Two days from Vineyard, the air tasted like rain and iron.
The highway had given way to low hills and dying orchards. In the distance, vines strangled abandoned farmhouses, their windows dark and watching. The world felt closer to something living again, and that closeness made every instinct sharper.
They stopped at sunset.
Felicity pressed her palm to the cracked asphalt, and her space opened like a breath released.
Golden light poured outward. Grass replaced rubble. The air softened. Lanterns flickered to life overhead.
Only the husbands stepped inside.
The seam sealed behind them.
Silence settled, thick but not hostile.
Felicity stood in the center of her space, braid over her shoulder, fox ears twitching in that way that meant she was pretending not to be nervous.
Damien was the first to shed the shape of the road.
