Mikel slows the SUV as we reach the curb, the tires crunching lightly over the thin line of gravel along the edge of the road. My chest pulls tight inside my ribs as the house comes into view.
It sits exactly the way it always has. Pale yellow siding, white trim, modest and unchanged, like the last week never reached this street. The blue ceramic planter still rests near the front steps, though the soil inside it is dark and empty now, thesummer flowers long gone. The narrow porch stretches across the front of the house, where my mother used to sit in the evenings shelling peas while Ethan and I ran through the yard until the porch light went on.
The windows are closed against the cold, but I can still see the curtains stirring softly behind the glass. Warm light fills the kitchen window, and I picture exactly what is happening inside without needing to see it. My mother is moving between the stove and the counter. Ethan is leaning against the sink, pretending he isn’t hungry. Lunch is already on the table because feeding people is what she does when she’s worried.
The image lingers in my chest with a quiet ache.
Mikel puts the SUV into park, and the engine quiets. Kiren sits beside me in the back seat, one arm resting along the door, his presence solid without crowding me. He doesn’t rush the moment or reach for me. He waits, watching my face with calmly, giving me the space to decide when I’m ready to move.
I open the door before I can think too hard about it and step out into the cold afternoon air. The chill bites through my coat immediately. Gravel crunches under my shoes as the door closes behind me. My pulse kicks harder with each step toward the house.
The front door opens before I reach it. My mother comes out so fast that the screen door bangs against the frame behind her. She doesn’t pause on the porch or call my name from a safe distance. She hurries down the steps in boots and a soft green blouse with a thick cardigan thrown over it, her eyes already wet, one hand pressed flat to her chest like she’s been holding herself together all morning and has finally given up the effort.
“Rowan.”
The sound of my name in her voice breaks the last thin layer of composure I’ve been standing behind. I meet her halfway, and then she’s there, wrapping both arms around me with more strength than her small frame should allow. I fold into her, my forehead pressing against her shoulder, breathing in flour, perfume, and the faint clean scent of laundry detergent.Home.That’s what she smells like. Home, safety, and every ordinary thing I spent the last week pretending I could live without.
Her arms tighten around me again as if she needs proof I’m here.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she breathes into my hair. “Oh, thank God.”
My eyes burn. I grip the back of her cardigan and hold on. I feel her shoulders lift and fall against me, and I know she’s trying not to cry even after everything.
“I’m okay,” I whisper, though I hear the rough edge in my own voice.
“I know. I know you are.” She pulls back just enough to cup my face in both hands, looking carefully at the healing bruises, the fading marks, the places where my skin still carries the week on it. Her mouth trembles before she gets it under control. “I knew you were safe. Ethan told me. And then you called. But seeing you is different.”
I give a small nod because I understand exactly what she means.
Behind her, Ethan appears in the doorway, broader than the frame, one arm still secured in a sling across his chest. The sight of him knocks the air out of me all over again. The bruising near his collarbone has gone from angry purple to a dull yellow-greenat the edges, and he’s trying very hard to stand, as if none of it hurts. He fails.
His eyes move over me once, from my face to my shoulders to my stomach and back again, doing his own silent inventory.
“You look better,” he remarks.
“You look terrible,” I return.
His mouth curves into a smile. “Nice to see you too, Ro.”
I step around Mom and go straight to him. He catches me one-handed and pulls me in carefully against his good side, keeping the injured shoulder away. The hug is awkward because of the sling and because Ethan has never done anything halfway in his life, including pretending he isn’t emotional. He clears his throat against my hair and pats my back once, rough and fast.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he mutters.
“I know.”
He leans back and keeps his hand on my shoulder for a second, his eyes searching my face in that blunt, unpolished way he has. No diplomacy. No attempt to hide what he’s checking for. He wants to know if I’m eating, sleeping, functioning, or lying.
“You really okay?” he asks.
I nod. “I’m okay.”
My mother has already turned toward Kiren, who now stands at the foot of the steps, giving us enough distance that this moment remains ours. He looks large in the narrow front yard, all dark clothes and quiet stillness against my mother’s dormant flower beds and the white porch rail. The contrast is almost absurd. He belongs in glass offices, guarded buildings, and rooms whereeveryone pays attention when he enters. He doesn’t belong beneath the empty hook where my mother hangs a fern every summer, the chain swaying lightly in the cold breeze.
And yet he’s the reason I’m standing here.
Mom moves toward him with the same sincerity she brings to everything. “Thank you for bringing her home.”
Kiren inclines his head. “Of course.”
