Sanctuary

Evelyn's POV

The morning after Riley gave herself to me—really gave herself—I woke before the sun.

She was still sleeping, one arm flung across my stomach, mouth slightly open, hair wild across the pillow like a soft crown. She looked younger like this. Not fragile, exactly. Just… at peace.

Like the storm in her chest had finally blown itself out.

I didn’t move.
Didn’t want to.
Didn’t dare.

I just stared.

And let myself feel everything.

Love.
Fear.
A tenderness so big it made my throat ache.

I’d held a lot of things in my life—grief, anger, regret—but nothing had ever felt the way she felt in my arms.

Whole.

Earned.

Mine.

Luca padded into the room just after sunrise, carrying his blanket like a flag.

“Can I snuggle now?” he whispered, eyes still puffy with sleep.

Riley stirred beside me, blinking slowly.

“Of course, baby,” she murmured, voice thick with sleep.

He crawled up between us and laid his head on her chest without hesitation.

And she held him like she’d been doing it forever.

I don’t think she even realized she was crying until I reached out and wiped the tear from her cheek.

The rest of the morning was quiet. Simple.

Cereal for breakfast.
Luca building forts out of couch cushions.
Riley humming in the kitchen while she washed a single mug like it was some kind of meditation.

Camille texted around noon:
Still alive. No riots outside your door. Don’t jinx it. Also: wine tonight. No negotiating.

I smiled.

But something inside me was uneasy.

Not because of the night before. Not because of the love.
Because when the world goes quiet, it’s usually preparing to scream.

It happened fast.

Luca was down for a nap. Riley was sketching at the dining table. I was sorting through paperwork when my phone buzzed with a call from an unfamiliar number.

I almost didn’t answer.

I wish I hadn’t.

“Is this Evelyn Blackwood?” the voice asked.

“Yes.”

“This is Officer Ramirez with the city police department. We’re responding to a welfare check requested for your address.”

My stomach dropped.

“A what?”

“An anonymous report stated there may be an unsafe situation involving a minor and an unregistered adult living at your home. We’re required to follow up. I’m outside your building now.”

My heart stopped.

“I didn’t call for a welfare check.”

“We understand, ma’am. We’d just like to verify that everything is okay.”

I hung up and walked to the window.

There they were.

Two officers. Parked. Waiting.