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We found the cottage by accident.

It was hidden deep in the highlands, nestled between two old trees whose roots curled like fingers over stone. Ivy crawled up what remained of the walls, and the roof had collapsed in three places. Birds had made homes in the rafters. Mushrooms claimed the steps. The place looked forgotten, feral, wild.

I fell in love with it instantly.

Kade stared at the ruins like he was seeing a ghost.

“It’s barely standing,” he said, arms crossed, brow furrowed.

I stepped onto what was left of the front porch, the wood creaking under my boots. “So are we.”

He arched a brow.

“And we’re still here,” I added with a smile.

That earned me a smirk. “You really want to build here?”

I turned in a slow circle, letting the wind whip my hair, letting the air fill my lungs.

It didn’t smell like Crescent Moon. It didn’t smell like smoke or blood or duty.

It smelled like pine. Like earth. Like beginning.

“Yes,” I said simply. “Here.”

Kade walked up the steps beside me, looked through the hollow frame of what had once been a window, and nodded.

“Then let’s make it ours.”

The first few days were spent clearing out the wreckage.

We stripped the moss from the stones, pulled the broken roof beams down carefully, cut back the overgrowth. Every evening, our muscles ached. Our palms blistered. Our clothes were streaked with mud and dust.

But I never felt cleaner.

Never felt more whole.

Because every nail we pulled, every brick we reset—it felt like shedding skin. Like washing off every name they'd ever given us.

Executioner.

Traitor.

Fugitive.

Now we were just Kade and Lyra.

And we were building a home.

“You ever done this before?” I asked one night, squatting beside him as we examined the foundation.

“Built something?” he asked.

I nodded.

He shook his head. “Destroyed a lot of things. Not much experience in the other direction.”

“Well,” I said, reaching for a stone, “first time for everything.”

He watched me fit it into the space.

“Who taught you how to do that?” he asked.

“My mother,” I said. “She believed in keeping things standing.”

He was quiet for a moment, then whispered, “I like that.”

I smiled. “Me too.”

We didn’t rush the rebuild.

We couldn’t.

There were days it rained too hard to mix mortar, days our hands were too sore to lift tools. On those days, we stayed inside the remaining structure, curled under blankets, sipping soup, speaking softly.

Sometimes we didn’t speak at all.

But even in the silence, something was growing.

Something steady.

Something strong.

“I think we should keep the hearth,” Kade said one afternoon, pointing to the cracked stone fireplace in what would be our main room. “It’s half-collapsed, but the bones are good.”

I smiled. “Just like us.”

He chuckled, tossing me a hammer. “Romantic.”

“You love it.”

“I love you.”

I froze for just a second, every time he said it.

Not because I doubted him.

But because I still couldn’t believe how right it felt.

How safe.

I crossed the room, stood on my toes, and kissed him.

Long. Slow. Certain.

He kissed me back like we had all the time in the world.

And we did.

Because no one was hunting us anymore.

No one was calling for our heads.

No one was naming us anything but what we named ourselves.

And I had never felt more free.

The new roof was finished in a week.

The door followed.

Then came the windows—just wooden shutters for now, but they let the light in, and that was enough.

We built the bedroom last.

Not because it was least important.

But because it was sacred.

It would be the place we laughed, touched, healed.

The place we dreamed.

And we built it slowly, with our own hands.

One nail.

One board.

One breath at a time.

The first night we slept in the new den, the floor still smelled like fresh-cut wood. The wind whispered through the window cracks, and the fire crackled in our hearth.

We lay tangled in blankets on the floor—no bed yet, no furniture—but I had never felt more at home.

Kade pulled me close, his arm around my waist, his lips pressed to my shoulder.

“This,” he said quietly. “This is what I didn’t know I needed.”

I turned to face him, fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

“And this is what I fought for,” I whispered.

He nodded.

And I knew he understood.

We weren’t just survivors anymore.

We were builders.

And this cottage—half-wild, half-whole—wasn’t just a shelter.

It was proof.

That we could make something beautiful from the wreckage.

That we could choose softness.

That we could begin again.

Together.