Page 93 of Bound By Song

Behind me, Blaise slouches in one of the kitchen chairs, drumming his fingers on the table like he’s never known patience a day in his life.

“She’s been quiet,” he mutters, nodding toward the stove. “You think I pushed too hard again?”

“You usually do,” I say evenly.

He grins, unbothered. “Didn’t hear you complaining when she started singing.”

I don’t answer. Instead, I watch as she reaches for a stack of plates, her hands steady now, more sure of herself in this small act of domesticity than she was with a guitar in her hands. That’s what tells me everything I need to know – she’s trying. Still guarded, but trying.

Dane catches my eye across the room and gives a barely perceptible nod. He sees it too.

“Is she cooking?” Blaise asks, pushing to his feet.

“Looks like it,” I say. “Let’s go eat.”

We gather around the kitchen table, steam rising from mismatched mugs and a small spread of food Eviana’s put together – bread, butter, soup from a tin, and a tray of cakes that look delicious. It’s not much, but it feels like more than enough.

“Thanks, honeybee,” Blaise says cheerfully, already helping himself to the cake. Eviana doesn’t respond, but the corners of her mouth twitch, just barely.

Dane joins us, quiet as ever, handing her a mug and then sitting at her side, close but not crowding her. I keep my place across from her, letting her have space. But I don’t stop watching her – can’t.

Even in silence, she’sdoing. Stirring, pouring, tidying, moving like if she stops, something in her might break. Her scent’s more settled now, but there’s still a war behind her eyes. A kind of emotional hangover from everything she’s just given us.

We eat, talk lightly. The usual ribbing between me and Blaise. Dane throwing in the occasional deadpan comment that somehow lands harder than anything we say. Eviana doesn’t add much, but she listens. That alone feels like a victory.

Afterwards, she retreats to the lounge again, carrying a few of the blankets with her. Blaise disappears somewhere, grumbling about string tension and needing to “fix the acoustic situation,” and Dane lingers in the kitchen to clean up.

I follow her.

Back in the lounge, the fire’s burned lower, but it still casts enough warmth for the room to feel safe. Eviana’s rearranging her nest again – slow, deliberate movements that look like ritual. I watch from the shadows, careful not to make her feel seen in the wrong way.

“You’re making it more comfortable,” I say quietly.

She freezes, then glances over. “What?”

“The nest,” I clarify, nodding toward it. “You’re adding to it.”

She shrugs, avoiding my eyes. “I just...wanted it to feel warmer. That’s all.”

I nod. “That’s good. You should make it yours. As much as you need to.”

She doesn’t respond, but her movements slow. Then, after a beat, she turns slightly and hesitates – really hesitates – before reaching for one of the blankets.

“Are you cold?” she asks abruptly.

I blink. “No, I’m fine.”

Still, she holds the blanket out to me – awkward, uncertain, but genuine. Like she’s offering something far bigger than fabric.

“Here,” she mumbles. “You can...have this. If you want to.”

I take it slowly, letting it settle across my lap. “Thanks.”

She pulls the rest of the blankets tighter around herself, curling into her space again. But this time, her eyes flick to me – not wary, just checking. Like she’s making sure I’m comfortable too. I give her a smile and a nod of approval, tucking the blanket around myself, and something in her eyes lights up.

“I’m not saying you can’t handle yourself,” I say softly. “But you don’t have to. Not anymore.”

Her eyes narrow, shoulders tensing. “I’ve been doing fine on my own.”

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