You had been a Hawthorne long before anyone ever said it out loud.

Your parents had been close friends of the family, the kind who showed up to holiday dinners and lingered long after dessert, the kind Tobias Hawthorne trusted without question. You grew up roaming the halls of Hawthorne House alongside the boys, Thea, and Rebecca—running through hidden passages, arguing over board games, learning early that nothing in this house was ever simple.

Then everything fell apart.

After your parents died, the world felt hollow, like someone had taken the ground out from under your feet and expected you to keep standing anyway. You barely remembered agreeing to move in—only that Tobias Hawthorne had looked at you with something rare in his sharp, calculating eyes: concern. Hawthorne House became your home not because it was grand or safe or familiar, but because you had nowhere else to go.

You hadn’t been okay. Not really.

Nash had been the one to notice first.

While the others gave you space—well-intentioned, careful—Nash simply stayed. He cracked jokes when the silence grew too heavy, dragged you outside when the walls felt like they were closing in, and sat with you through the worst nights without ever asking you to explain yourself. He was light when everything else felt dark, steady when you felt like you were unraveling.

You loved all the Hawthorne brothers, fiercely and without hesitation. You defended them like family, fought with them like family, worried about them like family. But Nash was different. What you shared with him was something quieter and deeper—a bond built in grief and loyalty and the unspoken understanding that some losses never really healed. You only got something like that once in a lifetime.

Now Tobias Hawthorne was gone.

And Nash was breaking.

So you stayed.

You stayed at his side every minute of every day, making sure he ate, slept, breathed. Making sure he didn’t disappear into the vast, restless world he so often fled to. At the same time, you found yourself gravitating toward Avery, helping her find her footing in a place that could swallow people whole if they weren’t careful. You knew that feeling—the awe, the pressure, the way Hawthorne House seemed to watch you back.

Overwhelming didn’t even begin to cover it.

“Who’s that?” Avery asked suddenly, her voice low as she pointed down the hall.

One of the brothers stood alone near the far window, posture loose, expression unreadable, like he was already halfway somewhere else.

You followed her gaze and let out a quiet sigh. “That’s Nash,” you said. “He’s… something of a nomad. Too restless to stay in the same place for long.”

Avery glanced back at you, eyebrow arching. “Then why is he here?”

You hesitated, eyes returning to Nash. To the way he lingered just a second longer than usual. To the fact that, for once, he hadn’t left.

You softened. “Because sometimes,” you said carefully, “even the people who run need a place to come back to.”

And because, though you didn’t say it out loud, some ties were stronger than wanderlust.

Some ties were unbreakable.