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Iinhaled deeply as the scent of freshly cut grass billowed in through the open window from where I stood. One hand held the telephone to my ear while the other clutched the small heart pendant resting against my throat, my thumb rubbing absent circles over the worn metal. “I’ve been sleeping better,” I said into the phone, eyes still tracking Jackson through the glass as he turned at the end of the yard. “Not perfect. But better.”

“Nightmares?” Dr. Gene asked.

“They still happen,” I said. “But they don’t…take over the whole night anymore.” I kept my eyes on Jackson. He was outside mowing the lawn. Just…mowing the lawn…without a shirt on, in tiny athletic shorts. No big deal. Especially not when he paused at the end of a row and leaned on the mower, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm, and then very casually tipped a bottle of water over his head, that ran down his tattooed shoulders in clean lines, catching the sunlight. He shook his head once, droplets scattering everywhere, completely unbothered.

“Jackson is mowing the lawn,” I added, because it still felt like something worth reporting. Like it shouldn’t be real enough to be normal. Dr. Gene hummed softly, like she understood exactly what I meant without needing me to explain it.

“And how does that feel for you right now?” she asked.

I watched him push the mower forward again, sunlight catching the movement of his arms. My throat tightened a little—not with fear this time, but with something harder to name. “I used to think I’d never be able to see something like this without waiting for it to disappear,” I admitted quietly. “But now I just…sit with it.”

The mower slowed as he adjusted something, then started again.

It was ordinary.

Unremarkable.

But…safe.

“I still get scared sometimes,” I said honestly. “It’s like my brain forgets I’m allowed to have this peace and quiet.” Jackson glanced up, not searching for anything in particular just…habit. He gazed up at the window and I lifted my hand in a little wave. He smiled and lifted two fingers to his lips, pressing them there briefly before he flicked them outward, sending a small, quiet kiss toward the window. I pretended to catch it, and he shook his head with a grin before he turned back to the lawn like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“I think I’m starting to understand that not everything is temporary anymore,” I murmured. “That’s the part I don’t know how to trust yet.”

“That makes a lot of sense,” she said. “After what you’ve experienced, permanence can feel…unfamiliar. Even when it’s good.”

“I kept waiting for it to change,” I admitted quietly. “Like something’s going to interrupt it. Like…I’m going to wake up or turn around and it’ll all be… different again. And I’ll …be back there again. I mean—I know I’m safe,” I added after a moment. “I do know that, even if my body doesn’t always believe it yet, but…I’m starting to believe it might actually stay…like this,” I said finally, almost like I was testing the words.

The mower outside hummed steadily again, a familiar rhythm now instead of something my body reacted to before my mind could catch up. But it wasn't easy getting to this point.

After I was discharged from the hospital, I was too afraid to move back home because the house was too close to Wayne’s farm. So Peter and I agreed that it was ideal that I stayed with Jackson in the city. It was hard at first, being away from my brother again. Well…at least the three weeks without him until he bought the house across the road from Jackson’s.

Then the healing began.

But it hasn't been easy—for either of us.

Jackson had a few panic attacks after some bad nightmares he couldn't wake up from, and I still struggled with sudden flashbacks. It’d be a quick flash image of Wayne’s face or…or Christopher’s. One second I was standing in the kitchen, and the next I was somewhere else entirely—back in that house, back under Wayne’s watchful eyes, back inside the version of myself that survived by staying small and quiet. And by the time I came back properly, my hands were always trembling.

“Hey.”

I blinked. Jackson was standing there holding two mugs of tea, concern already written across his face before I’d said a word. His eyes dropped briefly to my hands, then back to me. “Oh, Evie.” He set the mugs down immediately and walked toward me slowly, giving me enough time to pull away if I needed to. I didn’t. Because the second he reached me, I folded into him. Jackson’s arms wrapped around me instantly, warm and solid and careful all at once. “I’ve got you,” he murmured against my hair.

My breathing shook as I pressed my face into his chest. “I was there again,” I whispered, even though tears were already burning behind my eyes. His hand slid slowly up and down my back in a rhythm so familiar now, it felt stitched into me. “I hate him,” I admitted eventually, voice muffled against his shirt. “I hate that he can still get into my head.”

“But he doesn’t get you anymore,” he said softly, and a tear slipped free before I could stop it.

“It didn’t feel like that just then.”

“I know,” he murmured immediately. “But feelings lie sometimes, remember?” I let out a weak laugh at that, because it was something I’d once said to him after one of his panic attacks months ago. “C’mere,” he whispered before he guided me gently backward until the backs of my legs hit the couch. Then he sat down and pulled me into his lap, and my cheek settled against his shoulder as his hand threaded slowly through my hair.

“You know what I was thinking about before?” he murmured, and I shook my head against him.

“I was thinking about how lucky I am,” he said, voice low. “Because eight months ago, I thought I’d lost you forever again.” My chest tightened painfully as Jackson tilted his head slightly until I was forced to look at him. “And now you’re here,” he said softly, eyes searching mine. “In my lounge room, in my arms, wearing my hoodie, covered in my cat's hair, and complaining about my cooking skills every day.”

I laughed properly this time, small and shaky.

“There she is,” he whispered immediately, smiling like the sound meant everything to him as his thumb brushed beneath my eye, catching another tear before it could fall. “You wanna know my favourite part?” he asked.

“What?”