“Carina?”
I frown when she doesn't answer, walking through the space and toward the kitchen, then pause. There’s a glow through the back window. Not from an outdoor porch light, but from deeper in the yard.
Something’s different. Something’sthere.
I slide the door open and step outside barefoot. The grass is cool beneath my feet, and the night’s too still.
But then I see it. Nestled between the trees, just where the yard starts to blur into bush—the treehouse.
My treehouse.
Only it’s not just mine, it’s always been my family’s. First, that meant Harry and Adele. And now, hers. And—fuck, ours.
The boards are sanded clean, re-stained, and weatherproofed. The old railing I built with too many nails and too much pride is there, only reinforced now.
There’s ivy curling up from the base of freshly turned soil, coiling up the ladder and around the slats. I know that green—it’s from Harry’s garden. She must've transplanted some.
Warm and golden string lights wind around the support beams, casting soft halos onto the grass below.
I swallow a shudder as my chest cracks wide open.
“Hi.”
When I turn my head, she’s standing at the patio doors, her green cardigan hanging off her frame. Her hand on her belly, and my socks on her feet.
I turn fully, still outside, still stunned.
“You did this?” My voice is barely above a whisper.
She shrugs one shoulder. “You built it with him when you were nine, and he said you told him it was to be shared someday.” Her voice gentles. “Figured maybe you might wanna share it with me…” She pats her belly once. “With us.”
My throat burns, and I slowly step back toward her. And when I reach her, when I finally get close enough to touch her face, to cup her jaw and brush my thumb over her cheek, I whisper it.
“You keep doing this, Havoc.”
Her brow lifts. “Doing what?”
“Putting me back together.”
The silence breaks with my husky sob, and my arms pull her in tight as I bury my face in her neck, every breath jagged and raw.
Her hands are in my hair, running down my back, then under my shirt, holding me together as I fall apart.
I don’t know how long we stand there, wrapped in each other beneath the lights, but when I speak again, it’s as pure as the first time I told her.
“I love you.”
“I know.” She smiles, then pulls back enough to meet my eyes. “I love you, too.”
“I know.”
We don’t go inside right away; we drift to the edge of the grass and stand beneath the treehouse, the lights casting soft halos across the boards and ivy. We talk about Harry. And her dad. About grief that doesn’t go away, instead learning to live in the quiet.
And how love doesn’t disappear when someone does, it just changes shape.
We talk about our daughter, and I press my palm gently over her belly.
“She’s gonna grow up climbing that treehouse,” I murmur. “Getting splinters and scraped knees, thinking it’s the safest place in the world.”
