She melts into it with a little sound that’s just for me, fingers brushing my wrist as if to make sure I’m real.
“Hey,” I murmur when I pull back.
“Hey,” she says, eyes bright.
I turn, arm still at her back, and greet Beau with a nod. “Morning.”
He grins, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. “Looks good, man.”
I bend and kiss Wren’s cheek. “You look incredible.”
She laughs. “Thank you.”
Ryker steps in next, crowding close in that way he does when he’s feeling settled. He kisses Norah without asking, hand firm at her waist, and she smiles against his mouth before turning back to the stall, eyes wide.
“Is this for me?” she asks, running her fingers along the cedar shelf.
“For you,” Ryker says. “We’re just doing final touches.”
She breathes out, a sound that feels like gratitude and wonder mixed together, and I watch her take it all in.
The angled legs. The chalkboard sign waiting for her handwriting. The buckets already lined up, filled with water and a hint of pine.
Dorian approaches then, scarf wrapped neatly at his throat, the Burberry pattern unmistakable even under falling snow.
He greets Norah with a kiss to her temple and then steps seamlessly into the work, helping up with the last details.
The winter market unfolds around us as if it has been waiting for this cue.
Fallon’s B&B stall is already up, a rack of cured meats hanging proudly, the scent of smoke and salt cutting through the cold. Strings of sausages sway slightly when people pass, deep reds and browns against butcher paper and twine. He catches my eye and lifts a hand in greeting, knife flashing as he slices samples.
Next to him, spices are everywhere. Mounds of cinnamon and cardamom piled in shallow bowls, star anise arranged like small constellations, crushed peppercorns glinting dark and sharp.
The air is layered with it all, warmth and bite and sweetness mingling until breathing feels like a comfort.
Norah moves between us as we work, sometimes stepping back to admire the stall, sometimes leaning in to ask a question, sometimes just standing there with her hands tucked into the sleeves of Dorian’s coat.
Each time she shifts, one of us adjusts instinctively to make space, to keep her centered without boxing her in. It feels like a quiet agreement made without words.
Ruth appears then, bundled in her familiar wool coat, knit hat pulled low, eyes sharp even as she smiles. She peers at the stall, then at Norah, brows lifting.
“Well,” she says. “There you are. We have all been so worried about you. No one has seen you in days. You look… um… healthy. You have a glow about you now.”
Norah opens her mouth, but I answer first, voice calm and protective. “She does.”
Ruth studies me for a beat, then nods, satisfied. She reaches for a bouquet of winter greens, fingers testing the stems. “These will do.”
Norah beams, hands moving to wrap the flowers with care, her smile softening when Ruth presses payment into her palm.
Wren excuses herself then, waddling toward her mother’s café stall with a wave. Beau follows, already laughing at something she says.
The square hums with voices and movement, snow falling thicker now, lights strung overhead glowing warm against the gray sky.
It’s the three of us at the booth. Dorian, Ryker, and me.
Norah stands between us, close enough that I can feel the heat of her even through layers. When someone approaches, one of us steps forward, the others staying back, hands brushing her shoulders or her back in passing.
It’s not possession. It’s presence.
