35. Rowan
ROWAN
Asister is the first witness.
She knows the original version of you—before the world teaches you how to hide, before you learn which parts of yourself are too much or not enough. She remembers your name when it was still spoken with love instead of urgency.
A sister is shared history carried two different ways.
You live in the small house and suffer the same losses, yet you carry different scars.
She understands the shorthand of your pain without needing explanations.
In the way your eyes meet hers. In the way you inhale, then exhale.
The way her silence lingers without her having to say I feel you.
She won’t always be gentle. She’ll bruise you with her truth, and she refuses to let you disappear quietly.
A sister is where you go when you’re tired of being brave. Not to be fixed, but somewhere you can rest for a while.
And when she’s gone, she doesn’t really leave. She becomes the ache in every quiet room. The ghost beside you when something good happens and there’s no one left to witness it. The reminder that once, you weren’t alone.
Watching Lily and Bethany together, I remember that feeling. What it was like to have someone who knew me before survival hardened my edges. And God—I miss her.
If I’m being honest, Lily Snow leaves me a little stunned.
Ever since Bethany told me her story, I’ve been building a version of her in my head—brave, tragic, untouchable. But even that careful construction doesn’t come close to the woman standing in front of me now.
She’s softer than I expected. Fragile in the way porcelain is fragile: valuable, deliberate, impossible to fake. There’s a composure to her that doesn’t ask for attention and doesn’t borrow strength from anyone else. She simply is.
She’s intelligent in the quiet way that doesn’t need to prove itself. Beautiful without trying. Ethereal in a way that feels almost out of place in the world as it exists now—too sharp, too loud, too careless.
And then there’s the way she and Titan move around each other.
No touching. No declarations. Just an invisible current that pulls tight whenever they’re in the same room. An understanding that doesn’t need language. Whatever they’ve survived together, it’s carved into both of them.
I don’t need Bethany to explain it to me. I already know that some bonds don’t announce themselves. They hum.
“So… you and Justin, huh?”
Lily’s voice is gentle when she asks it. Bethany has just stepped out to take a call, leaving the room quieter, smaller somehow. Lily leans back against the table, arms folded loosely, a faint, uncertain smile touching her mouth.
I turn toward her too quickly, heat rushing to my face. Embarrassment hits first, sharp and immediate. I didn’t think it was obvious. I didn’t think anyone knew.
I open my mouth, unsure whether to deny it, confirm it, or ask how she could possibly tell. She answers before I can.
“It’s obvious,” she says simply. “From the way he was looking at you earlier.”
A hard knot forms deep in my gut.
“How was he looking at me?” I ask, and before I can stop myself, my gaze drops to my own body, as if the answer might be written there. As if I could see myself the way he does.
Lily lets out a soft laugh—not mocking or amused, but warm, knowing.
“Like you matter.”
That stills me.
“I’m glad,” she continues, her voice steady now. “I’m glad to see him happy. He deserves that.” Her eyes meet mine, open and sincere. “And I think you’ll be good for each other.”
The breath leaves my lungs in one long exhale. Only then do I realize I’d been holding it—waiting, without admitting it to myself, for approval I didn’t know I wanted.
These are his people. His family. The ones who know the worst of him and love him anyway. Of course they’d be watching me. Measuring me. Making sure he’s safe too.
And in that moment, standing across from Lily Snow, I understand something I didn’t expect to.
This isn’t just about Justin and me.
It’s about being welcomed into something that survived fire and loss and still chose to stand together. About being seen not as a risk, but as a possibility.
For the first time since everything began to unravel, I don’t feel like I’m standing on the outside of his world, trying to prove I belong. I feel like I’ve been quietly let in.
“He’s a special man,” I say softly.
I don’t mean to whisper it. I don’t mean for the words to tremble the way they do. But they slip out of me anyway, unguarded, like a truth I haven’t practiced saying aloud.
Lily doesn’t look surprised. She studies me for a moment, the way people do when they’re weighing sincerity rather than flattery.
“He is,” she agrees. “And men like Justin don’t gravitate toward just anyone.” Her gaze sharpens, warm but perceptive. “Someone has to meet him where he stands.”
The compliment lands heavier than I expect.
It’s not pride that wells up in my chest. It’s humility. The uncomfortable awareness of being seen—by someone who knows him deeply, who has watched him fracture and rebuild himself. I swallow, my throat tightening, and for a moment I think I might cry.
So I pivot.
“How long are you staying?” I ask, steering the conversation toward safer ground. Toward her.
Lily glances away, her attention drifting toward the tall windows and the soft spill of light across the church floor. There’s something distant in her expression, like she’s listening to echoes only she can hear.
“We’re not sure yet. A few weeks, at least.” She pauses. “I needed somewhere familiar.”
I nod. I understand that need more than I want to admit.
The door swings open then, and Bethany bursts back into the room with the kind of energy only she can summon.
“No more wandering the earth with the pixie fairies?” she asks brightly.
Lily laughs, the sound soft and genuine. “I might be a little tired of always being in motion. Sometimes I think I just want to settle down. Stay in one place long enough to feel the ground beneath my feet.”
Bethany doesn’t hesitate. She steps in and slings an arm around Lily’s shoulders, squeezing her close. “You know I’d love to have you nearby.” Then she turns to me, her smile widening. “And Rowan’s interested in VOC. So I think the three of us are going to have our hands full running this place.”
Something loosens inside my chest at that.
I didn’t expect to feel included so easily. Or welcomed. These women don’t know the full scope of me—not the sharp edges, not the choices I’ve made. And yet, standing here with them, I don’t feel like an outsider. I feel like someone who belongs.
Lily meets my gaze again, her expression thoughtful.
“You’d be good at this,” I imagine. “Helping people. Listening.”
I think of the girl I used to be. The one who needed someone to step in before grief calcified into something harder. I think of how different my life might have been if a place like this had existed for me.
“Maybe,” I muse. “Or maybe I just don’t want anyone else to feel as alone as I once did.”
Lily’s eyes soften. “That’s usually how it starts.”
Bethany checks her phone, already slipping into logistics, talking about schedules and paperwork and how much coffee we’re all going to need. I listen, but my attention drifts.
I think about Justin. About the way he watches the room even when he’s standing still. About how carefully he holds space for me without trying to cage me inside it.
I think about Lily—about survival, about love that doesn’t demand erasure, about choosing to stay.
And for the first time in a long while, the future doesn’t feel like something I have to outrun.
It feels like something I might finally step toward. Not alone or afraid of my own shadow. But rooted—here, in the quiet aftermath, where something new is beginning to take shape.