The house was quiet, as it often was in the late hours of the evening, save for the soft clinking of dishes from the kitchen and the occasional rustle of branches brushing against the windows. Outside, the rain had settled into a steady whisper, wrapping the Cullen house in its familiar grey cocoon.

Carlisle stood near the archway of the living room, a book in one hand, though he hadn’t turned a page in nearly ten minutes. His gaze lingered instead on the boy seated near the hearth, knees drawn up to his chest, eyes flickering between the dancing flames and the shadows they cast on the walls.

It had been two months since Carlisle found him—half-conscious, soaked in mud and blood, and barely standing. A Witcher. The last of his kind. A living myth.

Carlisle hadn’t hesitated. He never did, when it came to saving a life.

Now the boy—quiet, cautious, but gentle in a way the world hadn’t expected of Witchers—sat curled up in the heart of their home. He hadn’t said much during the first weeks, only offered polite nods or soft one-word answers. But Esme had warmed to him immediately, taking joy in preparing meals again. He needed real food, unlike them. He needed rest, unlike them. And yet, none of them found that to be a burden.

Rosalie especially.

She had been distant at first, as expected—guarded, skeptical. But now, Carlisle often caught her watching the boy when he wasn’t looking. She would ruffle his hair gently when passing, or linger a bit longer if he was asleep on the couch, curled beneath one of Esme’s quilts. She never said it aloud, but Carlisle saw it in her eyes.

She was healing, too.

Alice had smiled during one of their first quiet dinners together.

“He belongs here,” she’d whispered. “I’ve seen it.”

Even the wolves had come around. Jacob had been the first to speak with him, surprising them all. The conversation was short, awkward, but carried no tension. Something unspoken had passed between them—something old souls recognize in each other.

Carlisle stepped forward now, closing the book gently and kneeling beside the boy, who glanced over with those curious, silver-flecked eyes.

“You should get some sleep soon,” Carlisle said softly. “Esme made that stew again—the one you liked. There’s some left.”