“Belle?” he asked.
Recognition.
“I’m right here,” I said, kneeling beside him despite the protest from my knee.
“I got turned around,” he said, voice thin. “I didn’t mean to— I just?—”
“It’s okay,” I cut in gently, taking his hand. “You’re safe.”
“I thought you were waiting,” he said, searching my face. “At the treehouse.”
My chest tightened.
“You already built it,” I reminded him softly. “It was perfect.”
He blinked, and confusion flickered behind his eyes.
Then something settled.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah, I did.”
I stayed with him until his breathing evened out. Until the fear in his eyes softened into something quieter.
When I finally got him into the guest bedroom, he didn’t argue.
I settled him into my bed, pulling the blankets up around him like I had done a hundred times in a hundred different ways over the years.
“I’ll sleep next door tonight. That way you can all get some rest,” Geoffrey said.
I threw my arms around him, giving him a hug. He cleared his throat and gave me a nod.
The house was dim now. Quiet again.
I found him in the kitchen.
Raph stood near the counter, sleeves pushed up, hair still damp from the shower. A fresh mug of tea sat untouched beside him.
He looked up the second I stepped into the room.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. I crossed the space between us and fell into his arms. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just . . . need.
His arms came around me instantly, strong and certain, pulling me in like he had been waiting for it.
I pressed my face into his chest, breathing him in. He smelled like clean soap and warmth, something steady and grounding beneath it all.
“I’m here,” he murmured, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of my head.
“I know,” I whispered.
My fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.
I didn’t want to let go. Not yet. Maybe not at all.
The storm still raged faintly outside, distant now, but inside was quiet.
It was late.
Too late for conversations.
