The thought carves out a sudden, hollow space right in my chest.
The radio on the kitchen counter crackles to life with the morning news, volume low but audible in the quiet house. I’ve been half-listening to it for the past twenty minutes, dreading what I know is coming.
“—and in our top story this morning, road crews have officially declared Route 72 and all coastal routes passable as of six AM. Residents who evacuated can now safely return to their homes. The storm cleanup continues, but the worst is behind us?—”
There it is.
The roads are clear.
We can leave.
Sierra stirs against Malik, making a small sound of protest as she starts to wake. Her eyes flutter open, unfocused and confused for a moment before awareness settles in. She blinks at me sleepily.
“Morning,” I say softly, trying to inject some of my usual cheerfulness into it.
“Morning,” she mumbles, her voice rough with sleep. Then she seems to register what she’s hearing. “Is that the radio?”
“Yeah.”
She goes very still, listening. I watch her face as the announcement sinks in. The roads are clear. The storm is over. Our week outside of time has officially ended.
“Oh,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I agree.
We lie there for a moment longer, neither of us wanting to be the one to say it. To make it real.
Finally, Sierra takes a breath. “I guess we should probably start packing.”
The words land heavy despite how softly she says them.
“I guess we should,” I agree, even though everything in me is screaming to stay right here in this pillow fort forever.
Movement around us suggests the others are waking too. Malik’s hand tightens briefly on Sierra’s waist before releasing. Dax sits up with a groan, running his hands through his dark hair. Jalen buries his face into the soft skin of her thighs and groans in protest of waking up.
We extract ourselves from the fort slowly, reluctantly. Like if we move too fast, we’ll shatter something fragile.
“Coffee first,” Dax growls. “Then packing.”
“Yeah,” Malik growls, voice rough with sleep.
We shuffle into the kitchen, and I busy myself making coffee while the others wake up properly. Sierra wraps herself in a throw blanket and perches on one of the chairs at the table, watching me work.
“You okay?” she asks quietly.
I pause in the middle of measuring coffee grounds. Am I okay? I have no idea how to answer that question.
“Yeah,” I say finally, because what else can I say? “Just... this was nice.”
“It was,” she agrees, and there’s something in her voice that makes me look up.
She’s watching me with this expression that’s equal parts soft and sad, and I have to look away before I do something stupid like beg her to stay. To let us figure out how to make this work. To not let this end just because the roads are clear.
The coffee finishes brewing and I pour mugs for everyone, the familiar ritual grounding me. We drink in silence. Finally, Malik sets down his mug. “We should start. The earlier we finish, the earlier we can get on the road.”
Right. Because we need to get back to Sweetwater. Back to our business, our clients, our lives. Back to being the Knightley Pack and Sierra Smith, separate entities who happen to work in the same industry.
Except nothing feels separate anymore.
