I know she needs this… light, noise, normal things that don’t smell like blood and concrete. I can tell she wants to think about anything other than what happened. But the second she said “market,” my brain went straight to crowds big enough to hide someone who shouldn’t be there.
Which is new. I used to like crowds, now I count them.
“Relax,” Aurora says beside me, as if I’m the one making this weird. As if she’s not on edge as well. “You’re acting like I dragged you here against your will. All I said was I needed a break, and some time to see my friends…”
I glance around at the aggressively wholesome insanity of Coyote Glen’s weekly market. Fresh flowers. Handmade candles. A man selling honey as a personality trait.
“I just think,” I say carefully, trying to make this more lighthearted than it is, “that if anyone from my past could see me right now, buying organic jam and discussing sourdoughstarters, they’d assume I’ve been replaced by a more emotionally stable clone.”
She smiles, that soft, almost distracted curve of her mouth that’s been happening more lately. Part of her is here, and part of her is still… catching up to everything.
“I like this version of you,” she says.
“Yeah?” I shrug, aiming for casual. “He’s got range. Very versatile. Can punch a guy and pick out artisan cheese in the same hour.”
“Multitalented,” she agrees.
I nudge her shoulder lightly with mine as we walk, just enough to remind myself she’s here. She’s okay.
That’s been a thing lately.
Checking.
Counting.
Still here?
Still breathing?
Cool. Great. Carry on.
She glances over her shoulder once, quick and subtle, but I see it. Then she squares her shoulders like she’s decided something and keeps walking anyway.
The market’s busy, full of the kind of noise that’s supposed to feel safe. Kids running around with sticky hands. Couples arguing about tomatoes. Someone playing acoustic guitar as if we’re all in a low-budget indie film.
Aurora spots them before I do. “Hey!”
She hesitates for half a second first, just long enough to glance over her shoulder, like she’s checking something she doesn’t want to name, then she moves.
I watch her cross the space toward Ivy and the rest of them, her whole energy changing. Lighter. Brighter.
It’s not gone, though, the awareness. It’s just… quieter.
This version of her, the one who laughs without checking exits first, is still in there.
I hang back a little.
Ivy clocks me immediately.
She squints as if I’m a puzzle she intends to solve with violence if necessary. “You’re hovering.”
“I’m supervising,” I correct.
“Same thing.”
Olivia smiles at me as she rubs her swollen belly. “You came.”
“I was summoned,” I say. “Apparently, my presence was required for emotional support and snack carrying.”
