“Jax fits,” I say quietly.
“It does.” She leans forward and presses a kiss to my jaw. “But Jax is who you became. Jackson Hale is who survived.”
I let the name settle between us. It doesn’t taste like poison anymore.
I nod once. “I’ll call the lawyer in the morning.”
Ava exhales—relief, pride, love, I don’t know—and rests her hand over my heart like she’s making sure it beats.
“It won’t change anything here,” she whispers.
“No,” I agree. “But it might finally change something in me.”
Her lips find mine—slow, deep, rooted. My fingers slip into her hair. Spring wind tries to sneak between us. It fails.
When we break apart, we’re both smiling.
Violet pads over, sketchbook hugged to her chest.
“I finished,” she announces.
We slide over so she can sit between us. She opens to a fresh page.
It’s the three of us—on this porch—tonight. Me holding Ava’s hand. Ava leaning into me. Violet at our feet, pencil in hand. The mountains at our backs like a fortress.
There’s a string of little hearts above our heads, badly drawn. I pretend not to notice. Ava pretends not to cry.
“You captured my beard very… thoroughly,” I say.
Violet rolls her eyes. “You have a lot of beard.”
“I do,” I concede.
“And if you shave it, I will sue you.”
I blink. “…pretty sure you can’t.”
“I’ll find a way.”
Ava laughs helplessly, wiping her cheeks. “You two are impossible.”
“Good impossible,” Violet says, leaning into us.
Ava slips an arm around her daughter, and I slide one around both of them. We sit like that—three shapes molded by winter and remade by thaw.
Above us, stars prick through the fading blue. Below, snow melts into earth. Between, the quiet miracle of staying.
For the first time, I think the words without fear:
This is home.
Not the house. Not the mountain.
Them.
Ava tips her face up to mine. “You’re thinking loud again.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“What’s the thought?”
I brush a strand of hair behind her ear, slow and reverent.
“This time,” I say, “I didn’t lose them.”
I hold them closer and breathe deep.
THE END