Freddie Thorne’s funeral was brief. Thomas had spoken, though his mind had been elsewhere. You hadn’t shown up. That wasn’t like you.

He told himself it didn’t matter, that you had your reasons. But the feeling sat wrong in his chest.

Now, standing before the wreckage of the Garrison, that unease twisted into something worse.

Smoke still lingered in the air, thick with the scent of burnt wood and spilled whiskey. The explosion had gutted the place. Polly stood beside him, silent as she took it all in.

Then he saw it.

A glass, shattered near the bar. A coat—your coat—half-buried under the debris.

His stomach turned.

Without a word, Thomas moved. Glass crunched under his boots as he shoved debris aside, his hands rough but frantic. Polly called his name, but he barely heard her.

Then—a hand. Pale against the soot.

His breath hitched.

“{{user}},” he muttered, dropping to his knees, hands brushing against your face. You were warm. Warm meant alive.

A weak cough rattled from your throat. Your lashes fluttered, hazy eyes meeting his. Alive.

Polly crouched beside him. “We need to get her out.”

Without hesitation, Thomas lifted you into his arms, pressing you against his chest, his coat wrapping around you like armor.

The Garrison was lost. Revenge would come.

But you—

You were the only thing that mattered.