Page 174
Behind us, I hear the soft thud of Reese colliding with Thorin, the rustle of his hoodie as he wraps her up, the way she sobs his name like it’s the only word that ever mattered.
No one says anything.
Because nothing needs to be said.
That night, we sit on the porch. All four of us. No stage. No spotlights. No one filming. Just the glow of the string lights overhead and the soft creak of old wood beneath our feet.
There’s a guitar leaning against the railing, untouched.
Thorin’s hand rests on Reese’s knee. Fletch has an arm draped across my shoulders, head heavy against mine like he needs this stillness as much as I do.
We talk a little. Not much. Just enough to let the silence stretch in all the right places.
There’s laughter. A few tears.
But mostly there’s this—
Presence.
And it’s enough.
Love doesn’t fix grief. It doesn’t erase the ache or tie up the loose ends.
But it makes space.
And here, on this porch, under this sky, surrounded by the people who know the sharpest parts of me and stayed anyway—
That’s more than enough.
By the time the sun disappears behind the treeline, the house smells like rosemary chicken, garlic bread, and whatever magic Maggie does with roasted carrots that makes grown men go quiet with reverence.
She shoos us out of the kitchen when we try to help, mumbling something about too many hands and not enough patience, but the look in her eyes says something else—something soft and maternal and a little smug, like let me feed you, you’re mine now.
The table is already set by the time we wander in, still wrapped in that post-porch haze. The babies are down for the night, miracle of miracles, and everything feels a little more settled now that Thorin and Fletch are back under this roof.
Dinner is warm. Easy. The kind of comfort that seeps into your bones before you even realize how empty you were.
Maggie keeps the conversation light. Even Reese cracks a real laugh, her eyes softening every time Thorin looks at her like he’s still making sure she’s real.
Fletch loads up his second helping while shaking his head. “Honestly, I’d kill for a plate like this on the road. All we do is live off gas station snacks and backstage charcuterie boards.”
“Don’t forget the sad bagels,” Thorin adds, stabbing a carrot with more emotion than strictly necessary. “Why are they always cold? And weirdly wet?”
Reese smirks around the rim of her water glass. “You’d think after MSG and Philly, they’d at least spring for warm carbs.”
Thorin leans back in his chair, hand absently brushing hers under the table. “The shows are good,” he says, softer now. “Better than good, actually. But the back and forth’s getting to me. This constant whiplash between chaos and quiet… it’s a lot.”
Fletch nods, chewing slowly. “Yeah. You think you’re adjusting, and then boom—new city, new venue, new crisis. Then you come home and your brain can’t catch up fast enough to remember how to breathe.”
My hand finds his on the table, fingers lacing through his without thinking.
“Still,” I say gently, “I’m so damn grateful that you can come home. Even if it’s just for a breath. Just for a night.” I glance between them—Reese, Thorin, Fletch—and my chest swells with something that feels a little like awe. “I know not everyone gets that. A place to land. People to land with.”
Reese’s smile falters for a second, but she nods, squeezing Thorin’s knee under the table.
Fletch lifts our joined hands to his lips and kisses my knuckles like he’s remembering how they fit there. Like he’s remembering me.
Thorin exhales. “It’s not easy.”
