Chapter Text
The morning light filters through the Inn's window, and you're already dressed, your few belongings packed and ready by the door. March is helping you carry the last box down from your temporary room, his movements careful and deliberate.
Your father is waiting in the main room, his own bag already by his feet. He looks up when you descend the stairs, and something in his expression makes your chest tighten - pride mixed with concern, love mixed with the reluctance to leave.
"You're sure about this?" he asks as you set your box down on one of the tables in the main room of the Inn. "Going back there today?"
"I need to," you say firmly. "The longer I wait, the harder it'll be. And it's my home, Dad. Derek doesn't get to take that from me, too."
Your father nods slowly, then reaches into his jacket pocket. "Before I go, there's something I want you to have."
He pulls out a small velvet pouch, the fabric worn and soft with age. Your breath catches as he places it in your palm - you recognize this pouch. Your mother kept her favorite pieces in pouches just like this. Pouches that you didn't have anymore. You'd thought he'd already given you all of her jewelry, and you couldn't help but hope that you were wrong.
"Open it," your father says gently.
Your hands shake slightly as you loosen the drawstring. Inside is a ring - it has a delicate, thin gold band with a ruby set in the center, smaller stones flanking it on either side. The ruby catches the morning light streaming through the Inn's windows, gleaming deep red like blood, like passion, like the pickaxe March made you. You're flooded with emotions, thinking of your mother having worn this ring, of the beautiful pickaxe sitting at the smith's shop that you treasure with everything in you, of how both of these rubies remind you of someone who cares about you, protects you.
"Mom's?" your question is barely a whisper, you not trusting your voice fully.
"One of her favorites," your father confirms, his voice thick. "She wore it on special occasions. Always said the ruby reminded her that even the earth's most beautiful things are formed under pressure." He pauses, swallowing hard. "Seemed fitting, given everything you've been through. Everything you've survived."
The tears come before you can stop them. You slip the ring onto your finger and it fits perfectly, like it was always meant to be yours. The weight of it feels significant, grounding. A piece of her, connecting you across time and loss and miles and miles of grief.
"She'd be so proud of you," your father continues, his own eyes bright with unshed tears. "The way you stood up to him. The way you made yourself safe. The way you're taking back your life." He pulls you into a careful hug. "I'm proud of you too, sweetheart. So damn proud."
You cry against his shoulder, feeling like a child again - but also feeling stronger than you ever have. Your father's arms around you, your mother's ring on your finger, March's steady presence nearby. You're surrounded by love, by support, by people who see your worth. You let him hold you, leaning into his warm comfort as you let the tears flow freely.
When you finally pull back, wiping at your eyes, your father turns to March. His expression shifts into something more serious, assessing.
"You take care of my daughter," he says, and it's not quite a question.
"I will," March promises simply.
Your father studies him for a long moment, then nods, a sudden soft smile on his face.. "I believe you." He glances between you both, something knowing in his expression. "Your mother always said the right person makes you feel stronger, not smaller. Seems like you found that, despite everything."
The words make heat rise to your cheeks, but you don't deny it.
Your father's carriage is waiting outside. The goodbye is long and tight and tearful, your father making you promise to call regularly, to let him know how you're doing, to come visit soon.
"And you call me if Derek comes back," he adds, his voice taking on a harder edge. "I don't care what the restraining order says, if he shows up here, I want to know."
"He won't," you say with more confidence than you feel. "He's gone. For good."
Your father nods, kisses your forehead one more time, and climbs into the carriage. You watch until it disappears down the road toward Coalridge, your hand unconsciously touching the ruby ring on your finger.
March gives you a moment of quiet, then asks gently, "Ready?"
You take a deep breath and let it out through your nose - slowly, looking toward the bridge that leads to the farmhouse. Your farmhouse. Not Derek's. Not shared anymore. Just yours.
"Ready," you confirm.
Hemlock appears from inside the Inn, pressing a key into your hand. "For the room," he says. "It's paid up for another month, just in case. If you need to come back, for any reason, it's here."
The safety net that he's offering makes your throat tight. "Thank you."
"That's what we do here in Mistria," Hemlock says gruffly. "We take care of our own."
You nod knowingly.
The walk to the farmhouse feels both too long and at the same time, far too short. March carries the heavier box, leaving you with just your mother's precious things - the box you've protected through everything. The morning is beautiful, early fall warmth in the air, birds singing in the trees. It should feel hopeful.
Instead, your steps slow as the farmhouse comes into view.
The small stone building looks exactly the same as when you left it a week or so ago, but everything has changed. Derek's presence still lingers there - in the things he left behind, in the space he occupied, in the memories soaked into every surface.
You stop at the edge of the property, your feet suddenly rooted to the ground.
"We can wait," March offers, setting down the box he's carrying. "There's no timeline on this."
"No," you say, forcing yourself to take a step forward. "I need to do this. Today. While I still have the courage."
"You'll have the courage tomorrow too," March says. "And the day after that."
The words help, but your hands are still shaking as you approach the door. It's unlocked - you'd left in such a hurry with your belongings that you hadn't thought about securing it properly. The hinges creak as you push it open, and the smell hits you immediately.
Derek's cologne. That sickeningly sweet scent he always wore too much of, that used to make your head ache but you never said anything because he'd get defensive - angry. It permeates everything - the furniture, the curtains, the very air itself. Like he's still here, still claiming this space.
You stand in the doorway, frozen. The farmhouse feels so small suddenly, claustrophobic even. Derek's jacket is still thrown over the chair where he left it. His boots by the door, caked with mud. His coffee mug on the counter, half-full and growing mold. Evidence of a life interrupted, a presence that hasn't fully vacated.
March waits patiently beside you, not pushing, not pulling. Just present and waiting.
"I can smell him," you whisper. "He's everywhere."
"Not for long," March says quietly. "This is your space. We'll make it yours again." he promises.
You take a shaky breath and step inside. The floorboards creak under your feet - the same sound they made when Derek would come home late, when you'd pretend to be asleep because you were too tired to deal with whatever mood he was in.
But Derek isn't coming home. Not today, not ever again.
You move through the space slowly, cataloging everything that needs to go. His clothes in the closet, taking up more space than yours ever did. His toiletries in the bathroom, his razor and cologne and the special soap he insisted on ordering from the capital. His books on the shelf - books he claimed were "too intellectual" for you, books he'd quote at you to make you feel stupid.
In the bedroom, the sheets still smell like him. The pillow on his side of the bed still has the indentation from his head. It's like he just stepped out and could return any moment.
Your breathing is getting faster, shallower. The walls feel like they're closing in.
"Hey." March's voice cuts through the rising panic. "Look at me."
You force your eyes to his face, to the steady calm there.
"What do you want to do with all of this?" March asks.
You look around at all the evidence of Derek's presence, of the life you tried to build here that was built on lies and control and manipulation. Every item feels contaminated, tainted by association and memory.
"Burn it," you hear yourself say. "I want to burn all of it."
March doesn't even blink. "Okay. Let's start gathering things."
You pull Derek's clothes from the closet, armful after armful of shirts and pants and jackets. Each item you touch brings back memories - Derek wearing this shirt when he told you your cooking was barely edible. Derek in these pants when he screamed at you for spending "his" money on groceries. Derek in this jacket when he came home smelling like Vivian and told you that you were being paranoid.
March works methodically beside you, gathering Derek's belongings without comment or judgment. When you pause, staring at a photo of you and Derek from years ago - both of you smiling, looking happy - March gently takes it from your hands and adds it to the pile.
"You don't have to keep things that hurt you," he says quietly. "Not anymore."
You move to the bathroom, throwing Derek's toiletries into a bag with a strange sense of satisfaction. The expensive cologne that always gave you headaches - gone. The razor he'd get angry about if you touched - gone. The special soap - gone.
In the kitchen, you grab his favorite mug, the one he'd get upset about if you used. You hold it for a moment, remembering all the times he'd complain if you made his coffee wrong, if the temperature wasn't perfect, if you'd used the wrong beans.
You carry it outside and throw it against a rock, a loud scream erupting from inside you as you do so. The satisfying shatter of ceramic makes something in your chest loosen, a smile creeping up on your face.
March appears in the doorway with another armload of Derek's things. "Feel better?"
"Actually," you admit, "a lot better"
"Want to break more things?"
You consider it, then shake your head. "No. Honestly, I want to watch it all burn."
You're hauling out the third load of Derek's belongings when you hear voices approaching. Adeline appears first, carrying what looks like cleaning supplies, her expression warm and determined.
"March sent word you might need help," she says, setting down her supplies. "Hope you don't mind the company."
Before you can even respond, more people arrive. Ryis with a toolbox, looking quietly supportive. Olric with an armload of extra firewood, his usual cheerfulness dulled a bit by understanding. Celine with practical efficiency, already assessing what needs to be done. And bouncing along beside Celine is Dell, her eyes bright with curiosity.
"We're here to help," Ryis says simply. "Whatever you need."
The wave of emotion nearly overwhelms you. These people - who you've only known for a few months, who owe you nothing - have shown up to help you reclaim your space. No questions, no judgment, just their presence and support.
"Thank you," you manage, your voice thick. "Thank you so much."
"That's what we do in Mistria," Adeline says, echoing Hemlock's words. "Now, where do you want to start?"
Within an hour, you have a respectable pile of Derek's belongings in the yard. Olric has built a fire pit with practiced efficiency, arranging kindling and larger logs with the ease of someone who's done this many times.
"This is going to be one hell of a bonfire," Olric observes, looking at the pile.
"Well," March says, "at least we know it'll be well-stocked."
Despite everything, you find yourself smiling at the dry humor in his voice.
Dell is absolutely fascinated as Olric lights the fire, watching the flames catch and grow with wide-eyed wonder. "This is so cool," she breathes.
"Don't get any ideas," Celine warns her sister.
As the fire grows stronger, you start feeding Derek's belongings into it. His clothes first, watching the fabric catch and curl and turn to ash. Each item feels like releasing a weight, like cutting a piece of a tangled cord that's been strangling you for years.
His favorite shirt - the blue one he was wearing when he hit you - goes in. You watch it burn with satisfaction.
The books he used to make you feel stupid go in next, their pages curling and blackening.
Dell has found a long stick and is poking enthusiastically at the fire, her face bright with joy. "Can I help add things?" she asks.
"Dell, maybe let them-" Celine starts.
"It's okay," you interrupt, a smile on your face. "Here." You hand Dell one of Derek's jackets. "This one needs to go."
Dell takes it with reverence, like she understands the significance of what's happening, and tosses it into the flames with dramatic flair. "BURN, BAD JACKET!" she shouts.
Despite everything, you laugh. The absurdity of a child yelling at clothing, the amazing release of watching Derek's things disappear - it's exactly what you need.
"This is the BEST fire I've ever seen!" Dell announces, poking at the flames with enthusiasm that borders on concerning.
"Dell," Celine says warningly, moving closer to her sister. "You know you're not allowed to play with fire anymore. Remember what happened at the-"
"That was ONE TIME!" Dell protests, not taking her eyes off the flames. "And technically the chicken coop was already old! It was a fire hazard!"
"It was a fire hazard AFTER you set it on fire," Celine points out.
"Details," Dell mutters, but she does take a small step back from the fire.
Ryis catches your eye and mouths "Don't ask" with an expression of fond exasperation.
The fire burns hot and bright, consuming Derek's presence piece by piece. His expensive jacket that he loved more than he loved you - ash. The cologne that used to make you nauseous - the bottle explodes in the heat, causing the fire to grow in a brief flare. His books, his clothes, his carefully curated image of who he wanted people to think he was - all of it, reduced to nothingness.
Adeline stands beside you, watching the flames. "How are you doing?" she asks quietly.
"I don't know," you admit. "Relieved? Sad? Angry?" You touch the ruby ring on your finger. "All of it at once."
"That's normal," Adeline says. "You're grieving. Not for him - for the time you lost, for who you were before he got his claws in you. That's worth your feelings."
As Derek's favorite jacket catches fire, March mutters, "Derek's fashion sense finally going up in smoke. About time. Man dressed like he was trying to impress people at a funeral."
Olric snorts quietly beside you, and the sound makes you smile despite the heaviness of the moment.
The fire burns for hours. Your community stands with you, feeding the flames, happily bearing witness to your reclamation. Occasionally someone will make a comment - nothing cruel, just observations that help lighten the weight of what you're doing.
When Adeline tosses in a particularly ugly tie Derek used to wear, she deadpans, "I'd say I'm sorry, but that's a lie. This is a public service."
Even in the midst of destruction, there's laughter. Support doesn't have to be somber to be real.
As the fire dies down to embers, Dell looks up at you with serious eyes. "Do you feel better?" she asks.
You consider the question honestly. "Yeah," you say. "I really do."
"Good," Dell says firmly. "Because you seem nice, and nice people shouldn't have to keep bad people's stuff."
The simple child-logic of it makes your throat tight.
With the fire dealt with, everyone turns their attention to the inside of the farmhouse. Adeline takes charge of the kitchen, attacking it with cleaning supplies and fierce determination. Celine tackles the bathroom, scrubbing every surface Derek had touched. Ryis checks all the door and window locks, tightening screws and adjusting the mechanisms.
"These locks are pretty basic," he observes. "I can add a deadbolt to the front door if you want? Extra security."
"Please," you say gratefully.
Ryis nods and gets to work. The sound of him installing the new lock is oddly comforting - the house being made safer, being made yours.
You move through the space opening every window, pushing them wide to let the fall air rush through. The breeze carries away Derek's lingering cologne, replacing it with the smell of grass and wildflowers and possibility.
March appears beside you with something in his hand - a candle, still in its wrapper. "Found this in one of your boxes. Thought you might want it now."
You take it, reading the label. Cedarwood and lavender. You'd bought it months ago at the general store, drawn to the scent.
"Derek had complained that scented candles gave him headaches." you say quietly. It had stayed wrapped, unused, hidden away.
"He's not here to complain anymore," March says, a small smile on his face.
You unwrap the candle with hands that are steadier than you expect them to be and carry it to the mantle of the fireplace. The match strikes easily, and the flame catches. Within moments, the scent begins to fill the space - cedarwood and lavender, clean and intentional and chosen by you.
Cedarwood. Like March's jacket, like safety, like the new associations you're building to replace the old ones.
The smell of Derek is finally fading, replaced by something that's entirely yours.
Dell has been "helping" by moving small items from one place to another with logic that only makes sense to her. She's created what she calls "good energy piles" and "bad energy piles," though her criteria for which is which seems to change from moment to moment.
"This spoon has good energy," she announces, placing it carefully in a drawer. "But this other spoon is suspicious."
"Dell, they're identical spoons," Celine points out.
" You can't see energy," Dell says with the confidence of someone who absolutely believes she can.
Despite yourself, you're charmed. Dell's presence makes the heavy work feel lighter, her child's perspective cutting through the weight of trauma with simple observations.
As afternoon wears into evening, people begin to leave. Adeline hugs you tightly before she goes. "This place already feels different," she says. "Lighter. You did good today."
"We did good," you correct. "I couldn't have done this alone."
Adeline smiles. "You wouldn't have had to. That's the point of a community."
Ryis finishes installing the deadbolt and shows you how it works. "It's sturdy," he assures you. "Someone would have to really work to get through this. You're safe here."
Safe. The word still feels foreign but increasingly real. Hopefully soon it will become familiar.
Dell hugs you with the enthusiasm of a small hurricane. "Can we make another fire sometime?" she asks hopefully. "Without the sad stuff? Just for fun?"
"Dell," Celine sighs, but she's smiling. She looks at you apologetically. "Sorry about her. She's... enthusiastic about fire."
"I noticed," you say, amused. "And yes, Dell. We can make another fire sometime. For fun."
Dell's face lights up like you've promised her the world. "AWESOME!"
As Celine guides Dell toward home, you hear Dell chattering about "good fires" and "bad fires" and something about wanting to be a "professional fire person" when she grows up.
"She means firefighter," Celine calls out, explaining wearily. "We're working on the terminology."
Olric is the last to leave, clapping March on the shoulder as he goes. "You staying?" he asks, already knowing the answer.
March glances at you. "If that's okay."
"It's okay," you confirm quickly. More than okay. The thought of being alone here tonight, even with new locks and Derek's presence burned away, makes anxiety spike in your chest.
Olric nods knowingly and heads out, waving as he goes. "See you at the shop tomorrow, March. Take your time getting there."
When everyone is finally gone and it's just you and March in the farmhouse, the silence feels significant. Different than before. Not heavy or oppressive, but... peaceful. Expectant.
This is your space now. Yours to shape, yours to fill, yours to make into whatever you want it to be.
"There's one more thing," you say quietly, moving to the closet.
The box is still there, pushed to the back where you'd hidden it on your first day in Mistria. You'd protected it fiercely through everything - through Derek's rages, through the move, through all of it. Now you can finally bring it out into the light.
You carry it to the center of the room like something precious, because it is to you. March watches as you open it carefully, revealing the contents you've guarded so carefully.
The photo of you and your parents, the one Derek threw in the trash that first night. You'd rescued it, carefully preserving it despite the cracked glass in the frame. In the image, you're maybe twelve years old, your mother's arm around your shoulders, your father grinning beside you both. It was taken at the park in Coalridge on a perfect summer day, when your mother was healthy and happy and alive.
Your hands shake as you lift it out. You've looked at this photo so many times in secret, hidden in the closet where Derek couldn't see, wouldn't know you'd defied him by keeping it.
You carry it to the mantle, where the cedarwood candle is burning, and place it front and center. Where it belongs. Where it should have been all along.
March has come to stand beside you, his presence warm and steady. He doesn't say anything, just stands with you as you look at your mother's face, at the evidence of a life before Derek, before loss, before you forgot who you were.
"She would have liked you," you say quietly, touching the ruby ring on your finger - your mother's ring. "My mom. She would have liked that you helped me find my strength again."
"I think you always had the strength," March says. "You just forgot where you put it for a while."
You reach into the box again, pulling out your mother's bandana - faded and worn from years of use in the mines, still smelling faintly of earth and minerals. You place it next to the photo, a small memorial to the woman who taught you to be strong.
The few pieces of jewelry Derek didn't know about come out next - a pair of simple earrings, a bracelet your mother wore every day. You arrange them in a small dish nearby, each item a reclaimed piece of your history.
Letters your mother wrote you before she died, her handwriting looping and familiar, go into a drawer where they'll be safe. You'll read them again later, when you're ready. For now, it's enough to know they're here, accessible, honored.
The farmhouse is transformed. The bed has been moved to catch the morning light - your preference, not Derek's. The table is positioned near the window overlooking what will be your garden, where you can watch things grow. Your clothes hang in the closet, taking up space without apology. Your books are on the shelf - the ones you actually enjoy, not the ones Derek thought you should read. Your mother's photo presides over the mantle, watching over you with her captured smile.
Your space. Your home. Your life.
"I'm hungry," you announce, the mundane need breaking through the emotion. Your stomach has been tight with nerves all day, but now you actually feel ready to eat. "Want to make dinner?"
March's expression softens. "What are you thinking?"
"Something simple." You move to the kitchen - your kitchen - and start opening cabinets. Most of Derek's food is gone, thrown out during the cleaning, but there are basics. Pasta, sauce, vegetables. "Nothing fancy. Just... normal."
"Normal sounds perfect," March agrees.
Cooking with March feels natural, comfortable. He moves around the space with easy familiarity, asking where things are rather than assuming, helping chop vegetables with practiced efficiency, making terrible jokes about your knife technique that make you laugh despite yourself.
"Your cutting board looks like a crime scene," he observes as you massacre a tomato.
"I'm a farmer, not a chef," you protest. "I know how to grow the vegetables, not cut them properly."
"Clearly," March says, but his tone is amused, not critical. "Here, like this." He demonstrates a more efficient cutting technique, his hands sure and practiced.
You watch his hands move - calloused from forge work, but precise and gentle. The same hands that held you through nightmares, that helped you carry Derek's things to the fire, that have never hurt you.
"I'm thinking about getting chickens," you say as you stir the pasta sauce. The words come out more certain than you expected. "For the farm. Fresh eggs, and they're good for pest control."
"As long as you don't act like Hayden does with Henrietta." March says, rolling his eyes practically into the back of his head.
You laugh, "And what if I do?" You stick your tongue out, laughing as you start filling a pot with some water to cook the pasta in.
"Then you'll end up with a spoiled chicken who thinks she runs the place," March says, shaking his head with mock severity. "Hayden's created a monster. Henrietta has more attitude than most people I know."
"Maybe that's what I need," you say, stirring the pasta as it starts to boil. "A chicken with attitude. To match my newfound independence."
March's lips quirk into a smile. "Fair point. Though I'm not sure Mistria is ready for another Henrietta."
"That's actually a really good idea, though" he says, returning to your original point. "Chickens, I mean. Practical and relatively low maintenance. Plus, they're entertaining."
"Entertainment wasn't really a factor in my planning," you admit.
"It should be," March says. "Chickens have surprisingly strong personalities. Olric had some growing up, and watching their social dynamics was better than most plays I've seen."
"You've seen plays?" you ask, surprised.
"A few. Before our parents died, they'd take us to the capital sometimes." His expression goes distant for a moment. "Mom loved theater. Dad would fall asleep in the middle, but Mom would be completely absorbed."
The glimpse into March's past makes you want to know more, but you don't push. He'll share when he's ready, just like he's let you share at your own pace.
"New life," you say, returning to the chickens. "New beginnings. Something to take care of that isn't complicated or fraught with years of trauma."
"Just regular chicken drama," March agrees. "Which from what I understand is considerable, but at least it's straightforward. No gaslighting, just pecking order disputes."
You laugh at that, the comparison so apt it's almost painful. "I think I can handle chicken drama."
"I have no doubt," March says warmly.
The pasta is ready, and you drain it with more confidence than you've felt in a kitchen in months. This is your kitchen. You get to cook what you want, how you want, without criticism or commentary about doing it wrong.
You plate the food and carry it to your table - the table you repositioned by the window earlier. The view looks out over the farmland, over the fields you'll clear and plant and nurture into something growing and alive.
"I was thinking about clearing the west field first," you say between bites. "The soil looks good there, and it gets sun most of the day. Maybe plant some basics - tomatoes, beans, squash. Things I know will grow."
March nods, listening with genuine interest. "That's smart. Build your confidence with crops you know before trying anything risky."
"Exactly. And then maybe in the fall, I can think about expanding. But for now..." you gesture around the farmhouse, at the space you've reclaimed. "Baby steps."
"Baby steps got you here," March points out. "They'll get you wherever else you want to go."
The conversation flows easily as you eat - discussing farming techniques your father taught you, March sharing what he knows about the growing season in Mistria, making plans for the chicken coop you'll need to build. It's comfortable, domestic, peaceful in a way you didn't know meals could be.
The cedarwood candle continues burning on the mantle, filling the space with its comforting scent. The ruby on your finger catches the candlelight occasionally, reminding you of where you came from and how far you've traveled. Your mother's photo watches over you from its place of honor, and for the first time in years, you feel like she'd be proud of who you're becoming.
As darkness falls fully outside your windows, you find yourself getting quieter. Your eyes dart to the windows more frequently, checking the shadows beyond the glass. You've gotten up twice to confirm that the door is locked - testing Ryis's new deadbolt - and now you're fighting the urge to check it a third time.
March sets down his cup and looks at you directly. "Hey. What's going on?"
"Nothing," you say automatically, then catch yourself. No more hiding. No more pretending. "Actually, I'm nervous. About staying here. Being here - alone, I mean."
The admission feels vulnerable, like you're admitting weakness. Like you're proving that you can't actually do this, can't actually be independent like you should be able to.
March's expression softens with understanding. "You have nothing to prove," he says gently. "You know that, right?"
"I should be able to stay in my own house without being scared," you say, frustration creeping into your voice. "Derek's gone. He can't hurt me anymore. I should be fine."
"Should," March repeats thoughtfully. "That's a dangerous word." He leans forward slightly. "You were alone here almost every night anyway, because Derek was always gone. At the bathhouse, at the Inn, wherever he was going to cheat on you and lie about it. The only difference now is that he won't be coming back at all."
The observation hits you square in the chest. He's right - you've been alone in this house countless times. The difference is that then, you were waiting for Derek to come home, always on edge about what mood he'd be in, what you might have done wrong in his absence. Now, you're alone by choice, and somehow that feels scarier.
"But that doesn't mean you have to be alone tonight," March continues. "Or any night, until you're ready. Needing support while you heal isn't the same as being dependent."
"What's the difference?" you ask quietly.
"Dependence means you can't function without someone. Support means you're choosing to let someone help you while you build your strength back." March's dark eyes hold yours steadily. "You're one of the strongest people I know. But you've been through hell. Letting me stay here with you tonight doesn't change that strength. It just means you're smart enough to know when you need help."
His answer settles something in your chest. This isn't weakness. This is recovery. This is being honest about your needs instead of pretending you're fine when you're not.
"Will you stay?" you ask, the words coming easier than you expected. "Tonight?"
"Of course," March says simply, like it was never even a question. "As many nights as you need."
The relief that floods through you is almost overwhelming. You don't have to be alone. You don't have to prove anything. You can just... be here, safe, supported, while you figure out how to feel secure in your own space again.
Later, after the dishes are washed and put away in cabinets that are now organized the way you want them, after the house is locked up tight with Ryis's new deadbolt tested multiple times, you find yourself standing in front of your bed.
Your bed. In your house. Ready for sleep that isn't interrupted by Derek coming home late, isn't tainted by his presence beside you, isn't filled with dread about tomorrow.
March has been giving you space, checking the windows one final time, making sure everything is secure. He appears in the doorway, his expression careful, respectful. "I can take the floor, or the chair, or—"
"The bed," you interrupt. "Please. Just... close."
There's no awkwardness as you both settle under the covers. March stays on top of the blankets at first, maintaining respectful distance, but you reach for him in the darkness.
"Closer," you whisper, and he shifts without hesitation, moving under the covers and pulling you against his chest, his arm coming around you protectively.
This is different from the Inn. This is your home, your bed, your choice. You're not hiding or running or seeking temporary shelter. You're here, in the space you've reclaimed, with the person who helped you remember who you are.
The cedarwood candle has burned low, but the scent still lingers in the air, mixing with the clean smell of the sheets you washed earlier. The ruby on your finger presses gently against March's chest where your hand rests over his heart. Outside, Mistria is quiet and peaceful, the sounds of evening settling over the town like a blanket.
"Thank you," you murmur into the darkness, your face pressed against his chest where you can hear his heartbeat. "For today. For all of it."
"Thank you for letting me be part of it," March responds, his voice rumbling in his chest under your ear. His hand moves to stroke gently through your hair. "For trusting me with this."
"Tomorrow I'm going to start planning the chicken coop," you say, sleep already pulling at you, making your words soft and drowsy. "And maybe clear some of the west field. Actually start farming. Actually do what I came here to do."
"Tomorrow," March agrees softly, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. "But tonight, just rest. Just be here, safe, in your home."
Your home. The words settle over you like a blanket, warm and comforting and true.
You drift off feeling safe and whole and hopeful. The farmhouse is yours - truly, completely yours. Your mother's photo watches over you from the mantle, her captured smile a perfect reminder. The ruby on your finger connects you to the past and the future simultaneously, a bridge between who you were, who you lost, and who you're becoming.
Outside, the evening chorus of crickets and night birds begins. The breeze carries the scent of growing things through the slightly open window. March's steady heartbeat drums against your ear, a rhythm you're learning to trust, to rely on, to find comfort in.
You're home. Really, truly home.
And for the first time in longer than you can remember, that means something good.
Something hopeful.
Something entirely, beautifully yours.