over that had been worth the irritation.
Now?
It wasn’t weird at all. It was… home.
Grace shifted by the fire, shoulders drawing tight as she folded her arms. Even in silhouette she seemed to vibrate with upset. If I had to guess, she was spiraling into her thoughts again—too deep, too fast.
My cue.
I pushed up from the chair and crossed the room, stopping a step behind her so she didn’t feel cornered. “Fire’s not going anywhere,” I said. “You can blink, you know.”
She huffed a quiet breath. “Wasn’t staring.”
“You were absolutely staring,” Voodoo said from the couch.
Grace flipped him off without turning around.
I smiled. Middle fingers had also become a familiar salute from her. Construction had freed her up her cuss like a sailor.Though I was determined to teach her to cuss like an Army grunt. We were just better. “How’s the shoulder?”
She rolled it experimentally. “Better. Bruise is fading.” A momentary distraction in our hand-to-hand three days before and she’d twisted her grip wrong, nearly dislocating her shoulder. I still winced when I thought about it.
“Good. Tomorrow, we pick back up with lessons.”
She groaned like I’d announced her execution. “Bones…”
“You asked me to teach you,” I reminded her, nudging her lightly. “And you’re doing damn well. But you’re not getting out of footwork drills.”
“That’s cruel.”
“That’s survival.”
She looked up at me then, eyes reflecting the firelight—tired, but steadier than before. “Okay,” she said softly. “Tomorrow.”
We stood there for a moment, just listening to the crackling fire and the wind brushing against the windows.
