38. Rowan
ROWAN
Ikeep waiting for the other shoe to drop.
For something to snap me awake and remind me that this—all of this—isn’t real. That I don’t belong here. That safety is borrowed and temporary and always comes with a cost.
But morning comes gently instead. Light slips through floor-to-ceiling windows, pale and unhurried.
The city is already awake somewhere far below us, but up here it feels muted, distant.
I wake tangled in Justin’s sheets, in Justin’s arms, pressed so close to him I don’t know where I end and he begins.
I don’t pull away. Because there’s no need to. Here in his arms is my happy, safe place.
That’s when I realize it’s been days—actual days—since I’ve thought about the past with any urgency. The images haven’t clawed at me. The anger hasn’t demanded my attention. The sharp, relentless need for retribution has dulled, not vanished, but softened around the edges.
For the first time in a long while, my pain isn’t driving the car.
Something else is. Something quieter, warmer. Less violent.
Being surrounded by these people—people I expected to overwhelm me, intimidate me, expose me—has done the opposite. It’s grounded me. Shown me a version of living that doesn’t revolve around survival or strategy.
Maybe this is what rebuilding actually looks like.
Not fixing what’s broken.
But letting something new grow around it.
I’m perched at the kitchen island now, knees tucked in close, a mug warming my hands. Bethany sits beside me, scrolling furiously through her phone, already convinced we’re going to need backup pastries once the men inevitably ruin breakfast.
Lily, on the other hand, looks delighted.
Justin and Titan are in the kitchen—actually in it—shoulders nearly bumping as they move around each other with easy familiarity. There’s batter on the counter. Flour on Titan’s sleeve. The smell of pancakes and waffles fills the air, rich and comforting and absurdly domestic.
Lily claps her hands softly, like a child watching magic unfold.
“I love this part,” she squeals with excitement. “The anticipation.”
Bethany snorts. “You say that every time, and every time you’re convinced we’re not about to starve to death.”
“Faith,” Lily replies solemnly. “I have faith.”
I watch them all from my seat, something warm spreading through my chest. The ease. The laughter. The way no one is performing or posturing or watching me like I’m something fragile that might shatter if handled wrong.
These are my people.
The realization lands quietly—but firmly.
Justin turns, reaching for a spatula, and catches my eye. He pauses just long enough to wink at me, a flash of humor and confidence that feels almost surreal compared to the man I first met.
This Justin is relaxed. Grounded. Lighter.
And the sight of him like this—barefoot, focused on breakfast, stealing glances at me—does something dangerously tender to my heart.
Somewhere in the penthouse, a phone rings.
The sound slices through the moment cleanly.
Both men still, instinctively listening. Titan’s head tilts slightly. Justin’s shoulders tense.
“That’s my phone,” Justin says, already reaching for a towel to wipe his hands.
“I’ll get it for you.”
I slide off the stool before he can stop me. I retrieve the phone from the bedroom and carry it back toward him just as it stops ringing—only to start up again the second I place it in his hand.
His brow furrows when he sees the name on the screen.
“Silas,” he speaks into the phone, already moving out of the kitchen.
Titan’s gaze flicks up briefly, sharp and assessing, tracking Justin’s exit. Then—just as quickly—he turns back to the bowl and resumes whisking the batter like nothing has changed.
I register the control in that. The discipline. Titan Ward does not broadcast concern. He contains it.
Whatever that call is, it matters. But panic helps no one.
“So,” Titan says lightly, breaking the silence as he reaches for the pan, “Lily Bird.”
Lily perks up instantly.
“Strawberries or bananas today?”
“Ooh,” Lily claps again, bouncing slightly on her stool. “Both? Pretty please?”
Titan shakes his head like he’s long-suffering, but the corner of his mouth lifts as he reaches for the fruit.
Bethany leans toward me, lowering her voice. “See? Absolute domestic chaos. You’ll get used to it.”
I smile into my mug.
Because for the first time in longer than I can remember, the chaos doesn’t scare me.
It feels like belonging.
And as the sound of batter hitting hot metal fills the kitchen, I allow myself—just for this moment—to believe that this might be the beginning of something steady. Something good that I don’t have to fight for.
It turns out there’s no need for Bethany’s emergency pastry run after all.
The food is… good. Really good. Golden waffles stacked high, pancakes soft and warm, fruit cut with care instead of dumped on a plate as an afterthought. Everyone eats. Everyone goes quiet in that way people do when they’re content and a little surprised by it.
I hadn’t realized how much I needed this—simple fullness, shared space, no sharp edges.
Justin comes back into the kitchen partway through, and I notice it immediately. The way his mouth is pressed into a thin line. The way his shoulders hold tension he didn’t have ten minutes ago.
Whatever that phone call was, it mattered.
But then his eyes meet Titan’s.
And something shifts.
It’s subtle—so subtle I might’ve missed it if I hadn’t been watching him so closely. A look passes between them. Titan’s steady calm seems to bleed into Justin, grounding him, reminding him of something unspoken but understood.
Justin exhales. The tightness leaves his jaw. He steps back into the kitchen like he never left, picks up the spatula, flips a pancake with practiced ease.
Like everything is under control.
“We good?” Titan asks quietly, his tone casual, almost lazy, as if he’s asking about the weather. The girls—Bethany and Lily—are busy laughing over something to notice the shift between the men, but I’m all ears.
“Silas is on his way over,” Justin replies.
It’s a name I’ve heard before, though I’ve never met the man.
Titan nods once, accepting the information without reaction.
“Then let’s eat,” he says, setting two more plates on the counter. “Shall we?”
Titan slides his plate toward Lily.
She looks up at him, genuinely surprised, and delighted, with a second stack of pancakes. Then her whole face softens, lighting up in a way that feels almost private.
She looks at him like he is everything. Like the world begins and ends wherever he’s standing. Sun, moon, gravity—every fixed point she’s ever needed.
“Eat, baby,” he says softly.
I feel like I’ve accidentally wandered into something sacred.
The space between them hums. They don’t touch, but they don’t need to, because their eyes do all the talking. Their hands seem to know exactly where the other is, even when they’re not reaching.
Watching them is like witnessing a language I don’t speak but somehow understand. Every glance is loaded. Every pause weighted. Time itself seems to suspend when their hands finally meet—just for a second—before they pull apart again, business as usual.
It’s beautiful. And a little unbearable. Not because it makes me feel left out. But because it shows me what’s possible.
I glance at Justin then—really look at him—at the way he moves through this space with quiet authority, at how easily he belongs here, how naturally he steps into care and leadership and calm. The way he didn’t let that phone call fracture the moment. The way he chose presence instead.
Something settles inside me. For so long, I’ve lived in anticipation of impact. Waiting for the interruption. The disaster. The inevitable fall. But this morning—this kitchen, this food, these people—feels solid.
Not perfect, but close. And for the first time in a very long time, I don’t feel like I’m preparing for what comes next. I feel like I’m allowed to stay right here in this beautiful moment.
Sitting at the kitchen counter. Among laughter, and people who choose steadiness over fear. Even knowing that Silas is on his way. Even knowing that things could turn in a minute. For now, this is enough. And I let myself have that.