Belonging.
“I am moving into the apartment above your bakery,” I say.
“Our bakery,” she corrects softly.
Something inside me goes still.
Then settles.
“Our bakery,” I repeat.
I am released three days later under medical protest, Evie’s supervision, Darlene’s threats, and Mira’s detailed instructions about wound care, rest, and not engaging in “recreational martyrdom.” I do not know what recreational martyrdom means. Everyone else seems to.
The first time I return to Sweet Tooth, Halo is waiting.
Not officially. There is no parade. No speeches authorized by municipal leadership. Instead, people stand along the sidewalk in raincoats and patched jackets, under umbrellas and awnings, holding coffee cups, flowers, bread, tool kits, blankets, and one poorly painted sign that says WELCOME HOME DRAGON MAN.
I stop across the street.
Evie stands beside me, one hand tucked into my arm. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“All four lungs?”
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
Darlene appears in the bakery doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. “If you stand in the rain looking tragic much longer, the rolls will get cold.”
Mrs. Pell calls, “Come inside, sweetheart.”
Mr. Eddison lifts his cane. “We reinforced the stool.”
Al sits in a borrowed mobility chair near the door, pale and bruised, one leg wrapped in stabilizers. “It’ll still break. His ass is structurally ambitious.”
Laughter ripples through the crowd.
I look down at Evie. “This is excessive.”
“This is Halo.”
“That does not refute my statement.”
“No. But it explains it.”
Esme runs forward before her mother can stop her and holds up a new drawing. This one shows the black dragon sleeping on top of a bakery while tiny people sit safely beneath its wings. Above the drawing, in uneven letters, she has written HE LIVES HERE NOW.
I take it carefully.
The paper trembles in my hand.
“Is it okay?” she asks.
I crouch slowly, painfully, until I am closer to her height. “It is accurate.”
Her smile could power half the district.
