Page 195 of This Life of Mine

The staff embraced my presence with surprising enthusiasm.

Word had spread. They all knew what had happened with Elinor. Knew enough to understand why Lina wasn’t being left alone.

Oddly, no one seemed bothered by it. If anything, the opposite was true.

The moment I started showing up regularly, the tension that had settled over the bakery seemed to ease. Smiles came easier. Shoulders relaxed. Even the younger employees appeared more comfortable locking up at night.

No one said it outright, but I sensed it. My presence provided them with a sense of greater safety. And judging by the way they greeted me each morning, they weren’t in any hurry for me to leave.

They also embraced my presence far more enthusiastically than I expected for other reasons. According to Kay, the female customer population has mysteriously increased since I started helping around the shop. I pointed out that she made that statistic up. She informed me she didn’t need statistics when she had eyes.

Now it’s become a running joke among the team. Every time a woman lingers a little too long at the counter or suddenly develops an urgent need for a second latte, someone inevitably finds a way to blame me for it.

Apparently, I’m now considered a bakery marketing strategy. I tolerate the teasing because it makes Lina laugh. And because if I’m being honest, seeing her smile from across the room is worth every sarcastic comment they throw my way.

So here I am, sweeping up coffee grounds. Checking the counter fridge for inventory. Early mornings that start before the sun.

Watching Lina move through her space—confident, focused, respected—does something to me every single time. Because she built her new life from nothing but grit and vision, and seeing it thrive feels personal.

This place matters to her. And because it matters to her, it matters to me.

Helping here isn’t a sacrifice. It’s grounding. Honest. It’s work that builds instead of destroys—work that leaves something warm behind at the end of the day instead of silence.

Seven months ago, I was measuring my life in exits and contingencies. Now I measure it in moments. In routines. In shared purpose. In the quiet satisfaction of standing beside a woman who didn’t only survive her life—but shaped it. I don’t have the sensation of passing through. I feel like I’ve arrived.

The Wraithstill takes jobs here and there—but nothing like before. No endless contracts stacked back-to-back. No living outof hotels with go-bags. I don’t chase work anymore. I choose it. And most of the time, I choose not to—because honestly, I, Alex, don’t need to.

Between what I earned over the years and what I set aside deliberately—quiet investments, clean accounts—I’m secure in a way I never let myself be before. Reese is too. We planned for this long before we admitted we wanted it. Back then, we told ourselves it was about flexibility. About freedom. The truth is, it was about an exit we didn’t think we’d ever take.

Reese has slowed down in a way that suits him. He still keeps his mind sharp—still monitors the things that matter—but he’s stopped living like tomorrow is promised to chaos. He spends his time planning a wedding instead of a raid. Thinking about houses instead of hideouts. Arguing about paint colors instead of cover stories. It’s good for him.

I hear it in his voice. In the way he laughs more easily. In how he talks about the future like it’s something real instead of theoretical. And I let myself imagine that kind of future too.

This version of life—steady mornings, shared meals, work that builds instead of destroys—it doesn’t dull me. It grounds me. Makes me sharper where it counts. More selective.

We didn’t burn out—but I was getting close. Closer than I wanted to admit.

At one point, the labor seemed to have significance. Necessary. Every contract justified by the idea that I was removing something rotten from the world. It kept me focused. Alive. Though, after a period, it started to feel…routine.

I’d wake up already tired from repetition. Same prep. Same patterns. Same violence wearing different faces. I caught myself going through motions I used to approach with intention. That scared me.

Because when something like that becomes another task—when it starts resembling a job you drag yourself into insteadof a responsibility you consciously choose—that’s when mistakes happen. That’s when you stop seeing people and start seeing checklists. I never wanted that.

Meeting Lina forced me to notice it. She helped remind me what presence feels like. What it means to wake up looking forward to the day instead of bracing for it.

Stepping back wasn’t surrender. It was course correction. I didn’t lose my edge. I reclaimed myself. Because I was starting to lose myself. ToThe Wraith. Little pieces at a time. Every year spent chasing monsters until I stopped noticing how much of one I’d become myself.

The lines blurred. The mask shifted from an accessory to my very essence.

Stillness became unbearable because it left me alone with thoughts I’d spent years outrunning. So I kept moving. Kept hunting. Kept convincing myself that purpose and self-destruction were the same thing. And now, when I do take a job, it’s because I want to.

The Wraithstill makes appearances here and there. Not for contracts but for Lina. The difference is what’s underneath it.

Lina enjoys the mask, the voice— the mystery and the danger it represents. And if putting on a few pounds of tactical gear makes her eyes light up with desire, who am I to deny her?

The funny part is that she doesn’t wantThe Wraith. She wants Alex wearingThe Wraith’sface. The man beneath the armor. The one who cooks her dinner, stocks her favorite snacks, and remembers how she takes her coffee. The mask might be part of the fantasy. But I’m the one she reaches for when it comes off.

Standing here now, with Lina woven into every part of my life, I know this is what all that preparation was really for—not endless danger or perpetual motion—but the freedom to stop. To choose. To live. To do things that once felt impossible.