Berk whispers, “Subtle.”
“I’m subtle,” Ronan hisses quietly.
“No, you aren’t,” Rowan and I say at the same time.
Kimber’s group lines up on the stage, music starting. She’s in the front row, glowing with nerves and excitement.
And in that moment—middle school stage lights, off-key microphones, the faint squeak of gym-floor sneakers—in the aftermath of blood, fire, and loss… the dread finally unclenches.
This is the first time in years I feel like we’re allowed to breathe.
Berk threads her fingers through mine and Rowan’s. Ronan rests his hand over her thigh.
Family.
Not the one we came from.
The one we bled for.
And if anyone in this gym thinks they can look at Berk wrong, or Kimber wrong, or even breathe wrong in our direction—
They have no idea how fast we’ll turn into monsters they should fear.
But tonight isn’t about violence.
Tonight is about light.
And Kimber’s small voice—singing too softly but with fierce determination—becomes the brightest sound in the room.
When Kimber’s section ends, the applause rolls through the gym like a soft wave. We clap the loudest—loud enough that Kimber bursts into giggles onstage. Rowan stands to his fullheight to whistle, earning a few more disapproving glances from parents nearby.
Berk glances up at him, smirking. “Subtle,” she whispers again.
“Thatwassubtle,” Rowan fires back, indignant.
Ronan shakes his head, muttering, “We’re never getting invited to PTA meetings.”
After the final applause, the kids march offstage in a chaotic line of sparkles, bows, and sneakers. Kimber reappears moments later, tugging along two girls and a timid boy who seems terrified of everything—including us.
“These are my friends!” Kimber says proudly. “Molly, Jasmine, and Tyler.”
The kids stare up at us like we’re mythological creatures that stepped out of a storybook—dangerous, ink-covered, and towering. Molly waves shyly. Jasmine clutches Kimber’s arm. Tyler blinks rapidly like he’s waiting to be eaten.
Rowan crouches slightly to soften the height difference, offering a small smile that’s supposed to be friendly but looks more like a wolf baring teeth.
“Hi,” Rowan says.
All three kids stiffen.
I elbow him. “Try not to look like you’re about to interrogate them.”
He grumbles, “I’m being welcoming."
“No, you’re being Rowan,” Berk murmurs, patting his cheek.
The kids’ parents approach next, trying to act brave as they extend polite smiles. The moms hover close; the dads hover even closer, maybe trying to size us up. They fail miserably.
Kimber pipes up, “We’re having a sleepover this weekend! So, my, um… family wants to meet you. For safety.”