Union Square is loud with lights, and people pretending the cold is charming, but don’t. Me? I like the cold.
Paul walks a half step ahead of me, not as dependent on the cane anymore. I clock the stroller, Savannah all bundled up, Claudia’s laugh, and then the way Deacon’s shoulders tighten the second he spots us.
He doesn’t smile. He meets us before we reach the group, protective and pissed.
Fair.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he says, eyes on me, not Paul.
Paul exhales beside me. “That’s on me.”
Deacon finally looks at him. “Paul.”
“I invited him,” Paul says easily. “I’ll take full responsibility. Whatever you’re about to say to him, you can save it. I already said my piece in the car.”
I keep my mouth shut. Let it land where it lands.
He doesn’t say shit, so I do, “I’m not staying long.”
Our eyes are still locked, but everything around us is unbothered. The market presses in, bells chiming, steam from food stalls, laughter floating in the air.
Paul looks between us. “You don’t have to like it. You just have to tolerate it for twenty minutes. Then I’ll steal him for mulled cider and complain about prices.”
I meet Deacon’s eyes. “If you want me gone, say it.”
He holds my gaze. Long. Measuring.
Then he looks back at Savannah. “I’m not dealing with you,” he says. “This is about her.”
Paul grins. “Festive compromise.”
I nod once. “Understood.”
We fall into step toward the stalls, not together, not apart. The cold bites. The lights glow. The space between us stays tight and controlled.
Not peace, but not a fight.
Then I see her.
She’s tucked in near one of the ornament stalls with Nalani and Noelle, all three of them leaning in like conspirators. The lights hit her hair differently out here, warmer, softer. She’s laughing at something Noelle says, head tipped back just enough that it looks unguarded.
It stops me cold.
This Sofie isn’t braced for impact. She’s not scanning exits, measuring distance, or calculating risk. Her shoulders are loose. Her hands are busy, lifting an ornament, turning it, holding it up to the light like the answer might be there if she looks long enough.
She looks… younger. Not in years. In the weight that is not on her shoulders right now.
Nalani nudges her, says something I can’t hear. Sofie’s smile changes. Smaller, sweeter, softer. A smile that doesn’t perform. Noelle hooks an arm through hers without asking, like it’s okayto touch Sofie-fucking-Fairfax, and it is for those whom she deems fit.
She’s not armor, angles, or restraint. She’s just a woman in a wool coat arguing over whether a glass star is too fragile or exactly right.
I stay where I am and don’t move closer, sure as fuck don’t announce myself, because the difference is stark, and it’s telling.
Around me, she’s controlled. Guarded. Ready to spar. Around them, she’s soft. Open. Real. I envy that, but haven’t I always? Is this not the same as it was at the new school in Moscow?
I make ten million dollars a fucking year, and yet I’m looking in from the outside. Hell, I can’t even buy my brother’s way fully out of danger, and he’s only there because of me.
“Gonna suggest a few things,” Koa says quietly from behind me.
