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She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she looks at me—really looks at me. And I know the second she steps out of this moment and back into the dream. Into the world she built while her body was fighting to stay here.

“I remember the nursery,” she whispers, her voice barely louder than breath. “From the dream.”

I nod slowly, unsure if I’m supposed to say something, or just listen.

“Warm olive-green walls,” she says, eyes distant, like she’s pulling the memory out thread by thread. “Not minty or neon. Just…calm. Like a forest in spring.”

She swallows hard.

“There were these little decals in the corners—foxes and deer and wide-eyed owls. Like a whole woodland crew just waiting to meet the boys. And the cribs—two of them. Cherrywood. Deep, dark, heavy like they’d been carved from old trees with history in their bones. They sat under this wide bay window, side by side like teammates in a tiny war.”

My heart kicks hard behind my ribs. Because I see it now. Her dream. Her version. Her piece of forever that was never just a fantasy.

“And between them,” she adds, blinking fast like it’ll stop the tears, “was a matching dresser. Changing table, actually. Looked like a referee between two mini tornadoes. And I remember thinking… that it was perfect. Not fancy. Not complicated. Just perfect.”

I swallow the lump rising in my throat.

“Then that’s what we’ll build,” I say, and my voice sounds like it’s been dragged over gravel. “Exactly that.”

She looks up at me, like maybe she didn’t expect me to say yes. Not so easily. Not so fast.

But how could I not?

If she dreamed a world where she was safe and they were ours, I’m gonna do everything I can to make sure the real one lives up to it. Even if it breaks me in the process.

“Okay,” she breathes, and it’s not just a word—it’s a promise. A beginning. A thread between then and now.

And when I lean over and press my lips to the top of her head, I swear I can feel something settle. Like we’re finally standing on solid ground.

Together.

Chapter Nineteen

MYA

When Fletch leans over and presses his lips to the top of my head, I swear I feel something settle. Like gravity finally remembered where I live.

“I’ve been sleeping in the guest room,” he murmurs, his voice close and low. “Felt wrong being in there without you.”

I tilt my head up. His eyes are soft. Tired. Still a little haunted.

“I didn’t want to mess with any of your stuff,” he adds. “I just… kept it clean. Made the bed. Waited.”

That’s the thing about Fletch. Even when he’s broken, he still finds a way to hold space for other people.

He helps me down the hall slowly, one hand on my lower back like I’m made of spun glass. And maybe I am right now—delicate, unsteady, a breath away from unraveling. But the master bedroom looks exactly the way I left it. Only cleaner. Warmer. Like someone’s been waiting for it to come alive again.

The duvet’s pulled tight, pillows fluffed. The air smells like lemon polish and lavender laundry spray. The curtains are half-drawn, letting in buttery mid-morning light that spills across the bed in long, sleepy stripes.

Fletch guides me toward the mattress like it’s sacred ground. And maybe it is—this space where I last felt whole.

“Doctor said to take it easy,” he says, helping me down. “So… rest. I’ll bring you some tea.”

He brushes the hair from my face and kisses my forehead like it’s instinct. Like he’s been doing it in his sleep every night for the last three months.

I want to tell him I missed this. Missed him. But the words are stuck somewhere between my throat and the heavy beat of my heart.

The moment he slips out of the room, I sink back into the pillows. The sheets are fresh, cool against my skin, and still faintly smell like the detergent we both agreed was “the good kind”—clean but not chemically, just enough to feel like home.