Meanwhile back in Ken

Ken's streets had finally learned how to breathe again.

Not peaceful—not fully—but calmer. Rebuilt stone. Rehung lanterns. Fresh plaster still pale where old scorch marks used to be. Even the guards at the gates looked less like they were waiting to die and more like they were waiting for the next shift change.

Jackson walked through it like a man trying not to look nervous.

Which was funny, because he'd walked through war without blinking.

But a date?

A date with Grace Cambel—the Dark Elf innkeeper with the sharp eyes, soft voice, and the kind of quiet grief that didn't beg for pity but still demanded respect?

Yeah. That was different.

He'd followed his father's advice for a month straight:

Be consistent.

Don't play games.

Don't rush her grief.

Prove you're safe—over time.

And when you want something, say it like a grown man, not like a coward.

So far... it had worked.

Grace stood outside her inn with a small shawl over her shoulders, black hair pinned back, purple eyes catching the lanternlight. She didn't dress like "bikini armor Ken" anymore—thank every god. Tonight she wore a simple dark dress and boots that actually looked like boots.

When she spotted Jackson, her mouth curved—small, genuine.

"You're early," she said.

Jackson gave a helpless half-smile. "If I'm late, I start overthinking. If I'm early, I just... overthink in a different location."

Grace's eyebrow lifted. "That sounds like a you problem."

"It is," Jackson admitted. "But I'm working on it."

She stepped closer, studying him like she always did—checking his mood, his posture, the way his hands rested at his sides like he was trying not to look like a Marine on patrol.

Then she reached up and smoothed a wrinkle off his sleeve.

"You look good," she said, casual like it didn't matter.

Jackson's ears went hot. "You look... you look really good."

Grace's smile sharpened. "Careful, Jackson. You're going to make me think you mean it."

He swallowed, remembering his dad's voice in his head: Say it. Don't dance around it.

"I do," he said, steady. "I mean it."

For a second her expression softened—just a crack in the armor—then she looked away as if to hide it.

"Alright," she said, clearing her throat. "Where are we going?"

Jackson exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for an hour.

"There's a place," he said, gesturing down the street. "One of the bakers reopened. And—before you ask—no, it's not military rations disguised as dessert."

Grace scoffed. "Tragic. I was hoping for a 'chocolate MRE' experience."

Jackson laughed, real and relieved. "I'm not that cruel."

They walked side by side, close enough that their shoulders almost touched, but not forced. Jackson kept pace with her—something he'd learned mattered, the same way you matched someone's breathing when they were scared.

Ken at night was prettier than Ken under siege.

Vendors had returned—careful at first, but confidence came back fast when people realized they could sell food without getting raided. A street musician played a soft tune on something like a lute. A pair of kids ran past with wooden swords, screaming about dragons.

Grace watched them, expression unreadable.

Jackson didn't pry. He just said, "You ever want kids?"

Grace's head snapped toward him.

Jackson immediately raised both hands. "Not— not like that. Not right now. I'm not proposing. I'm not—" he stumbled, then forced himself to breathe. "Sorry. I meant... I don't know. Sometimes I see kids playing and I wonder if you ever wanted a life like that again."

Grace studied him for a long moment, then surprised him by answering honestly.

"I wanted them," she said quietly. "Once."

Jackson nodded slowly. "And now?"

Grace's gaze drifted back to the street. "Now I don't know what I want. The war stole a lot of 'knowing.'"

Jackson's throat tightened.

So he did what he'd promised himself he'd do.

He didn't try to fix it.

He didn't try to sell her hope like a recruiter.

He just said, "That's fair."

Grace looked at him again, and this time her smile was faint but warmer.

"You're learning," she said.

"I'm trying," Jackson replied. "My dad said if I came at you with bullshit lines, you'd smell it like a bloodhound."

Grace laughed under her breath. "Your father sounds exhausting."

Jackson smirked. "He is. But he's right."

They reached the baker's stall—fresh rolls, honey pastries, something filled with fruit that looked illegal in the best way. Grace bought two. Jackson insisted on paying, she slapped his hand away, and he let her win because—again—advice: Don't make everything a dominance contest.

They sat on a low stone wall near the plaza, away from crowds.

Grace took a bite, chewed slowly, then hummed in approval.

"This is... actually good," she conceded.

Jackson pointed at her like he'd won a medal. "I told you I wasn't trying to poison you with military-grade nutrition."

Grace glanced sideways at him. "And how's it been?" she asked, tone casual.

Jackson blinked. "What?"

"This month," she said. "You've been... consistent. Gentle. Not pushing. Not vanishing. Not pretending you're someone else. How's it been for you?"

Jackson stared at his pastry like it contained the answer.

Then he looked up at her and decided to be brave the way his father meant—not in combat, but in truth.

"It's been hard," he admitted. "Because I like you. A lot. And sometimes I want to move faster, because that's what I'm used to—make a decision, execute, done. But you're not an operation."

Grace's eyes softened.

"And?" she prompted.

"And I don't want to be another man who treats you like you're something to win," Jackson said. "You're a person. You're Grace. And if the pace is slow, I'll walk it slow. I'd rather earn it than... take it."

Grace didn't speak for a moment.

Then she set her pastry down carefully, like she needed both hands free.

"Jackson," she said.

His chest tightened. "Yeah?"

"I'm still afraid," she admitted. "Not of you. Of... starting again. Of letting someone close enough to matter."

Jackson nodded once. "I get that."

Grace's voice dropped a little. "But when you show up like this... when you don't demand anything... it makes it easier."

Jackson's breath caught.

And then—slowly, deliberately—Grace reached out and took his hand.

Not a dramatic move.

Not a grand confession.

Just fingers curling into his, firm and real.

Jackson's entire body went still like he'd been issued a sacred artifact and didn't want to drop it.

Grace looked at him, eyes bright in the lanternlight.

"Don't ruin this moment by saying something stupid," she warned.

Jackson swallowed. "...I wasn't going to."

Grace arched an eyebrow. "You sure?"

Jackson cracked a grin. "I'm a Towson. There's always risk."

Grace laughed—an actual laugh, not the polite kind—and leaned her shoulder gently into his.

They sat there like that, hand in hand, listening to Ken's night sounds.

And Jackson realized something that surprised him:

This—this quiet, this patience—was its own kind of victory.

Not the kind you win with rifles.

The kind you earn by staying.

Meanwhile in New York

New York Harbor looked like it always did—grey water, wind that cut through clothes, the skyline sitting there like it knew it was intimidating.

Only this time, there was a military transport ship easing into the dock with the slow confidence of something that had crossed worlds and didn't care who was watching.

The moment the ramp started lowering, the pier shifted.

Families pressed forward behind barriers. MPs and port security ran the same tired dance of "stay back / they're coming / yes I know you missed him." Reporters hovered at the edges like seagulls.

And mixed into the crowd—standing out like they'd walked out of a storybook and into a documentary—were Eostians in borrowed hoodies, jeans, sneakers, and coats they still looked vaguely offended to be wearing.

David stepped onto American ground again and felt his brain do that weird combat-vet thing where part of him expected a mortar to land just because he was finally relaxing.

He adjusted his kit, scanned the angles on instinct, then exhaled through his nose.

"Home," he muttered, like he didn't trust the word.

Joshua hopped down behind him, Bengal tiger ears twitching under his cover, tail tucked tight because crowds always made it flick. He'd tried to act cool the whole trip.

But the instant he saw Manhattan in full view, the mask cracked.

"...What the fuck," Joshua whispered, staring up at the skyline.

Iris Arcadia—not Eostian, but might as well have been with how wide her eyes went—grabbed Joshua's sleeve with both hands like the buildings might lean down and bite her.

"That is a... city," she said, voice trembling between awe and panic. "Joshua, that is a mountain made by humans."

Joshua swallowed. "Yeah. We're kinda... insane. Welcome."

Then the Statue of Liberty came into view as the ship's angle shifted.

Iris visibly short-circuited.

"That is a woman," she said, pointing like she couldn't believe it was allowed. "Holding a flame. In the sea."

Joshua gave a helpless shrug. "We like symbols."

Iris clutched closer. "Your symbols are terrifying."

David didn't even look back. "Don't tell her about Mount Rushmore."

Joshua's head snapped. "Dad—"

David finally turned, deadpan. "What? She's already committed. Might as well rip the bandage off."

They moved down the ramp with the rest of the returning troops—boots hitting the dock with a sound that always made the waiting crowd surge louder.

Then David saw her.

Sienna Khan Fernandes stood just beyond the barrier, a winter coat over her shoulders, eyes locked on him like she'd been holding her breath for a year. Her expression was the same mix of steel and softness she'd always worn—until he noticed what she was holding.

Two small bundles.

Two.

David stopped walking so abruptly the troop behind him almost bumped his back plate.

His mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Sienna lifted her chin like she was daring him to say something stupid.

David blinked once. Twice.

"...No," he said, voice flat with disbelief.

Sienna's lips twitched. "Yes."

David took one step forward like he was approaching an unexploded shell. "We talked about one."

Sienna's eyes narrowed. "I didn't put in an order request, Dave. I made what I made."

Joshua, to his eternal misfortune, laughed.

David didn't even turn—he just raised a hand and pointed at his son without looking. "Shut up."

Joshua clapped a hand over his mouth, still grinning like an idiot.

Then Eliana pushed forward at the front of the crowd, tall and confident at twenty-one, holding a sign she'd made with obnoxious marker colors and the kind of energy only a young adult could weaponize:

WELCOME BACK, DAD.
YES I'M STILL YOUR FAVORITE.
DON'T ARGUE.

David stared at it for a long second.

Then he finally breathed.

"Of course you did," he muttered, but his voice cracked just slightly at the end.

Eliana's grin softened.

She didn't jump the barrier—she just held the sign higher like a flag.

Sienna shifted the newborns carefully—one tiny face visible, one little fist sticking out, both asleep like they didn't know they'd just detonated their father's entire nervous system.

David stepped up to the barrier. An MP started to protest, took one look at David's face, and decided rules were a problem for someone else.

Sienna met David at the edge, eyes bright.

"You're late," she said.

David's jaw flexed. "I got detoured by a medieval continent."

Sienna huffed, but the smile finally broke through. "You smell like gun oil and bad decisions."

David leaned in close, forehead nearly touching hers. "And you look like you committed a war crime."

Sienna's eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"

David nodded at the babies. "Twins."

Sienna's grin turned sharp. "You should've worn better armor."

Eliana snorted loudly enough the crowd near her laughed.

Joshua stepped up beside David, suddenly quieter, suddenly respectful in that way sons get when they see their father go soft.

Sienna's eyes flicked to Joshua and Iris behind him.

Joshua lifted a hand in a half-wave. "Hey, Mom."

Sienna's gaze slid to Iris. Took her in—hair, posture, the way she clung to Joshua like he was the only familiar object in a world of steel giants.

Sienna didn't ask questions out loud.

She just raised an eyebrow at Joshua that said: Explain later.

Joshua nodded quickly. "Yes, ma'am."

Iris, overwhelmed, bowed slightly out of reflex. "Lady Fernandes."

Sienna blinked at the formality, then softened her voice. "Honey, around here you can just call me Sienna. You're safe."

Iris's throat bobbed. "Your city is... very loud."

Sienna nodded like that was fair. "Yeah. It is."

David finally looked down at the newborns.

One had Sienna's calm face.

The other had his stubborn mouth.

David's eyes narrowed like he could out-stare genetics into changing its mind.

"...Zaria," he said slowly, tasting the name.

Sienna shifted so he could see her better. "Zaria Leia Fernandes."

David swallowed. "And David Jr."

Sienna's eyes gleamed with mischief. "David Anakin Fernandes Jr."

David stared. "You gave him my name?"

Sienna smiled sweetly. "What? You weren't using it."

Eliana started laughing again, wiping at her eyes.

David leaned in and, with a carefulness that didn't match his usual "kick down the door" demeanor, brushed a knuckle against Zaria's tiny cheek.

She made a soft noise and wrinkled her nose like she disapproved of him personally.

David exhaled a laugh he didn't mean to let out.

"...I'm so fucked," he whispered.

Sienna kissed his cheek—quick, warm, public enough to make him freeze for half a second and then pretend he wasn't affected.

"You're home," she said. "That's what matters."

Behind them, the skyline of New York loomed like an unblinking witness.

And Iris Arcadia—still clutching Joshua—stared up at it all, eyes wide, voice barely audible.

"Joshua," she whispered, "how do humans build a world like this... and still find time to start wars?"

Joshua looked at his father, his mother, his sister, and the two newborns that just rewrote David's entire retirement plan.

Then he looked back at Iris and said quietly:

"Because we're human."

And for the first time since stepping off that ship, Iris stopped trembling—not because she understood...

...but because she finally believed she wasn't alone in it.