Ellsworth's mouth curved into a genuine smile—the kind I'd only seen a handful of times. "Fergus MacLeod."
Micah's eyebrows went up in question.
"The Sanctuary should have its own Q," I explained, warming to the idea as I spoke. "Like James Bond. Custom weapons designed for specific operations. No questions asked. No paper trail. Someone who understands operational requirements and can engineer solutions we haven't thought of yet."
Understanding dawned in Micah's expression, followed by something that looked like genuine enthusiasm.
"Your own Q," he said slowly, mulling it over, testing how it sounded. "If you think it'll help, sure. Why not?"
There were smiles all around. The kind that came from men who understood that the right tools—the rightpeople—could mean the difference between mission success and body bags.
The kind of smiles that said we were building something that mattered.
We were about to break up, chairs already scraping against the floor, when another thought hit me.
"My military service," I said, stopping halfway out of my seat. "What am I supposed to do about that? I've got obligations. Chain of command. People expecting me to report."
Micah's grin widened, and he winked—actually winked—like we were sharing a joke I didn't quite get yet.
"Don't worry," he said, his tone absolutely confident. "My brothers and I will take care of it. You worry about finding and bringing your friends in. Let us handle the bureaucracy."
And just like that, it settled.
The weight I'd been carrying—the uncertainty about what came next, the fear that I'd have to choose between my duty to the military and my duty to my brothers—lifted.
Not completely. Not all at once.
But enough.
I had a feeling—deep and certain, the kind that lived in your bones rather than your head—that what I'd dreamt about all along, what I'd wanted from St. Paul's before it turned into a nightmare, was finally happening.
A home. A purpose. Brothers who had my back without needing to be asked.
A mission that mattered.
I was still processing. Still dealing with the weight of everything that had happened. The grief for my parents was fresh and raw and would probably stay that way for a while. The memory of Merrick's laugh would wake me up at night for months, maybe years.
But underneath all of that, I was more content with the present moment than I'd been since that day so long ago when my parents had been proud of me and the world had opened up in front of me like a door I'd been waiting my whole life to walk through.
This felt very much like that.
Very much.
EPILOGUE
MILA
Afew weeks later, The Sanctuary felt different.
Not quieter. Not safer in any naïve way. Just … lived in. Like a place that had stopped holding its breath.
I’d given up my apartment the morning after my show.
It wasn’t dramatic. No tears. No cinematic goodbye. Just a suitcase, a few boxes, and the strange, steady feeling that I wasn’t leaving something behind so much as folding it into something larger. My time there had mattered. It had shaped me. But it was a chapter, not a destination.
Home had shifted.
Home was Connor.
