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“Hey,” I say quietly, hovering near the door.

My dad looks up from where he’s setting down their suitcase. “Hey, baby.”

“Room okay?”

“It’s perfect,” my mom says.

It’s strange hearing her voice now that it’s no longer barbed with judgment or stiff with distance. It’s still precise, still clipped around the vowels, but there’s something softer in it tonight. Something a little unraveled.

“Reese did all this?” she asks.

I nod. “Yeah. She wanted you to be comfortable.”

“She always was thoughtful.”

There’s a silence that follows—not awkward, just…ripe.

Like an unspoken moment waiting to bloom.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” I admit, stepping farther into the room. The air feels different here—thicker, heavier, filled with ghosts and grace and everything in between.

“We weren’t either,” my mom says honestly, standing now. “But then your dad looked at me and said, ‘It’s Christmas. And our daughter’s alive.’” She looks down. “And I guess for once, I didn’t have a good enough excuse not to show up.”

The ache in my chest is slow and searing. “I’m glad you did.”

She exhales shakily. “So am I.”

And just like that, the walls between us shift—not crumbling entirely, but cracking just enough to let the light in.

We spend the next half-hour sitting on the edge of the bed, talking. Nothing earth-shattering. Nothing groundbreaking. Just…talking.

My dad tells a story about the time I used to line up all my stuffed animals in front of the TV so they could watch Blue’s Clues. My mom confesses she used to check my Instagram every morning when I stopped returning her calls, just to make sure I was still smiling.

And me?

I listen.

I let the words fill in the gaps we’ve left behind.

Eventually, Reese peeks her head in and gives me the softest smile. “Everything good in here?”

I nod.

And for once, I mean it.

Chapter Twenty-Four

FLETCH

We walk back to the cottage in silence, our steps slow, like the weight of the day has soaked into our skin and made everything heavier.

Mya’s tucked into her coat, arms wrapped around her midsection like she’s cradling the ache she won’t say out loud. The gravel crunches beneath our boots, the cold air sharp enough to slice through the quiet, but neither of us breaks it. Not yet.

The lights from the main house fade behind us as we round the oak tree that splits the path—our little fork in the road. The cottage is warm and glowing when we reach it, the porch light buzzing like it’s trying to hum a lullaby.

I open the door for her, letting her walk in first. She doesn’t say anything, just shrugs off her coat and toes off her boots, like she’s done it a thousand times. Like she’s still trying to remember how to make this feel like home.

I linger near the doorway, watching her. She’s slower tonight. Fragile in a way she’s trying to hide, but I know her tells—the way her hand presses a little firmer over her stomach, the way her jaw tightens when she thinks no one’s looking. The way she’s not meeting my eyes.