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It takes a second to orient myself, to remember I’m not in the sterile monotony of a hospital bed but in the house on the ranch. Our house, apparently. Home.

I pad into the hallway, one hand trailing the wall for balance, the other clutching the hem of Fletch’s hoodie like it’s armor. The scent of garlic and something buttery drifts into the hallway and my stomach growls like a tiny gremlin demanding carbs.

Thorin and Reese are side by side at the stove, arguing about whether to use basil or oregano, while Benji lounges on the couch like a spoiled cat. Carson’s perched on the armrest, feet propped on the coffee table, tossing a cherry tomato up and down like it’s a hacky sack.

Fletch is half-leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, the edges of a grin tucked into the corners of his mouth as he watches the chaos unfold.

God. My chest pulls tight at the sight of them—my found family, my chaotic constellation of music and mayhem and comfort. For the first time in weeks, I feel like something inside me clicks back into place.

Benji’s the first to see me.

“Look who’s vertical,” he calls, grinning as he rises and heads over with that signature hug that feels like a bear trap made of warmth and sarcasm.

He doesn’t squeeze too hard, just enough to say I missed you without saying it. When he steps back, Carson’s already there, pulling me in next, his cologne faint but familiar—like citrus and bad decisions.

“Thought we were gonna have to smuggle a cot into the NICU,” Carson murmurs against my hair.

“I wouldn’t have complained,” I reply, my voice still hoarse but steadier now.

Fletch moves next, his expression gentler than the others, laced with a kind of reverence that makes my breath catch.

“Hey,” he says quietly, brushing a knuckle down my cheek like he’s checking if I’m still real. “How’re you feeling?”

I hesitate. “Headache,” I admit, pressing my fingers to my temple. “But otherwise… okay.”

He nods like he’s relieved but still cataloging every twitch and wince. “Let me get you some water and your meds. You should eat something too. Reese and Thorin are threatening culinary crimes in your honor.”

“Excuse you,” Reese calls from the stove. “My pasta is a religious experience.”

“If by religious, you mean it could raise the dead and kill them again,” Thorin mutters, earning a spoon smack to the arm.

I smile. It’s small, a ghost of a grin, but it’s the first one that doesn’t feel forced. There’s something healing about the absurdity, about the easy rhythm of them. Like I’ve been underwater for months and this—this noise, this banter—is the air I forgot I needed.

Fletch returns with a glass of water and a kiss to the top of my head, and somehow, that’s the moment it sinks in.

This is real.

Not some bittersweet dream stitched together by grief and wishful thinking.

Not some beautiful lie my brain conjured to cushion the fall.

This—his hand in mine, the scent of roasted garlic and something caramelizing in the kitchen, the rumble of laughter from the living room—this is reality. Imperfect. Unfinished. Fragile.

And still mine.

Dinner is a slow swirl of comfort and chaos, the kind that lives in the seams of found family. Reese and Thorin are cooking—Reese stirring with flair, Thorin flipping something in the pan like he’s auditioning for MasterChef: Rockstar Edition. The guys are sprawled across the couch like bored lions, tossing jabs and commentary with the ease of men who’ve been to hell and back together and came out the other side still laughing.

Benji notices me first. His grin splits wide, and he’s on his feet before I can fully cross the threshold. “Well, look who’s awake,” he says, sweeping me into a hug that’s equal parts gentle and suffocating.

“Easy,” I mumble into his chest. “Still recovering, remember?”

Carson’s next, wrapping me in a quick but fierce embrace that smells like mint and mischief. “Good to have you back, superstar.”

Fletch rises from the couch, slower than the others. There’s a flicker in his eyes I can’t quite name—something halfway between worry and awe—and then his hand is brushing against my back like he needs to confirm I’m here. Solid. Breathing.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks, voice low enough that it’s only meant for me.

“Bit of a headache,” I admit, pressing my fingers to my temple. “But otherwise… okay.” I pause. “It’s weird being upright.”