Outside, the city moved on—car horns and birds battling over a scrap of bread on the fire escape. We listened for a while, not saying anything. It was just us, lying there in the aftermath of everything.
"I'll walk the dog in an hour," he said eventually.
"We don't have a dog."
"Not yet."
I smiled. We were talking about dogs now. Furniture. It was the future we were building—brick by brick, breath by breath.
For the first time ever, I looked forward to every minute of it.
Epilogue - Matthew
Charlie sprawled belly-up across the throw blanket Ma had knitted us last Christmas, paws twitching as he chased something through whatever dreams medium-sized rescue mutts had. One ear pointed toward the ceiling, the other flopped sideways—asymmetry that somehow made him more endearing than any purebred I'd ever seen.
Dorian stood at the kitchen counter, coaxing the French press through its ritual. He wore my old academy sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, fabric hanging loose across shoulders that had finally filled out again. The sight of him in my clothes still set off territorial satisfaction I'd never quite learned to suppress.
I sat cross-legged on the couch, red pen in hand, grading tactical response papers from my latest academy class.Scenario 3: Multiple trauma, limited resources, civilian bystanders. Discuss prioritization protocols.The answers ranged from textbook perfect to creatively disastrous, but each one represented someone learning to save lives.
A year out from the battle with Magnus Hoyle, I settled into teaching trauma response. It turned out to be my calling. There was something profoundly satisfying about breaking down complex medical decisions into teachable moments.
Dorian operated a security firm operated out of a converted warehouse in Georgetown. He had three carefully vetted employees handling corporate protection with what he called a "trauma-informed approach."
He took no government contracts or questionable clients. It was honest work protecting people who needed it. He came home energized, talking about problems he'd solved rather than violence he'd witnessed.
We'd built routines that felt sustainable. Weekly calls with Ma every Tuesday at seven—she still insisted texting lacked "proper human warmth." Saturday mornings meant pancakes with real maple syrup and slow kisses over coffee. Simple patterns that soon became sacred.
Charlie shifted in his sleep, releasing a contented sigh that rippled through his entire body. Hard to believe it was the same dog who'd drawn blood from Dorian's thumb during his first week with us, growling at shadows and flinching from raised voices. Now, he wouldn't sleep at night unless one paw touched Dorian's leg.
Dorian hummed something under his breath—still Beyoncé, always Beyoncé—while steam rose from the French press. I set down my pen and watched him move through our kitchen with easy confidence.
The weight of contentment in my chest was still unfamiliar but welcome, like wearing clothes that fit perfectly after years of settling for whatever was available. The doorbell's three-note chime cut through our easy quiet. Charlie's head popped up, ears swiveling toward the sound with the alert attention of a dog who'd learned that visitors usually meant food and attention.
I wasn't expecting anyone. Ma would've called first and announced her arrival with the kind of advance warning that allowed for proper preparation. My brothers would've texted, probably demanding to know if we had beer in the refrigerator.
Dorian set down the French press, wiping his hands on the dish towel tucked into his waistband. "You order anything?"
"Nothing that would show up on a Sunday." I marked my place in the stack of papers with my pen.
When he opened the door, Dorian was silent. That was unusual. He always spoke immediately to visitors, ingrained politeness that had survived years of battling paranoia.
I looked up to see him step to the side of the doorway. Seconds later, I understood what rendered him speechless.
An older woman appeared first—small and dignified, wearing a hand-knitted cardigan the color of autumn leaves. She carried a covered ceramic dish in both hands.
Behind her, Farid stepped into view, grinning like Christmas morning had arrived six weeks early. He wore a Seahawks jersey instead of his usual Manchester United colors, the fabric hanging loose on a frame that had finally filled out again after months of proper nutrition and medical care.
My throat closed completely. The papers slid off my lap, scattering across the floor as I stood.
"I brought my mother to meet my American family," Farid said, his accent thick with emotion. He gestured toward the woman beside him with gentle reverence. "My mother wanted to thank the people who brought her son home."
Farid's mother stepped forward. When she spoke, her English was precise and wielded with careful grace.
"You are Matthew. My son tells me you are good man. Kind man." She paused, searching for words that could bridge the gap between languages and cultures. "He says you held his life in your hands."
My first instinct was to clarify the details of my Farid backstory, but a second thought rendered it irrelevant. Instead, I opened my arms wide.
"You're both home now, finally home."
