Elara didn't sleep that night.
She drifted through pockets of restlessness, half-dreams that dissolved before she could hold on to them. Every time she closed her eyes, Daniel's face appeared—not the peaceful version she used to wake up beside, but the one from the hospital room, still and pale, as if he had simply stepped out of himself and forgotten to return.
By dawn, she gave up on sleep entirely.
The kettle clicked on automatically as she stepped into the kitchen, an act of muscle memory. She leaned against the counter, rubbing the chill from her arms as the early morning light crept through the blinds. The house felt heavy, like the air itself carried a memory she wasn't ready to face.
She was still staring blankly at the tile backsplash when a knock sounded on her front door.
Soft.
Measured.
Familiar.
Callum.
She didn't need to check—he knocked like that yesterday, and the day before that, and the days after the funeral. Always patient. Always giving her time to decide whether she could face company.
She opened the door slowly.
Callum stood there in a dark gray hoodie and jeans, his hair slightly damp as if he'd just showered. A cardboard tray with three cups of coffee sat in his hand. Behind him, the street was still soaked in the golden haze of sunrise.
"Elara," he greeted quietly.
She tried to smile and failed. "You're up early."
"So are you." He lifted the tray. "I thought you might need this."
Her chest tightened—not painfully, but in a way that made it hard to breathe for a heartbeat. "Come in."
Callum stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The scent of the coffee drifted into the kitchen as he placed the tray on the counter.
"Two sugars, no cream," he said, nudging one cup toward her.
"You remembered."
"I remember a lot."
There was something in his voice that made her turn away. Not because it unsettled her… but because it settled her too much, like a blanket thrown over a raw nerve.
"Where's Jace?" she asked.
"Still asleep. Or pretending he is. He said he'd stop by later."
Elara nodded. The kitchen felt smaller again, like Callum's presence filled the spaces where silence used to live. He opened her cupboards without asking, pulling out a mug.
"You're using the disposable cup?" she asked.
"If I make my own, you can keep this one." He paused. "And because I know you haven't replaced your dishes since they broke."
She froze.
She had dropped a stack of plates two days after the funeral. Her hands had just… let go. She'd cried while sweeping them up, not because they were valuable, but because she felt like she couldn't keep hold of anything anymore—not even ceramic.
"How do you know that?" she whispered.
Callum rubbed the back of his neck. "Jace told me. He said you sounded… off. I didn't want to bring it up unless you did."
Her eyes burned again. She blinked rapidly, forcing the tears away.
"I don't break everything," she said, trying to joke, though her voice trembled.
"No," Callum said gently. "Just the things that weren't meant to last."
She stared at him a moment too long, and he looked back, unflinching. Grounded. Steady in a way she desperately needed.
A knock came at the door—quick, sharp, too energetic for the hour.
Jace.
Sure enough, he strode in before she could reach the entrance, hair tousled, hoodie half-zipped, expression grumpy in the way only someone who hated waking early could manage.
"Morning," he mumbled. "I smelled coffee."
"You live across town," Callum pointed out.
"Your text said 'I'm headed to Elara's'," Jace replied, snatching the remaining cup from the tray. "Obviously I interpreted that as 'bring your ass here now.'"
Elara almost laughed. Almost.
Jace slurped his coffee loudly, then winced. "God, that's hot. How are you drinking this?" he demanded of her.
"I'm numb," she said flatly.
His face softened. "Yeah. I know."
He stepped closer, leaning against the counter beside her.
"What's the plan today?" he asked, sipping more carefully this time. "Anything you want us to help with?"
Elara hesitated.
There was something she needed to do. Something she'd been avoiding.
"I should… pack some of Daniel's things," she said quietly. "Or at least start."
Jace stilled. Callum's expression tightened almost imperceptibly.
Neither tried to talk her out of it. Neither told her it was too soon. They simply waited—giving her the space to continue or retreat.
"I don't think I can do it alone," she admitted.
"Then you won't," Jace said immediately.
Callum nodded. "We'll help you."
---
They started in Daniel's office—a room she hadn't entered since the night he died.
Elara stood in the doorway first, gripping the frame as if the wood could anchor her. Dust motes floated lazily in the morning sun across the room. Daniel's jacket still hung on the back of the chair. His books remained scattered on the desk, one left open with a pen tucked between the pages.
Her breath hitched.
Callum moved behind her, his presence solid and steady without touching. Jace stepped to her right, closer than necessary, but not suffocatingly so.
"We can stop anytime," Callum reminded her.
"No," she whispered. "I need to do this."
She stepped inside.
Jace and Callum followed quietly, letting her take the lead. The three of them sifted through papers, books, and half-finished projects Daniel had been working on. Every object felt like a memory carved into wood or ink.
At one point Elara found a photo—Daniel with his arm around both Rowan brothers, all three laughing like the world was simple.
She held it to her chest, feeling it press painfully into her heart.
Jace noticed first. He walked to her, placing a hand lightly on her back.
"Elara…"
She shook her head, unable to speak.
Callum didn't approach—he simply watched, jaw tightening, eyes dark with unspoken understanding.
After a long moment, she finally lowered the photo. "He loved you both."
Callum swallowed. "We loved him too."
Jace nodded, voice softer than she'd ever heard it. "He saved us. He made us better than we were."
Elara looked between them—these two men Daniel had believed in, mentored, guided.
And she realized something she hadn't allowed herself to see before:
They weren't here out of obligation.
They weren't here because they felt responsible.
They were here because they cared. Deeply. Fiercely. And not just about Daniel's memory.
About her.
Heat curled low in her stomach at the realization—startling, unwelcome, but unmistakably real.
She turned away quickly.
"We should keep going," she said.
The brothers didn't push. They continued sorting, each working in comfortable silence. But the air felt different now—thicker, warmer, carrying undercurrents she didn't know how to name.
At one point, Elara climbed a small step stool to reach a top shelf. The stool wobbled beneath her. Before she could fall, hands caught her—two sets:
Callum's steady grip under her arm.
Jace's firm hold around her waist.
Their touches were accidental.
Their reactions instinctive.
But the moment stretched—charged, breathless, intimate in a way none of them intended.
Elara's heart hammered.
Jace's chest rose sharply.
Callum froze, jaw clenched, eyes locked on hers with something raw and restrained.
She stepped back too quickly, nearly bumping into Jace.
"Sorry," she whispered.
"Don't be," Jace said quietly.
But Callum was the one who stepped away first, breaking the tension. "Let's take a break," he said, voice huskier than before.
They did.
Because they needed it.
Because something had shifted.
Because grief had cracked open a door none of them had meant to touch—but none of them quite wanted to close.
By evening, most of the office was sorted. Not completed—Elara doubted any room of Daniel's would ever truly feel "finished"—but organized enough that she could breathe again.
"You did well today," Callum said as he stood in the doorway, wiping dust from his hands.
Elara managed a small smile. "I had help."
Jace nudged her shoulder lightly. "Obviously. We're very useful."
She laughed then—an unexpected, soft laugh that startled her just as much as it pleased the brothers.
Her heart felt lighter.
Still broken, but held.
Still aching, but not alone.
As they said goodnight, Jace hugged her again—warm, lingering, careful.
Callum didn't touch her, but his eyes held hers a moment longer than they should have.
When they left, the house was quiet once more.
But tonight, the quiet didn't feel like drowning.
It felt like breathing.