Adrenaline wipes away the fog in a brutal sweep. I swing my legs off the bed, feet hitting the cool floor as dizziness sways through me, but I don’t stop. My chest tightens painfully as I stagger out of the bedroom, barefoot and unsteady, fear overriding logic.
This house is quiet.Too quiet.My breathing is loud in my ears as I move down a hallway that opens into a vast living space—all steel and glass. I look around, but he’s not in here either. Panic claws higher as I move faster despite the way my legs protest, my heart pounding so hard it makes my vision blur at the edges.
“Julian?” My voice cracks, barely carrying.
I turn, scanning the space wildly, my body already bracing for the worst. For a reality I don’t have words for yet. And then I hear it. A soft gurgle that’s unmistakably Julian’s. I freeze, and the sound comes again, followed by the faint creak of wood shifting under weight. I follow it toward the far corner of the room, each step slower now, dread mixing with something fragile and hopeful.
That’s when I see them, and relief floods through me in a rush so intense it burns, my eyes stinging as I press a hand to my mouth to keep from making a sound. I stand there, frozen, afraid that even breathing too loudly will shatter the moment.
James sits in a wide rocking chair near the windows, the morning light spilling over him in quiet bands of gold. His head is tipped back slightly, eyes closed, exhaustion etched deep into the lines of his face. His hair is loose, falling around his shoulders, beard rough and untrimmed, like he hasn’t thought about appearance in days.
Julian is asleep on his chest, tucked against him like he belongs there—impossibly small and perfect, his tiny fist curled into the fabric of James’s shirt. His face is relaxed, mouth parted slightly, the steady rise and fall of his breathing unmistakable.
He’s safe.The realization hits me so hard my knees almost give out. They look… right, and that thought terrifies me almost as much as it soothes me.
The rocking chair creaks again, a soft, rhythmic sound that anchors me.
James is holding Julian like it’s instinctive. One arm is wrapped securely around his back, broad hand spanning almost the entire width of my son’s body, the other resting protectively over his legs. James’s chest rises and falls beneath him, steady and grounding—the kind of calm you don’t fake.
I close the remaining distance in three quiet steps, my hands already reaching out before my mind can catch up. My fingers brush Julian’s blanket, and James’s eyes open.
They lock onto me immediately, sharp even through the haze of exhaustion. I freeze like I’ve been caught doing something wrong. His grip on Julian tightens by a fraction—protective without being aggressive.
“Don’t,” he murmurs, voice low, rough with sleep. “He just settled.”
I swallow hard, nodding quickly, pulling my hands back to my chest. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to—“
“He’s been fussy,” he continues quietly, rocking the chair again, slower this time. “Took a while to calm him down.”
“How long have you been holding him?” I ask, my voice coming out barely above a breath.
“Long enough. He wouldn’t let me put him down. He cried each time I did.”
His answer makes something inside my chest fracture. I wrap my arms around myself to ground me to this moment. James studies my face for a long moment, his gaze unreadable, then shifts his attention back to Julian.
His voice softens when he speaks again. “You’re safe here, so why don’t you take a hot shower to warm up. You got pretty soaked yesterday.”
“Okay.” I nod again, because arguing feels impossible. “And then what?”
James’s jaw tightens just slightly. “Then we talk.”
I hesitate, torn between my instincts and his calm certainty. Every part of me wants to stay right here, to sit on the floor and watch them breathe until I’m sure this isn’t a dream, but Julian is safe, and James—dangerous, silent, infuriating James—is not pushing me away. He’s anchoring us instead.
I step back slowly, giving them space. “Okay. I’ll be quick.”
“Take your time. We’re not going anywhere,” he replies, his hold on Julian tightening even more.
I turn around slowly and go back the same way I came. Only now do I realize that that’s the most James has ever said to me.So he can talk in full sentences and not monosyllables?
Every step I take echoes softly against polished concrete floors, unlike the creaky familiarity of my apartment back home. This place doesn’t apologize for existing. It stands exactly as it is—strong, angular, and unapologetically solid.It suits him.
Steel beams frame the open space, intersecting with reinforced glass that stretches from floor to ceiling, offering uninterrupted views of the mountains beyond. The storm has passed, leaving the world washed clean, mist curling lazily through the trees. Everything outside feels vast and untouched, wild in a way that mirrors the man who built this place.
This isn’t just a house—it’s a stronghold.
I pass a long wooden table scarred with use, not decorative but functional. A weapons rack mounted discreetly along one wall, bookshelves stocked with field manuals, maps, and a surprising number of hardbound novels, their spines worn and familiar. There’s nothing unnecessary here, nothing placed without intention. Even the furniture feels grounded—heavy enough that it won’t move unless you want it to.
The hallway opens up toward a bank of windows, and I stop short. Outside, cinnamon trees grow in a loose ring around the house. Not decorative landscaping, but real trees. Their barks are darkened by rain, leaves glossy and fragrant, the scent unmistakable now that I know what I’m looking for. No wonder James always smelled like cinnamon. It wasn’t cologne or coincidence. It was home.
