Chapter 39
TILDA
The room is finally quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that feels empty or hollow, like something’s missing.
The kind that settles in after a storm—when the walls are still standing, the air is still, and you realize, slowly, that you survived.
Jesse is asleep.
That part feels like a miracle.
He’s sprawled across the center of the bed like he owns it, one arm flung over his head, the other still clutching that fossil rock like it’s a sacred artifact.
His breathing is soft and steady, each little inhale and exhale smoothing something raw inside my chest that I didn’t even realize was still jagged.
I stand there for a moment longer than necessary, just watching him.
Making sure.
Because some part of me still expects the ground to shake again.
Still expects the world to tilt.
Still expects something to come crashing through the walls and take this fragile, hard-earned calm away.
It doesn’t.
The silence holds.
Behind me, Bron shifts.
“You’re doing the thing again,” he murmurs.
I glance over my shoulder.
“What thing?”
“The I’m making sure reality hasn’t broken again thing.”
I huff a quiet breath.
“Can you blame me?”
“No,” he says softly. “Not even a little.”
I turn back to Jesse, smoothing a hand gently over his hair.
“He’s okay,” Bron adds.
“I know.”
“You keep checking.”
“I know that too.”
There’s a pause.
Then—
“Come here,” he says.
It’s not a command.
Not even really a request.
Just—
An invitation.
I hesitate for half a second.
Then I step away from the bed.
The room is dim, lit only by a low lamp near the far wall, casting everything in soft gold and shadow. The air smells faintly of clean linen, warm skin, and that subtle metallic trace that seems to follow Bron everywhere, like heat and iron and something older.
He’s sitting on the edge of the couch, guitar leaning against the wall beside him, forearms resting loosely on his thighs as he watches me approach.
For once—
He’s not performing.
Not smiling for effect.
Not deflecting.
Just… there.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
“Hey.”
I stop a few feet in front of him.
Neither of us speaks for a moment.
There’s too much between us.
Too much history.
Too many things we never said.
“You okay?” he asks.
I let out a slow breath.
“I think so.”
“That’s not convincing.”
“It’s honest.”
He nods.
“I’ll take honest.”
I study his face.
The familiar lines.
The scar.
The way his eyes hold mine now without slipping away, without hiding behind charm or humor.
“You scared me,” I say.
“Yeah,” he replies softly. “I figured.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “You don’t get it. I thought—”
My voice catches.
I swallow.
“I thought I was going to have to tell Jesse about you like a story.”
His expression tightens.
“That’s… not a story I want told.”
“Good,” I say. “Because I’m not telling it.”
He exhales slowly.
“Wasn’t planning on making you.”
I take a step closer.
“You don’t get to do that again,” I say, my voice low but steady.
“Fight a giant monster?”
“Yes.”
“Bit of a niche hobby.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
I hold his gaze.
“You don’t get to decide you’re expendable.”
Something flickers across his face.
“I wasn’t—”
“You were,” I cut in. “You were standing there like it didn’t matter what happened to you as long as everyone else got out.”
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Because he knows I’m right.
“I needed you,” I say quietly.
The words land between us, heavier than anything else.
“And Jesse needs you.”
His throat moves as he swallows.
“I know.”
“Do you?” I press. “Because it didn’t look like it out there.”
“It looked like I was trying to keep you alive,” he says, a hint of heat breaking through.
“It looked like you were ready to die.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Then what was it like, Bron?” I demand.
He stands.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Closing the distance between us until we’re standing close enough that I can feel the heat of him.
“It was like this,” he says quietly. “It was like knowing that if I didn’t step in, that thing would get closer to the compound.”
I hold my ground.
“And?”
“And you were there,” he continues. “And Jesse was there.”
His voice drops.
“And there was no version of reality where I let that happen.”
The anger in my chest falters.
Shifts.
Because that—
That I understand.
“That doesn’t mean you throw your life away,” I say, softer now.
“I wasn’t throwing it away.”
“You were risking it.”
“Yes.”
“For us.”
I hesitate.
Because that changes things.
It doesn’t erase the fear.
But it reframes it.
Still—
“You don’t get to make that call alone,” I say.
His brows pull together slightly.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” I say, forcing the words out clearly, “if you’re part of this—if you’re part of us—then your life isn’t just yours to gamble with anymore.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Important.
He studies me like he’s trying to understand something that’s just out of reach.
Then—
“Us,” he repeats.
I don’t look away.
“Yes.”
Something shifts in his expression.
Something deep.
“You mean that?” he asks.
I let out a breath.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I do.”
The word hangs there.
Solid.
Real.
No qualifiers.
No hesitation.
Just—
Yes.
He steps closer.
Careful.
Like I might disappear if he moves too fast.
“You’re not… running?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“No.”
“Why?”
I huff a small, incredulous laugh.
“After everything we just went through, that’s your question?”
“It’s a good question.”
“It’s a terrible question.”
“Answer it anyway.”
I study him.
Really study him.
And for the first time—
I don’t see the man I left.
I don’t see the reckless, impulsive, charming disaster who lived like consequences were optional.
I see this man.
The one who stood in front of a monster and chose people over himself.
The one who sat on the floor and played music for his son like it mattered more than anything else in the world.
The one who looks at me now like I’m not something to win or impress—
But something to build with.
“I don’t think you’re him anymore,” I say softly.
His brow furrows.
“Him?”
“The man I left,” I clarify.
He goes still.
“I deserved that,” he says after a moment.
“You did.”
“And now?”
“Now,” I say, stepping closer, “I think you grew up.”
He lets out a quiet breath.
“Took me long enough.”
“Yeah,” I say dryly. “It did.”
He smiles faintly.
Then sobers.
“And you’re willing to—what—try again?”
“I’m willing to build something new,” I say. “Not go backward.”
He nods slowly.
“I can do new.”
“Good.”
Another step.
Now we’re close enough that I can feel his breath against my skin.
“You don’t get to be half in,” I add.
“I’m not.”
“You don’t get to disappear when things get hard.”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t get to treat this like a performance.”
“I’m done performing.”
I hold his gaze.
“Prove it.”
Something in his expression sharpens.
Not defensively.
But with intent.
He reaches for me slowly, giving me time to pull back if I want to.
I don’t.
His hand settles at my waist, warm and steady.
“I’m here,” he says quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I search his face.
Looking for the cracks.
The tells.
The signs that this is just another version of the same old story.
I don’t find them.
Instead—
I find him.
Present.
Grounded.
Real.
“Okay,” I whisper.
And then I kiss him.
It’s not rushed.
Not desperate.
Not fueled by adrenaline or fear.
It’s deliberate.
Intentional.
A choice.
His arms wrap around me, pulling me closer as the kiss deepens, slow and sure, like we’re both learning the shape of something new.
Something steadier.
Something that might actually last.
I feel it in the way he holds me.
Not like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
Not like he’s trying to prove anything.
Just—
Holding.
Being there.
My fingers curl into his shirt.
He murmurs something against my lips, low and warm and half-laughing.
“Careful,” he says. “We’ve got a sleeping toddler.”
I pull back just enough to meet his eyes.
“Then be quiet.”
His grin flashes.
“Yes, ma’am.”
But the humor fades quickly, replaced by something deeper as he leans in again, slower this time.
More certain.
More grounded.
The kind of closeness that isn’t about escape—
But about connection.
About choosing each other.
Over and over again.
Later, when the room settles again and the quiet wraps around us like something earned, I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
“Bron?” I murmur.
“Yeah?”
“We’re really doing this.”
“Looks like it.”
I tilt my head up to look at him.
“No running.”
“No running,” he agrees.
“No chaos.”
He pauses.
“Managed chaos,” he offers.
I narrow my eyes.
“Bron.”
“Fine,” he says quickly. “Minimal chaos.”
I snort softly.
“That’s the best I’m getting, isn’t it?”
“Probably.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself.
“Alright,” I say.
“Alright,” he echoes.
And for the first time—
It doesn’t feel like we’re holding something fragile.
It feels like we’re building something strong.