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Chapter Thirty-Three

MYA

Two weeks later

The late evening sun filters through the curtains like it’s trying to pretend the last two weeks weren’t soaked in stress and heartbreak. But even the light feels different today—softer somehow. Gentler.

Reese is finally home.

I say the words again in my head just to be sure they’re real. Reese is home. She’s okay. She’s resting. She’s healing. And even if Thorin is leaving today, even if he’s not okay, at least we all got a tiny piece of her back.

I pull the blanket higher over her lap as she settles against the pillows. She’s pale but not ghost-like anymore, and her eyes aren’t glassy with pain or medication. She looks like her again. Raw and fragile, sure, but whole.

“You need anything before I head downstairs?” I ask, smoothing my hand over her comforter. My voice is soft, but my heart’s still racing. Every time I leave the room, I check her breathing at least twice.

Reese shakes her head. “Just tell Thorin not to cry on me. I’m too tired to mop up his man tears.”

My laugh is wet with emotion. “He’s going to be a wreck.”

“I know,” she whispers, eyes shimmering. “But I’ll be okay.”

I nod, and even though my legs are reluctant, I leave her bedroom with a quiet click of the door.

Downstairs, the kitchen is buzzing. But not in a bad way. It’s the kind of buzzing that hums under your skin and makes you want to smile without knowing why.

Benji’s perched on the counter, stuffing his face with a banana muffin. Carson is pacing the living room with a coffee like he’s trying to walk off the nerves, and Eli is in his booster seat, smearing mashed banana on his tray with the innocent focus of a toddler who doesn’t know the world’s about to shift again.

And then there’s Fletch.

He’s holding Kody, cradled like a football against his chest, and rocking slightly as he whispers something to him. His other hand rests gently on Kingston’s back, who’s snoozing in the wrap across Fletch’s chest like he owns the place.

My chest pinches, full to bursting.

Fletch looks up and spots me, his whole face softening as our eyes meet.

“She okay?” he murmurs.

I nod. “She’s okay.”

“Good.” He leans down and kisses Kingston’s forehead, then shifts his weight to one side. “They’re fed and freshly changed. Reese’s dad is grabbing more formula from the store just in case. And Alex called. He’s getting the final routing done for the tour bus.”

“Is Thorin packed?”

Fletch nods, but his expression clouds. “He’s upstairs with her now.”

There’s a moment. One of those heavy, breathless pauses where it feels like the whole world stops spinning, just to let the grief catch up to the joy.

I step into the kitchen and lean against the counter, watching Benji and Carson trade nervous glances. There’s a current running under all of this—a buzzing wire of excitement threaded through with guilt and worry. But it’s there. Alive and thrumming.

The tour starts tomorrow.

Three sold-out shows in New York. Madison Square Garden. Their first since Reese nearly died. Their first since everything changed.

And somehow, despite the weight of what we’ve all been through, there’s still this steady undercurrent of belief.

We’re still doing this.

We’re still standing.