Page 193 of This Life of Mine

After that, Val and I do what feels right.

We sit side-by-side in the bakery before opening—no performance, only us. Flour still dusts the counters behind us. The space looks as it usually does. Warm. Familiar.

We record a video.

We tell our followers and customers that there was another incident. That someone has been arrested. That everyone is okay. We acknowledge what many are already wondering—that this is the second incident in a short span of time and, yes, they are connected. But we’re clear about the limits of what we can share. There’s an open investigation, and details aren’t ours to disclose.

What we do say matters. That the people responsible are being held accountable. That law enforcement has been involved every step of the way. That there is no ongoing threat. That the bakery is safe. And we thank them—for the messages, the concern, the patience, the way this community showed up for us when things seemed frightening and uncertain.

We keep it short. Clear, calm, and grounded. No speculation or unnecessary details. Just enough truth to steady the noise without feeding it.

Because this isn’t about drama. It’s about letting the people who love this place know that we’re still here. And we’re not going anywhere.

“This story is honestly so wild,” I say near the end of the video, managing a small smile, “I might have to write a book about it someday.”

Val snorts beside me, and that tiny bit of normalcy feels like oxygen.

We post it. We breathe, and we keep going. Because that’s what I’ve always done. I’m not bracing for what comes next; I’m living for the next day.

And whatever comes next—whatever the internet says, whatever the world thinks—I’m not disappearing from myself ever again.

Chapter fifty-eight

Alex

It’s been seven months since Elinor Allister was arrested.

Once the news broke—once money trails froze and names started surfacing—the wizard behind the curtain vanished. Completely. Every channel went dark. No chatter, ripples, or contracts. Whoever was pulling strings shut the whole operation down the second exposure became a possibility. We lost every connection overnight.

Reese is still watching, of course. He always is. Quietly monitoring for reappearances, anomalies, patterns that don’t belong. But so far—nothing. Silence. And in my world, silence usually means someone decided the risk wasn’t worth it anymore.

Seven months is long enough for habits to form. Long enough for silence to feel comfortable instead of suspicious. Long enough for me to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. And in that same span of time, I’ve had the best stretch of my life.

Lina and I fell into a rhythm so natural it caught me off guard. No forced conversations, or negotiations about space. Just an easy, steady unfolding of us.

I’ve been staying with her—and as time went on, it stopped seeming like I was visiting someone else’s life and started seeming like I was home.

But getting there wasn’t effortless. It took time and patience.

I noticed the things she didn’t say before I noticed the things she did. The way she’d stretch on her toes for something out of reach instead of asking me for help. The way she’d struggle quietly, jaw set, determined to handle it herself. Sexy without trying. Cute without knowing it. Independence somehow appeared innate.

I’d step in eventually—hand it to her, steady her without commentary—and she’d thank me like help was a favor instead of a given.

Letting me help didn’t come naturally to her. And I understood why.

The house told its own story. Furniture she’d put together alone, barely holding on for dear life. Chairs that wobbled. Shelves hanging by stripped screws and faith. Curtain rods with so many old holes behind them from dozens of reinstallations. I didn’t see incompetence—I saw a woman who never waited around for someone else to show up.

So I fixed things. Quietly. Tightened bolts. Patched walls. Anchored what she tried to make permanent on her own. I didn’t do it to erase her effort—but to reinforce it. To make sure the things she built can last.

Mornings together. Coffee before words. Gym sessions that turned competitive in the best way. Late nights talking about everything and nothing—or lying side by side doing absolutely nothing at all, content in the quiet.

It’s a kind of intimacy I didn’t realize I was missing.

Living together means she’s suddenly woven into every part of my day, and I can’t get enough of it. Or her.

Every excuse becomes an opportunity to touch her. A hand at the small of her back as I pass. Pulling her into my lap when she’s trying to read. Stealing kisses while she’s making coffee. Finding reasons to linger when she’s getting ready for bed.

We wrap ourselves around one another like we’re each other’s oxygen.