The whitewashed walls of the small cottage on the edge of the Atlantic felt like a luxury prison at first.
There was no cold marble here. No armed guards standing at the end of a corridor. No hidden cameras blinking red in the corners of the ceiling. There was only the whitewash, the scent of wild rosemary, and the relentless, rhythmic roar of the ocean crashing against the cliffs below.
It was too quiet.
And in the quiet, the memories had space to breathe.
Ren sat on the wooden porch, his hands resting motionless in his lap. They were clean now—the grease and blood of Hamburg scrubbed away—but he still looked at them as if they belonged to a stranger. For nineteen years, these hands had been worth millions. They had been pampered, insured, restricted.
Now, they were just hands.
Ten fingers, two palms, and a network of scars that didn't have a price tag.
He flexed them tentatively, half-expecting to feel the stinging slap of his father's wooden ruler for an imperfect movement. But the only thing he felt was the warm, salt-heavy breeze of the Azores.
The screen door behind him creaked—a sharp, domestic sound that cut through the air like a gunshot.
Ren's shoulders jerked toward his ears, his breath caught in his throat before he could stop it. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that hadn't learned the war was over yet.
"Sorry," Jace muttered, stopping dead in his tracks.
Ren looked back. Jace stood in the doorway, a mug of coffee in one hand, his other hand instinctively hovering near his waistband where his holster used to be. He looked as out of place as Ren felt. He wasn't wearing tactical gear anymore—just a plain grey t-shirt that revealed the jagged, healing scar on his shoulder.
Jace didn't reach out. He hadn't touched Ren since they stepped off the freighter. It was as if they were both made of thin glass, standing on a vibrating floor, waiting for the other to shatter first.
"It's okay," Ren whispered, forcing his lungs to expand. "I just… I keep waiting. Every time a door opens, I expect the music to start. Or the screaming."
Jace walked over, his boots thudding softly against the wood, and sat on the top step. Not beside Ren—close enough to be there, but not close enough to overwhelm him. He sat with his back to Ren, a quiet shield facing the endless, shimmering blue of the Atlantic.
"There is no music here, Ren," Jace said, his voice a low rumble that felt more grounding than any melody. "Just the wind. And no one is screaming because Arthur is in a federal cage six thousand miles away. He can't reach this island. He can't even see it on a map."
"He said I was his, Jace." Ren's voice broke, the words falling heavy between them. "He said even in the dark, I'd still hear his rhythm. I can still hear it. Every time my heart beats, it feels like it's following his metronome."
Jace's jaw tightened, the muscles in his back going rigid. He turned his head just enough for Ren to catch the fierce, protective glint in his eyes.
"He lied," Jace said, each word sharp and final. "He owned wood and strings. He owned a brand. But he never owned the man. You aren't a symphony he wrote, Ren. You're the silence he couldn't control."
They sat in it—the quiet. That awkward, heavy peace that felt more exhausting than the running.
It wasn't a happy ending. Not yet.
It was the sound of two soldiers trying to remember how to be civilians. Jace still did a lap of the cottage perimeter every hour. Ren still flinched when a fork hit a plate.
They had survived the fire, but they were still carrying the ashes in their lungs.
Ren reached out, his fingers hovering inches from Jace's shirt. He didn't touch him—not yet. He just let his hand rest in the warmth radiating from Jace's back. For the first time, he wasn't searching for a cue or a beat.
He was just waiting for the wind to change.
"We're still broken, aren't we?" Ren asked softly.
Jace didn't turn around. But he reached back, covering Ren's hand with his own, his thumb tracing over knuckles that no longer had to be perfect.
"Yeah," Jace breathed. "But at least we're broken together."