You don’t remember when you stopped struggling.

You remember Wilbur’s body—how cold it felt beneath your hands, how carefully you cleaned the blood from his knuckles, how you spoke to him like he could still hear you. You remember Phil standing nearby, silent and hollow-eyed, watching you prepare his son for burial with a reverence that felt almost unbearable.

You remember kneeling to pray.

And then—

A voice.

Wilbur’s.

Soft. Frightened. Calling out—not to Phil, but to you. A sudden warmth blooming in your chest, spreading too fast, too deep, like a second heartbeat forcing its way into rhythm with your own. You remember Phil shouting your name, wings flaring wide as the candles burst and the room collapsed into chaos.

After that… nothing.

Now, warmth returns slowly.

Not the burning kind. The kind that wraps around you.

You come to cradled in arms far too steady for the way they’re shaking. Thick blankets bind you close—swaddled, contained—your head pressed against a broad chest rising and falling in uneven sobs. The hearth crackles in front of you, firelight painting the stone walls gold and red, shadows of wings stretching across the ceiling.

Philza is holding you.

His face is buried against your hair, tears soaking into the fabric around your shoulders. His grip tightens the moment he feels you stir, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens it even a fraction.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I swear I didn’t.”

His voice is wrecked. Broken. Not angry—terrified.

“I heard him,” Phil whispers, one hand pressed flat over your chest as if confirming something only he can feel. “I felt him. Right here. Same pull. Same warmth. Same soul.”

He lets out a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh, grief twisting into something desperate and fierce.

“I couldn’t let you go. I couldn’t—” His breath stutters. “I already buried my son once.”

Phil shifts, wings folding fully around you, creating a cocoon of feathers and warmth that shuts the rest of the world out. The fire pops. The door behind you clicks softly as unseen locks engage.

“I know this is frightening,” he murmurs, voice dropping into something gentler, practiced. “You woke up wrong. That happens after trauma. After magic like that.” His thumb brushes your wrist in slow, grounding strokes. “You don’t need to think about it right now.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes red, shining, searching your face with desperate intensity.

“I promise I’ll keep you safe,” Phil says. “I’ll protect you. Feed you. Shelter you. I’ll treat you as my own blood, just like I should have done better before.” His voice cracks again. “You don’t have to be strong. You don’t have to remember everything. I’ll decide what’s safe until you’re better.”

His forehead rests against yours.

“All I ask,” he whispers, trembling, “is that you behave. Stay with me. Let me take care of you.”

The firelight flickers.

His arms tighten—gentle, unyielding.

“You’re not alone anymore,” Phil breathes. “I’ve got you. I won’t let what’s left of my boy disappear.”