She’s alive.
She’s here.
She’s ours.
And every moment she smiles feels like the world stitching itself back together.
Emerson
Normal is a joke. Nothing about us blends; nothing about us whispers quiet suburban stability, and nothing about Berk—stiff but defiant and stunning as hell—suggests we belong in a middle school gymnasium decorated with hand-painted posters and glitter glue.
But Kimber has her spring showcase tonight, and the four of us would walk into a burning building for her, so a school gym is nothing.
The place smells like popcorn and floor wax, and every set of eyes lands on us the second we walk in. Parents freeze mid-conversation. Kids stop in groups like we’re some urban legend that stepped out of the woods instead of a trio of brothers trying not to scare PTA volunteers.
Berk stays tucked between us, still moving carefully, one arm wrapped snugly around Rowan’s waist, the other hand in mine. She’s healing better than expected, but there are moments—tiny, quiet ones—where a wince flashes across her face and I want to put Dean in the ground all over again just to make sure he stays dead.
Ronan walks slightly ahead, shoulders loose, but his gaze sweeps the room like instinct will always rule part of him. His tattoos peek from beneath his shirtsleeves, black ink against tan skin, and more than one parent pulls their kid closer when we pass.
Rowan mutters under his breath, low enough that only we catch it. “People stare like they’ve never seen a family before.”
Berk squeezes his waist and smiles up at him, soft and teasing. “Maybe they’re staring because you look like you’re about to murder someone for fun.”
Rowan blinks at her, deadpan. “I smile sometimes.”
“When provoked,” Ronan adds dryly.
I try not to laugh, but she hears the hitch in my breath and nudges my arm.
Kimber sees us before we spot her. She’s across the gym with her friends, wearing a sparkly black outfit for her performance, her hair braided neatly down her back. The second she recognizes us, she lights up and sprints over, practically launching herself into my arms.
“You came!” she squeals.
“Of course we did,” I tell her, hugging her tightly. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Rowan ruffles her hair. Ronan tries to look unaffected but fails miserably, one corner of his mouth lifting. Berk leans in to hug her, and Kimber squeezes her tightly, careful around her still-sore ribs.
“You look beautiful,” Berk whispers.
Kimber beams. “You look… tough.” Then she glances around nervously. “People are staring.”
“We noticed,” Ronan mutters.
I crouch so I’m eye-level with Kimber. “Let them stare. They don’t know us.”
“Yeah,” Rowan adds, crossing his arms in a way that only makes him more intimidating. “But they’ll learn we clap loudly.”
Kimber snorts. “Loudly? Rowan, you nearly got us kicked out of my choir concert last week.”
“That was injustice,” he counters. “Your solo was brilliant.”
Her laugh is bright, unburdened, and the sound steadies the tightness inside my chest.
We take our seats on the bleachers. Berk sits between us, leaning lightly into my side. I keep an arm behind her in case she tires. She pretends not to need support, but when she lets her head rest on my shoulder for a heartbeat too long, I know.
When the principal steps up to the mic, tapping it twice, the conversations die down.
As the lights dim, a parent a few rows down continues glancing back at us like we’re armed ghosts. Ronan notices and narrows his eyes just enough to send the guy whipping his head around.