"I was hungry."
"You were drunk."
"I was both."
They bickered on, comfortable and familiar. I caught the way Irish's hand found Declan's under the table, the way they leaned into each other without thinking. Seven years together, and they still moved like two halves of a whole.
Ghost was quiet beside me, but it was a different kind of quiet than before. Settled. The haunted look that had shadowed his eyes for weeks after the compound had finally faded, replaced by something steadier. He'd grown into his patch, grown into himself.
"How's the shoulder?" I asked.
"Hundred percent." He rotated it to demonstrate. "Doc cleared me for full duty last week."
"Good. You've earned it."
He ducked his head, almost shy, but he was smiling. Whatever he was figuring out about himself—whatever questions he was still asking—he'd found enough answers to be at peace. The rest would come.
At the head of the table, Hawk presided over the chaos with his usual stoic calm. Maria brought him a plate, and he caught her wrist as she turned away—a gentle gesture, intimate. She paused, and something flickered between them.
Then one of the twins shrieked from the kitchen, and Maria pulled away. "Duty calls."
Hawk watched her go, and for just a moment, I saw something in his expression. Not distance, exactly. More like... awareness of distance. A hairline crack in the foundation.
I filed it away. Not my business.
Across the table, Tyler was nursing his coffee with the intensity of a man who hadn't slept well. He looked better than he had three months ago—the haunted edge had softened, the constant vigilance had eased—but something still lived behind his eyes. Something unfinished.
Tank sat two seats down, pointedly not looking at Tyler. Which was interesting, because he also wasn't looking at anyone else. His attention kept drifting sideways, catching on Tyler's profile, then jerking away.
Tyler felt it. I could tell by the way his shoulders tensed, the way his grip tightened on his mug. Neither of them spoke to each other. Neither of them needed to. The air between them was thick enough to cut.
"So," Irish announced, oblivious or pretending to be, "who's up for a ride this weekend? I'm thinking coast road. Dec wants to see the cliffs."
"I'm in," Blade said.
"Same," Ghost added.
Tank grunted something that might have been agreement. Tyler suddenly found his pancakes fascinating.
I hid my smile in my coffee. Some things couldn't be rushed.
After breakfast, I retreated to our room. Two letters had arrived yesterday—forwarded through a network of safe houses and social workers, part of the system Tyler had helped establish for the survivors. I'd been saving them for a quiet moment.
The first was from Ana.
She was in Texas now, living with an aunt she'd reconnected with. Back in school. Learning English faster than her teachers expected."I think about you,"she'd written in careful handwriting."The man with purple hair who held my hand through the bars. I am learning to be brave like you. I am learning that cages don't have to be forever."
I pressed the letter to my chest, blinking back tears.
The second was from Daniel.
His was shorter, messier—a twelve-year-old's scrawl on lined paper. He was in foster care in Oregon, but a good placement. A family that wanted to adopt him."I'm going to be okay,"he'd written."I know that now because of you guys. Tell the scary biker dude I said thanks for killing the bad men. And tell yourself thanks too. You're a hero. Don't forget."
I laughed through the wetness in my eyes. The scary biker dude. Axel would love that.
These letters came every few weeks now—updates from survivors who wanted us to know they were healing. Not all of them were easy to read. Some carried grief, trauma, the long shadow of what had been done. But they were alive. They were free. And they remembered who had fought for them.
That had to mean something. It had to be enough.
