Chapter 89 : Home, Still Standing – Clarity Without Guilt
New York, Queens – Alex's POV
I barely have time to close the door before footsteps rush toward me.
"Alex?"
Wendy's voice reaches me first—sharp with worry, held together by sheer will. Then Rosalie's, steadier but no less tense.
"You're home."
I turn just in time to catch Wendy as she throws her arms around me. The impact is stronger than expected, her grip tight, fingers digging into the fabric of my jacket like she's afraid I'll vanish if she lets go.
"You didn't answer for hours," she says into my shoulder. "We saw the news. Or… whatever that was supposed to be."
"I'm fine," I reply immediately, reflexively. "Really. I'm okay."
Rosalie steps closer, her eyes scanning my face, my posture, the way I'm breathing. She doesn't touch me at first. She never does—not until she's satisfied there's no hidden damage.
"You're cold," she says instead.
Only then do I notice it. My fingers are numb. My jacket smells faintly of frost. The apartment, warm and lived-in, feels like another world.
"I'll get him something warm," Wendy says quickly, already pulling back and moving toward the kitchen.
Rosalie finally reaches out, placing a hand on my arm. It's grounding. Solid. Real.
"You scared us," she says quietly.
Not accusing. Just honest.
"I know," I answer. And I mean it.
We move almost automatically after that. Jackets off. Shoes by the door. Wendy presses a mug into my hands before I can even sit down—tea, sweetened more than I'd normally prefer. I don't comment.
For a few moments, none of us speak. We just exist in the same space, letting the adrenaline drain away.
The silence isn't empty.
It's the kind that settles only after something has gone wrong and somehow stopped getting worse. The kind that leaves your body behind while your mind is still catching up.
My hands ache now that they're warming up. A dull, persistent throb under the skin. Not injury—just the aftermath of tension held too long. My shoulders feel heavier than they should, like gravity remembered me all at once.
Outside, sirens echo faintly in the distance. Not close. Not urgent. Just reminders that the city hasn't fully exhaled yet.
Inside, everything is soft.
The couch. The lights. The quiet domestic sounds—water heating, a cabinet closing, Wendy moving without thinking about it.
It's jarring, how quickly the world flips.
I watch them while pretending to focus on the steam rising from the cup.
Wendy is still in her oversized sweater, sleeves covering half her hands. Her hair is pulled back messily, like she did it without looking in a mirror. There are faint shadows under her eyes—she didn't sleep much. Worry never lets her.
Rosalie sits across from me, composed as always, legs crossed, hands folded in her lap. Her expression is calm now, but I can see the remnants of tension in the set of her shoulders. She changed clothes since morning—something soft, neutral colors. Practical. Comforting.
And then there's the realization.
It doesn't hit like a shock.
It settles.
I notice details I always noticed—Wendy's warmth, Rosalie's quiet strength—but this time, there's no automatic suppression. No mental wall snapping into place. No reflexive don't think about that.
I register Wendy's closeness. The way her body pressed against mine at the door. The familiar scent of her shampoo. The curve of her jaw when she looks at me, eyes still searching for reassurance.
I register Rosalie's presence. The elegance in the way she moves even when tired. The steadiness of her gaze. The quiet authority she carries without effort.
Attraction.
Clear. Undeniable.
And for the first time, it doesn't trigger guilt.
The Self-Moral Stabilizer doesn't erase my values—it clarifies them. It strips away inherited taboos and imposed reactions, leaving only what I choose to uphold.
I don't feel compelled.
I don't feel conflicted.
I simply understand something about myself that was always there.
And then I set it aside.
Because right now, that's not what matters.
"You're shaking," Wendy says suddenly, sitting beside me again.
"I'm not," I reply.
She raises an eyebrow.
I sigh. "Okay. A little."
She leans in without hesitation, resting her shoulder against mine, wrapping both hands around my arm like she used to when we were younger and thunderstorms scared her.
"Next time," she says, voice firm, "you send a message. Even a stupid one."
"I did," I answer gently. "As soon as I could."
Rosalie nods. "We got it. But silence stretches. You know that."
"I know."
There's another pause.
Then Wendy tilts her head, studying me more carefully. "You look… different."
It's not accusatory. Not alarmed. Just observant. Wendy has always been good at that—at noticing shifts before anyone else names them.
Rosalie follows her gaze, eyes narrowing slightly, not with suspicion but with concern. "You look tired," she adds. "Not sick. Just… like you've been carrying something heavy."
I let out a slow breath, something close to a soft laugh. "Long morning," I say. "That's all."
It's not a lie. Just an incomplete truth.
Wendy steps closer anyway, her arms crossing loosely over her chest. She's still wearing one of my hoodies—too big for her, sleeves covering part of her hands. There's a faint crease between her brows, the kind she gets when she's trying not to worry out loud.
"You scared us," she says quietly.
Rosalie nods. "When the city started… shaking," she adds, choosing her words carefully, "and then the news alerts started going off, and you weren't answering right away—"
"I know," I say gently. "I'm sorry."
The word lands heavier than I expect. Not because of guilt, but because I mean it without reservation. No deflection. No internal argument about necessity or acceptable risk. Just acknowledgment.
Rosalie reaches out and touches my arm, grounding, familiar. "We just needed to see you walk through that door."
"I'm here," I say. "I promise."
There's a quiet exhale between the three of us, like something tight finally loosening.
Rosalie smiles at that, soft but relieved. "You were supposed to be back later," she says. "The trip to Seattle—how did it go?"
There it is. The pivot. From fear to normalcy.
I move toward the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water, giving myself something to do with my hands. "It went well," I say. "Better than expected, actually."
Wendy perks up immediately. "You met them, right? The Valve people?"
"Yeah," I nod. "In person. Smaller group than I imagined, but sharp. Very… deliberate."
Rosalie leans against the counter. "Did they like you?"
I take a sip, considering. "They respected me," I say. "Which is better."
Wendy grins. "That sounds like you impressed them."
"Maybe," I allow. "They asked the right questions. Didn't rush. They're cautious, but curious."
I keep it grounded. Businesslike. No mention of side variables. No personal entanglements. Just the trip.
"They walked me through some of their internal processes," I continue. "How they evaluate external collaborators. It wasn't a pitch meeting. More like… a test."
"And?" Wendy presses.
"And I passed," I say simply.
Rosalie tilts her head slightly. "So what happens now?"
I think before answering. Not because the question is dangerous—but because the answer is real.
"They didn't promise anything," I say. "And I didn't ask for it. But they opened a door. Future discussions. Possible collaboration, if things line up."
Wendy's eyes light up. "Like… actually working with them?"
"Maybe," I say. "Not tomorrow. But it puts me on a different trajectory."
Rosalie studies me for a moment. "Does that mean more travel?"
"Yes."
Her lips press together briefly—not disapproval, just recalculation. "And you're okay with that?"
"I am," I answer honestly. "It's not just about the opportunity. It's about being taken seriously. Long-term."
Wendy smiles, softer this time. "You've been building toward that."
I nod. "This just confirms I wasn't wrong."
Her grin widens. She pumps a small fist. "Knew it."
Rosalie's smile is quieter, prouder. "I told you," she says. "You've always been good in rooms like that. You listen."
I nod. "That helped. I didn't try to sell anything. Just talked. Asked questions. Let them come to conclusions on their own."
Wendy laughs. "That's such a you way to do it."
I shrug. "It works."
The conversation settles into an easy rhythm after that. I describe the flight, the building, the atmosphere—creative but restrained, like a place that values structure as much as innovation. Wendy asks about Seattle weather. Rosalie asks about logistics, timelines, what happens next.
Nothing dangerous. Nothing heavy.
Just family catching up.
There's a moment—quiet, domestic, unremarkable—that feels more stabilizing than anything else I've done today. The warmth of proximity. The unspoken understanding that whatever happened out there, this space still exists.
Wendy leans her head against my shoulder without asking. She's always done that. I let it happen.
I'm aware, distantly, of her weight. Her warmth. The curve of her presence.
And again—no panic. No internal alarms.
Just control.
Rosalie watches us with a small smile. "You don't have to carry everything alone, you know."
"I know," I say.
And for once, I don't feel like that statement is aspirational.
We sit like that for a while, talking about inconsequential things. What Wendy's been working on. A neighbor who complained about noise. A recipe Rosalie wants to try.
Normality, layered over a world that almost broke this morning.
Eventually, Wendy yawns. "I didn't sleep much."
"Neither did we," Rosalie admits.
I nod. "Rest. Both of you."
Wendy hesitates. "You sure you're okay?"
I meet her eyes. Fully. Honestly.
"Yes," I say. "I am."
That seems to be enough.
They drift off not long after—Wendy half-asleep against the couch arm, Rosalie resting with her eyes closed but breathing steady.
I stay awake.
The apartment settles around us.
Wendy's breathing evens out first, light and familiar. Rosalie's follows—slower, measured, the way it always is when she finally lets herself rest. I sit there between them, the quiet stretching without pressure.
This morning, the world almost tore itself apart.
And yet this—this room, this moment—still exists.
I think about how close everything came to slipping. About how many versions of today could have ended differently. How many lines I walked without anyone knowing.
The Self-Moral Stabilizer doesn't numb that awareness. It sharpens it.
I know what I'm capable of now. Not just in power, but in choice. In restraint. In direction.
I don't feel divided between who I am out there and who I am here.
I'm both.
That's new.
Outside, the city keeps moving. Somewhere else, other conversations are starting. Other consequences unfolding. Gwen will go home. Questions will be asked. Words will matter.
But not yet.
For now, this is enough.
I stay seated a little longer, keeping watch—not because I'm afraid, but because I can.
And when I finally stand, it's with the quiet certainty that whatever comes next, I'm no longer reacting.
I'm choosing.