I slide the ring onto her finger, with shaking hands, until she steadies them with hers. Peanut hops closer, sniffs the ring, and bumps her head against Syvannah’s wrist like she’s claiming it.
“She approves,” Syvannah laughs through tears.
“That’s the highest honor,” I mutter.
I pull Syvannah into my arms, holding her tight, forehead pressed to hers, city lights glowing beneath us like witnesses.
“I’m yours,” she whispers.
“And I’m yours,” I say. “All of it.”
Peanut settles back on the ledge, purring like a tiny engine as the night stretches on around us.
Family isn’t blood. It’s choice and tonight, standing on this roof with the city at our feet and the future finally solid in my hands, we choose each other.
We don’t rush back down.
Syvannah stays pressed against me, forehead to my chest, breathing like she’s afraid that if she looks away, the city will disappear and take the moment with it. Peanut paces the ledge once, then hops back to Syvannah’s shoulder like she’s making sure we’re still upright.
“You good?” I murmur.
Syvannah nods, still crying, still smiling. “I’m… yeah. I’m really good.”
That word again.Good.It lands better every time.
When we finally head down the hallway, my hand never leaves hers. The hallway smells like oil and old concrete, familiar and grounding. I feel the shift before I see it. The way voices taper off, the way bodies turn.
Torch is the first to spot the ring. “Oh,shit,” he yells, loud enough to shake dust from the rafters. “LOOK AT HER HAND.”
The room erupts instantly.
“About damn time,” Blayze calls from the bar.
Trigger freezes mid-step. His eyes go straight to Syvannah’s face, then to the ring, then back again. Something soft breaks through his expression before he can stop it.
Capone doesn’t move. He just watches.
Monica steps closer, eyeing the patch in Syvannah’s hand. “This patch isn’t a prize,” she says, voice steady, carrying authority without raising it. “It’s a responsibility. It means you stand with us, even when it’s uncomfortable. Especially when it’s uncomfortable.”
Syvannah straightens. Shoulders back. Chin up. No fear. No hesitation. “I understand.”
Danyella meets her eyes. “Do you accept it?”
“Yes,” Syvannah says, clear and unwavering.
Danyella holds out her hand, and Syvannah places the patch into her palm. Monica takes it from Danyella and pins it inside Syvannah’s jacket, now an Ol’ lady cut, fingers careful, exact. When she steps back, she nods once.
“Welcome,” Monica says.
Torch wipes at his eyes exaggeratedly. “I’m not crying. You’re crying.”
“Shut up,” Blayze mutters, but he’s smiling.
Trigger steps forward next. He reaches out and squeezes Syvannah’s shoulder once, solid and sincere. “You belong here.”
Capone rises last. “You stand with us now,” he says to Syvannah. Then his gaze cuts to me. “You take care of what’s yours.”
“I will,” I say. No hesitation.