I swallow hard, letting her words settle in. The truth is, I don’t know what happens after this. I don’t know what I become once the dust settles, once Aubrey is locked away—or worse, once she’s free again.

But right now, in this moment, I know one thing for certain.

I don’t want to let go of her.

I shift slightly, pressing my lips to her forehead in a slow, lingering kiss. Her breath catches, but she doesn’t pull away.

“So,” I say after a beat, my voice lighter this time, “where do we go from here?”

Selene looks at me, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?”

“Let’s start simple,” I suggest, leaning my head back against the rocking chair. “What’s your stance on breakfast for dinner? Because I’m about to make some very bold claims about my pancake skills.”

She tilts her head slightly, an amused gleam in her eyes. “Pancakes, huh? Are we talking fluffy, golden masterpieces or the sad, burnt hockey pucks?”

I place a hand over my heart, pretending to be wounded. “Wow, that’s slander. My pancakes are legendary. Ask anyone. In fact, I’m offering to prove it. Breakfast for dinner tomorrow night. You in?”

She chuckles, her eyes warming. “Alright, I’m in, but I have to warn you, I don’t believe in breakfast for dinner. I believe it firmly belongs before 11 a.m., but I’ll do this for you one time. These better be some world-changing pancakes. But if they’re terrible, I’m taking Valkyrie and leaving town for good.”

“Deal,” I reply, grinning. “But we need to circle back to the blasphemy that is you not liking breakfast for dinner. What is that?”

Selene smiles, but it fades slightly as her gaze drifts to the dark tree line. Her fingers idly trace a fold in the blanket, and when she speaks again, her voice is quieter. “There were a lot of times growing up that it was all we had money to eat. I could make pancakes, and Orion would sometimes ‘steal’ eggs from our neighbor Ms. Spicer. I use the word ‘steal’ loosely because she knew mom would spend all her money at the ABC store. So sometimes, we’d find eggs packaged up for us on the porch, or she’d catch us walking home from school and make sure we had what we needed. We ate a lot of fried eggs, breakfast potatoes, and pancakes…” She trails off, staring at the shadows cast by the porch light.

I don’t know what to say. That was the last thing I expected, and now pancakes don’t feel like such a lighthearted topic anymore. But I get it. I do. Food carries memories. Some good, some bad. Some you’d rather not be reminded of at all.