It’s... weird as fuck.
Mom pulls me in next, cupping my face like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.
“My baby,” she whispers into my hair. “You’re so big now. Did you get taller, too?”
I huff a quiet laugh, shaking my head. “Pretty sure I stopped growing a decade ago, Ma.”
She doesn’t hear it, or ignores it. Her fingers trace the lines of my face like she’s trying to memorize every inch, catalog the ways I’ve changed. I don’t stop her. I don’t lean in either. I just stand there and let her do what she needs to do. Let her convince herself I’m whole.
Even if I know better.
There’s no version of me that came back clean. No version that walks out of that uniform without something left behind. Doesn’t matter if it was justified. Doesn’t matter if I’d do it all over again. Killing changes you. Leaves marks. Not always the kind you can see.
I clench my jaw. Swallow hard. Shut it down before it spirals.
Not now. Not here. This isn’t about you.
I force myself to breathe. To look around the room like I belong in it. Like this is just home.
There’s cousin Lena, already laughing too loud, probably half-drunk. She’s always been like that—lived big, loved bigger. She throws an arm around my shoulders like I never left, like I didn’t vanish long enough to forget what this even feels like.
“You look like shit, Cass,” she says, grinning, tipping her beer at me in a lazy half-toast. “Like, actual roadkill. But hey, you’re a hunk now. That must count for something, right?”
“Appreciate that, Lena,” I mutter, smirking back. “That your way of saying you missed me?”
“Damn right.”
And then there’s cousin Mateo, leaning against the kitchen counter with a beer in hand, watching me with that same quiet, steady look he’s always had. His brother’s ex-military. He probably gets it. At least part of it. He just gives me a slow nod.
I nod back.
And then there’s Ava, standing off to the side with her husband. She’s holding a baby on one hip while her oldest—this little girl with wild curls and wide eyes—peeks out from behind her like I’m something unfamiliar. Which, to her, I guess I am.
Last time I saw her, she was barely walking. Now she’s clinging to Ava’s jeans with one hand, clutching a stuffed rabbit in the other. She stares at me, unblinking. Ava probably told her not to make me feel weird about it, because after a second, the kid inches forward and holds out the rabbit like she’s offering me a piece of the damn moon.
I stare at it, caught off guard.
“Go on,” Ava murmurs with a soft smile. “She wants you to have it.”
The kid still doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking up at me with those huge, serious eyes. I swallow hard and crouch down, taking the rabbit with a careful grip. It’s well-loved. The fur is matted, one ear is half-detached, and the stuffing shows at the seam.
“Thanks, kid,” I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I meant.
She nods, then scurries back to Ava’s side. I hold the rabbit for a second longer than I probably should, then pass it back. I don’t deserve to keep something that clean.
When I look up again, Sabine’s watching me from across the room.
In the car, she was all easy chatter and sideways smiles, keeping things light. She’s always been like that, so it didn’t seem unusual. But now, something’s different.
Her arms are crossed. Not casually, but tight, like she’s holding herself together. Her phone’s already lit in her hand, thumb hovering like she was checking something before I noticed. When our eyes meet, she locks the screen and slips it into her pocket.
Then, for just a moment, her expression shifts. A flicker in her brows, a slight tightening around her mouth. She looks at me, offers a quick, practiced smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, then turns to join cousin Lena by the kitchen.
Huh. Whatever that was, it doesn’t sit right.
Something’s off.
“Alright, alright,” Ma says, clapping her hands to gather everyone. “Let him breathe! He just got home. We’ll catch up over dinner.”
