Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
MYA
W hen 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.
Minutes pass. Maybe longer. The weight of the world softens in stages.
Until the door creaks open again.
“Okay, I know I’m supposed to wait and let you rest,” Reese whispers like a hurricane trying to tiptoe. “But screw that.”
She doesn’t ask if she can come in. Just dives under the covers like we’re seventeen again and sneaking into each other’s dorm rooms between heartbreaks and history papers.
I laugh. A real, hoarse, still-healing kind of laugh.
“You’re impossible.”
“And you almost died,” she shoots back, leveling me with a look that could melt concrete. “You don’t get to be mad I couldn’t wait.”
She’s already reaching for my hand when she softens. “You look better.”
“I feel… like I got hit by a bus. But like, a luxury bus.”
Reese snorts. “You would almost die and still be dramatic.”
I glance over. “So? Tell me. What did I miss?”
Reese’s grin could split galaxies. “The band finished the album. Fletch powered through like a freaking machine. Alex postponed the tour till next year. Said it didn’t feel right without you.”
My heart tightens. “He did?”
“Yep. Said they’d rather wait than promote anything while we were all half-alive.”
She wriggles closer, her head propped on one elbow. “Oh, and Eli’s first birthday party? Freaking rockstar themed. Mohawk wig and everything.”
I blink, a strange ache blooming behind my ribs. “You told me about that… in the dream. You were sitting on my bed with a sketchbook and coffee. Said you were planning it. I thought I imagined it.”
Her eyes well up, her lip trembling as she whispers, “Maybe some part of you knew. That we were still with you.”
My vision goes watery, the world blurring at the edges. “I remember you laughing. Talking about temporary tattoos and inflatable guitars.”
“We did all of it,” she chokes out, swiping her cheek. “It was perfect. But not the same without you.”
I close my eyes, letting the memory wash over me like a wave I’m finally strong enough to ride.
“I missed it all,” I whisper.
“No,” Reese says fiercely. “You made it back. That’s what matters.”
And in that moment—wrapped in soft sheets, warm tea on the nightstand, Reese curled beside me like a piece of my soul I almost lost—I believe her.
Because I did come back.
I say the words like a mantra, my voice barely above a whisper, but they echo in the stillness after Reese leaves, loud enough to fill the empty corners of the room. She kissed my cheek, promised she’d come by tomorrow, and threatened to bring muffins so dry I’d fake another coma just to escape them. And then she was gone—just like that. A whirlwind of floral perfume and fierce, familiar love.
I close my eyes for a moment, letting the silence wrap around me like a weighted blanket. The kind you don’t know you need until it’s already crushing you in the best way.
Sleep drags me under before I can finish the thought.
When I wake, the sun is gone. Replaced by a moody dusk bleeding through the curtains, soft and honeyed at the edges, like the sky’s been sipping on wine and forgot it was supposed to set.
There are voices coming from the kitchen.
Laughter. The low thrum of teasing. Something clangs—probably a pot or someone’s ego—and then someone else curses under their breath.
It takes a second to orient myself, to remember I’m not in the sterile monotony of a hospital bed but in the house on the ranch. Our house, apparently. Home.
I pad into the hallway, one hand trailing the wall for balance, the other clutching the hem of Fletch’s hoodie like it’s armor. The scent of garlic and something buttery drifts into the hallway and my stomach growls like a tiny gremlin demanding carbs.
Thorin and Reese are side by side at the stove, arguing about whether to use basil or oregano, while Benji lounges on the couch like a spoiled cat. Carson’s perched on the armrest, feet propped on the coffee table, tossing a cherry tomato up and down like it’s a hacky sack.
Fletch is half-leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, the edges of a grin tucked into the corners of his mouth as he watches the chaos unfold.
God. My chest pulls tight at the sight of them—my found family, my chaotic constellation of music and mayhem and comfort. For the first time in weeks, I feel like something inside me clicks back into place.
Benji’s the first to see me.
“Look who’s vertical,” he calls, grinning as he rises and heads over with that signature hug that feels like a bear trap made of warmth and sarcasm.
He doesn’t squeeze too hard, just enough to say I missed you without saying it. When he steps back, Carson’s already there, pulling me in next, his cologne faint but familiar—like citrus and bad decisions.
“Thought we were gonna have to smuggle a cot into the NICU,” Carson murmurs against my hair.
“I wouldn’t have complained,” I reply, my voice still hoarse but steadier now.
Fletch moves next, his expression gentler than the others, laced with a kind of reverence that makes my breath catch.
“Hey,” he says quietly, brushing a knuckle down my cheek like he’s checking if I’m still real. “How’re you feeling?”
I hesitate. “Headache,” I admit, pressing my fingers to my temple. “But otherwise… okay.”
He nods like he’s relieved but still cataloging every twitch and wince. “Let me get you some water and your meds. You should eat something too. Reese and Thorin are threatening culinary crimes in your honor.”
“Excuse you,” Reese calls from the stove. “My pasta is a religious experience.”
“If by religious, you mean it could raise the dead and kill them again,” Thorin mutters, earning a spoon smack to the arm.
I smile. It’s small, a ghost of a grin, but it’s the first one that doesn’t feel forced. There’s something healing about the absurdity, about the easy rhythm of them. Like I’ve been underwater for months and this—this noise, this banter—is the air I forgot I needed.
Fletch returns with a glass of water and a kiss to the top of my head, and somehow, that’s the moment it sinks in.
This is real.
Not some bittersweet dream stitched together by grief and wishful thinking.
Not some beautiful lie my brain conjured to cushion the fall.
This—his hand in mine, the scent of roasted garlic and something caramelizing in the kitchen, the rumble of laughter from the living room—this is reality. Imperfect. Unfinished. Fragile.
And still mine.
Dinner is a slow swirl of comfort and chaos, the kind that lives in the seams of found family. Reese and Thorin are cooking—Reese stirring with flair, Thorin flipping something in the pan like he’s auditioning for MasterChef: Rockstar Edition. The guys are sprawled across the couch like bored lions, tossing jabs and commentary with the ease of men who’ve been to hell and back together and came out the other side still laughing.
Benji notices me first. His grin splits wide, and he’s on his feet before I can fully cross the threshold. “Well, look who’s awake,” he says, sweeping me into a hug that’s equal parts gentle and suffocating.
“Easy,” I mumble into his chest. “Still recovering, remember?”
Carson’s next, wrapping me in a quick but fierce embrace that smells like mint and mischief. “Good to have you back, superstar.”
Fletch rises from the couch, slower than the others. There’s a flicker in his eyes I can’t quite name—something halfway between worry and awe—and then his hand is brushing against my back like he needs to confirm I’m here. Solid. Breathing.
“How’re you feeling?” he asks, voice low enough that it’s only meant for me.
“Bit of a headache,” I admit, pressing my fingers to my temple. “But otherwise… okay.” I pause. “It’s weird being upright.”
His mouth curves at the corners, but it’s not quite a smile. “You look good upright.” And there’s something in his gaze, something heavy and unspoken, that makes my breath catch in my throat.
I sit beside him at the table, tucked under his arm like it’s where I’ve always belonged.
Eli is seated in his high chair next to Reese, cheeks full of mashed sweet potato and a rogue green bean in his curls like a battle medal. He’s babbling to himself, banging one chubby hand against the tray like he’s trying to summon thunder. Reese alternates between offering him spoonfuls of something orange and keeping him from launching his sippy cup into orbit.
The table fills fast—food, drinks, conversation tumbling over each other like puppies chasing the same damn tennis ball. There’s garlic bread that tastes like heaven and pasta that’s too creamy but no one complains, and wine for everyone but me.
I try to follow the thread of the conversation—something about chords and studio acoustics and someone (Benji, I think) blowing out a mic with a dramatic high note—but the thread keeps slipping. I blink too long between bites. The voices swirl, not quite aligning with the names I know.
Fletch notices. Of course he does.
He leans in, his breath warm against my temple. “They’re halfway through the next album,” he says, filling in the blanks like he always used to when I fell behind. “Studio’s been their second home lately.”
My brows lift. “Already?”
Thorin hears me. “Yeah. We got a head start while you were… out.”
That hesitation, that pause before the word, slices right through me.
Out. As if I’d stepped into another life and forgotten how to find the door.
“And the tour?” I ask quietly, not quite sure I want the answer.
Thorin sets down his fork, trading a glance with Reese before he speaks. “We moved it to next year.”
I blink. “You… what?”
Reese reaches for my hand across the table. “Mya, you almost died. We weren’t about to jet off to Europe and leave you behind.”
“But everything was booked. Venues, promo?—”
“It’s just dates,” Thorin says. “We’ll play when we’re ready. You’re what matters.”
The room blurs. Just a little. The kind of blur that happens when your heart’s too full and your chest doesn’t know how to hold it all.
“I missed so much,” I whisper, not sure anyone hears.
But of course, Reese does.
“You’re here now. That’s what counts.”
She’s always been the sun, blinding and bold. But tonight, she’s soft glow and steady warmth, grounding me in a way no machine ever could.
“Speaking of being here,” she says brightly, clearly ready to pivot, “we were thinking of doing Christmas lunch at our place.”
Thorin nods. “Yeah. Nothing fancy. Just us and the fam. Mom’s coming up, and we figured she’d drag Walker along too.”
My brain sputters. “Wait—Walker and Maggie are…?”
Carson snorts from across the table. “Oh yeah. Old man Walker and Queen Maggie are totally a thing now.”
“Stop making it weird,” Reese groans, tossing a napkin at him. “They’re happy.”
“They’re doing it,” Carson sings, and the room erupts in groans and snickers.
Eli squeals at the noise, clapping his hands like he’s the guest of honor at the world’s loudest dinner party.
I press a hand to my mouth, laughter bubbling up like soda pop. It tastes like normalcy. Like sunlight after a long, hard frost.
Christmas.
The word feels both too soon and too far away.
I was asleep when autumn faded and winter came. I missed the crunch of leaves, the first frost, the music that creeps into stores too early.
And now here I am—sitting at my own table, surrounded by mismatched mugs and empty plates and the people I love most in the world—and I feel like a stranger in my own skin.
But a happy one. A grateful one. A version of me that’s just starting to thaw.
The guys are arguing about who had the worst take in the studio today—Benji swears it was Carson, Carson blames Thorin, and Thorin just shovels pasta into his mouth like an exhausted dad who’s been through it all and lived to stir another pot. Eli’s in his high chair gumming a chunk of bread with the focus of a monk and the appetite of a linebacker.
And I… I just sit.
Soak.
Breathe.
Because this? This messy, loud, late-night dinner full of carbs and chaos and love so palpable it hums beneath my skin?
This is what I came back for.
I stretch my legs under the table, ankle bumping into Fletch’s, and I smile when he instinctively hooks his foot around mine like he’s anchoring me in place. Like if he doesn’t hold on, I might drift off again.
I won’t.
I’m not going anywhere.
Even as the warmth and weight of the evening start to settle heavy behind my eyes, I fight to stay present. I want to memorize the way Reese’s ponytail bounces when she talks with her hands. The way Carson’s laugh cracks halfway through like he’s running out of air. The way Benji wipes his mouth with the back of his hand even though there’s a napkin literally in his lap.
And the way Fletch watches me when he thinks I’m not looking—like he’s scared I’ll vanish all over again.
Eventually, the yawns sneak up on me like little traitors—slow and stealthy, curling around my ribs until I can’t stifle them anymore.
Fletch notices, of course. He always does.
He nudges me gently with his elbow. “You should go to bed, baby.”
“I don’t want to,” I whisper, slurring a little on the tail end of the sentence. “Feels like I just woke up. I want to behere.”
“You are,” he says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “And you will be again tomorrow. But you need rest.”
I nod. My body agrees even if my heart isn’t quite ready to let go of the night.
“I need a shower first,” I mumble, rolling my neck, my muscles stiff and unused. “I still feel like a hospital.”
Reese stands abruptly like someone hit her eject button. “And that is our cue.” She claps her hands once and waves a dish towel like a white flag. “Come on, boys. Out.”
Carson groans. “We didn’t even get dessert.”
“You had garlic bread,” she shoots back. “That’s dessert in this house. Let’s go.”
Thorin lifts Eli out of his high chair with practiced ease. The little guy rubs his eyes and rests his head on his dad’s shoulder like the toddler version of a mic drop. Benji pretends to steal a breadstick from the table, gets swatted by Reese, and retreats with a dramatic sigh.
“I’ll come by tomorrow,” she promises, leaning in to kiss my forehead. “We’ll catch up properly.”
“You already told me everything,” I whisper.
She smiles but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Not even close.”
Fletch walks them out, murmuring something to Thorin on the porch while Reese juggles Eli and her keys. I stay behind, standing in the now-quiet kitchen, hand braced on the back of the chair like I need to hold on to something real.
The scent of garlic lingers in the air.
The laughter still echoes faintly down the hall.
And when Fletch comes back inside, shutting the door with a soft click, I finally let myself exhale.