Something else is. Something quieter, warmer. Less violent.
Being surrounded by these people—people I expected tooverwhelm me, intimidate me, expose me—has done the opposite. It’s grounded me. Shown me a version of living that doesn’t revolve around survival or strategy.
Maybe this is what rebuilding actually looks like.
Not fixing what’s broken.
But letting something new grow around it.
I’m perched at the kitchen island now, knees tucked in close, a mug warming my hands. Bethany sits beside me, scrolling furiously through her phone, already convinced we’re going to need backup pastries once the men inevitably ruin breakfast.
Lily, on the other hand, looks delighted.
Justin and Titan are in the kitchen—actuallyin it—shoulders nearly bumping as they move around each other with easy familiarity. There’s batter on the counter. Flour on Titan’s sleeve. The smell of pancakes and waffles fills the air, rich and comforting and absurdly domestic.
Lily claps her hands softly, like a child watching magic unfold.
“Ilovethis part,” she squeals with excitement. “The anticipation.”
Bethany snorts. “You say that every time, and every time you’re convinced we’re not about to starve to death.”
“Faith,” Lily replies solemnly. “I have faith.”
I watch them all from my seat, something warm spreading through my chest. The ease. The laughter. The way no one is performing or posturing or watching me like I’m something fragile that might shatter if handled wrong.
These are my people.
The realization lands quietly—but firmly.
Justin turns, reaching for a spatula, and catches my eye. He pauses just long enough to wink at me, a flash of humor and confidence that feels almost surreal compared to the man I first met.
This Justin is relaxed. Grounded. Lighter.
And the sight of him like this—barefoot, focused on breakfast, stealing glances at me—does something dangerously tender to my heart.
Somewhere in the penthouse, a phone rings.
The sound slices through the moment cleanly.
Both men still, instinctively listening. Titan’s head tilts slightly. Justin’s shoulders tense.
“That’s my phone,” Justin says, already reaching for a towel to wipe his hands.
“I’ll get it for you.”
I slide off the stool before he can stop me. I retrieve the phone from the bedroom and carry it back toward him just as it stops ringing—only to start up again the second I place it in his hand.
His brow furrows when he sees the name on the screen.
“Silas,” he speaks into the phone, already moving out of the kitchen.
Titan’s gaze flicks up briefly, sharp and assessing, tracking Justin’s exit. Then—just as quickly—he turns back to the bowl and resumes whisking the batter like nothing has changed.
I register the control in that. The discipline. Titan Ward does not broadcast concern. He contains it.
Whatever that call is, it matters. But panic helps no one.
“So,” Titan says lightly, breaking the silence as he reaches for the pan, “Lily Bird.”
