Page 102 of Unbound
"You belong here," Adrian said firmly, his hand finding mine. "This is your home, Jesse. Your family."
Diana parked and turned off the engine. Through the windows, I could see faces watching for us—Phoenix's bright hair, Sam's silhouette, others I couldn't quite make out. They'd been waiting.
The front door opened before we reached the porch. Phoenix, Sam, Elijah, and Andrew spilled out with careful excitement on their faces, moving slowly, gently. They'd learned to be careful with broken things.
"Welcome home," Phoenix said softly—unusually subdued for them, but their eyes were bright with unshed tears.
Adrian steadied my elbow as I swayed slightly. "Easy," he murmured. "One step at a time."
I knew these people. Had lived with them, laughed with them, been part of their chosen family. So why did I feel like I was meeting them for the first time? Like there was a wall of glass between us that I couldn't break through?
Elijah stepped forward, his expression gentle but direct. "How are you feeling? Really?"
"Tired," I managed. "Everything feels... far away."
"That's normal," Sam said knowingly. "It takes time for your brain to believe you're really safe."
They led me inside—this living room where we'd planned my legal defence, where I'd collapsed in tears before I went to Montana. The couch where Adrian and I had fallen asleep watching movies. Everything exactly where it had been, but I felt like a ghost haunting my own life.
"Want to rest for a bit?" Adrian asked, and I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He led me upstairs to our room—the corner room with two windows that I'd shared with him for those precious two weeks. But something was different. The bed had been moved, positioned so I could see the door from every angle. New blackout curtains hung beside the regular ones. A reading chair positioned in the corner, facing the windows.
"The others made some changes, while they waited for us to get here," Adrian said carefully. "The doctors said... they said trauma survivors sometimes need to feel more in control of their environment. But if anything makes you uncomfortable, we can change it back. Just tell me and I'll do it."
I stood in the doorway, overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness. They'd prepared for my return, anticipated needs I didn't even know I had.
"It's perfect," I whispered, meaning every word.
I collapsed onto the bed—our bed—and for the first time in weeks, felt something approaching safety. Adrian sat beside me, not touching, just present.
"I keep expecting to wake up back there," I admitted.
"You're here. You're safe. That place can't touch you anymore."
I wanted to believe him. I tried to believe him. But my body still jumped at every unexpected sound, my heart still raced when doors closed too loudly.
"Will it ever stop? The fear?"
"I don't know," Adrian said honestly. "But whatever it looks like, we'll figure it out together."
Dinner was surreal. The whole group gathered around the kitchen table—the same table where I'd shared countless meals before Montana, where Diana had fed me soup and Phoenix had made me laugh until I cried. But now I sat at the familiar table feeling like an outsider looking in.
Diana had cooked something that smelled like comfort and probably tasted like belonging, but I could barely manage more than a few bites. My stomach, still recovering, couldn't handle much.
I watched them instead. Really watched. Phoenix telling some elaborate story with wild hand gestures. Sam making dry observations that had Andrew laughing. Elijah quietly making sure everyone had enough to eat. Diana fussing over whether the seasoning was right.
This was what I'd missed during those eight weeks in hell. Not just the safety or the food or the warm bed. This. Family that wasn't performance, wasn't judgment. Just people who'd chosen each other, accepting all the messy, complicated, beautiful parts.
And they'd chosen me too. Even broken. Even traumatized. Even hollow.
"Jesse?" Diana's voice was gentle. "You okay?"
I realized I'd been staring, lost in thought. Everyone was looking at me with concern, not judgment.
"Yeah," I said, and for the first time in weeks, I almost meant it. "I'm okay."
After the dishes were cleared, Adrian nudged my shoulder. "Let's get you into something more comfortable," he said gently. We went upstairs together, a simple, domestic act that felt more intimate than anything we’d had in weeks. He passed me a soft t-shirt and a pair of worn grey sweatpants—his—and I changed while he did the same. There was no awkwardness, just a quiet comfort in sharing the space.
