Chapter 39 #3
"If I hate it, I come home."
"Of course."
"If I love it, we discuss what happens next."
"Of course."
"Edinburgh stays headquarters."
"Always." Her eyes narrowed.
"You're being suspiciously reasonable."
"I hate that everybody keeps sounding surprised." She laughed. Then her expression changed.
"I want this to be my choice, Skye." The sentence went straight through me.
"It is."
"Even if you think I'm moving too fast." I thought about every instinct inside me that still wanted to protect her by predicting what would hurt.
Then I thought about Irish correcting himself outside The Blackthorn with a quiet please and about him allowing me to walk through my own decisions even when fear made that almost unbearable.
"I can be worried and still respect your choice." Isla stared at me. Then smiled.
"That sounded grown-up."
"Don't ruin it." She laughed.
"When?"
"Two weeks." My heart jumped.
"That's soon." One eyebrow lifted. I caught myself.
"Observation. Not objection."
"Good save." I smiled.
"Do you want to stay with me?"
"At the clubhouse?"
"God, no." Her laughter came easier now.
"I was thinking apartment. Thistle & Stone will need somewhere anyway."
"Then find something with two bedrooms."
"Two?"
"Until I decide whether I want my own." Again, it came back to choice.
"Done."
We ended the call nearly twenty minutes later after discussing flights, work visas, insurance, and enough practical details to turn the idea from emotion into logistics.
I stood in the unfinished room afterward and stared at the blank wall.
Isla was coming to America. She was coming to America not because Croft House had broken her, because I needed her, or because Hawkeye happened to be standing twenty feet away measuring baseboards with infuriating patience, but because she wanted to help build something.
There was a difference. Irish found me several minutes later. He leaned against the doorway.
"You all right?"
"Isla's coming." His eyebrows rose.
"Here?"
"For three months." A smile began slowly.
"Her choice?" I looked at him.
"Yes."
"Good." That was all. There were no questions about Hawkeye, no assumptions about why, and no discussion of whether she was ready. He trusted Isla's answer because I did. I crossed the room and wrapped my arms around his waist. His hands settled against my back.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You always say that when it isn't." I smiled against his chest.
"Thank you."
"For?"
"Learning." He went quiet. Then one hand moved into my hair.
"You taught me."
"No." I pulled back enough to look at him.
"We taught each other." His expression softened.
"Aye." I kissed him. Behind us, somebody dropped something heavy and Raze shouted that he had absolutely nothing to do with it. Neither of us moved. Eventually Irish glanced toward the plans scattered across the room.
"So this America thing is actually happening."
"Yes."
"Harbor House first."
"Yes."
"Survivor apartments next?" I stared.
"How do you know about that?"
"Sunshine talks."
"Of course she does."
"Also Toxic is already looking at properties." I closed my eyes.
"I specifically said we ask residents first."
"They are." That stopped me. Irish's mouth moved.
"Apparently Toxic listens when you terrify contractors." I laughed.
"Good." He looked around the room.
"You're building something." The observation was simple. It still mattered.
"We are." The distinction caught his attention.
"Thistle & Stone?"
"That too."
I looked toward the hallway, where Sunshine was talking with two women about apartment preferences while Storm carried paint samples that residents would actually be allowed to choose from.
Hawkeye passed quietly behind them with a tape measure, gave me a nod, and continued toward the stairs without interrupting anyone.
"The whole thing," I said.
Irish followed my gaze. His fingers slipped into mine.
Weeks earlier, the Order's architecture had taught me how thoroughly a building could strip control from the people inside it.
Hidden corridors, external locks, restricted windows, furniture too heavy to move, rooms designed to observe rather than shelter, and entire lives reorganized beneath words like placement and correction.
We couldn't undo any of that. We could build the opposite.
Not safety imposed from above. Safety chosen from within.
I looked toward the bedroom where Carl was finally reversing the door.
Four inches was such a small distance, yet it was enough to change what someone saw when the door opened.
Enough to remind me that restoration had never been about pretending damage hadn't happened.
It was about making what survived capable of carrying life forward.
My phone vibrated again. A message from Isla.
Tell Mason thanks for the measurements. I read it twice. Then smiled. Irish looked down.
"What?"
"Nothing." His eyes narrowed. For once, I meant it. Some things didn't need help. They only needed room.