The morning air was cool and wet with thawing snow, but Ash didn't feel the cold—not with warm socks on her feet, soft sweatpants hugging her legs, and the scent of breakfast still lingering in her nose.
She didn't remember falling asleep. But she remembered waking up.
Clean. Wrapped in soft blankets. With light streaming in through the Wilsons' big bedroom window and Greg already talking about what they were going to do today.
She had stayed. That was still sinking in.
---
The day unfolded not like a test, not like a battle—but like a gift.
Greg and Will, for all their differences, were the kind of boys who filled every minute with noise, ideas, and motion.
They played outside first, crashing through the muddy snowbanks with sticks held high like swords. Greg declared war on an imaginary army of forest goblins. Ash didn't join at first—but when Will handed her a crooked stick and said, "We'll need a scout," she nodded and fell into step like it was instinct.
---
For hours they ran, laughed, fell, and got up again.
Ash couldn't remember the last time her legs were sore from play and not from travel.
They made up games:
"Alien Hunt" where Ash stalked Greg through the trees until he fell dramatically into a snowdrift.
"Knife Toss" with pinecones and painted targets on a shed wall.
"Survival Quest," where Greg tried to make a campfire from twigs, and Ash showed him how to do it right—then smirked as he gawked.
Will mostly watched. But every so often, Ash caught him smiling.
And every time he smiled at her, something in her chest relaxed.
---
Back inside, they stripped off their wet layers, dried off with thick towels, and pulled on clean, soft clothes. Ash was back in Will's hoodie and sweatpants, sleeves rolled up, cuffs dragging a little at the ankles.
They made peanut butter sandwiches and hot cocoa in the kitchen. Greg insisted on extra marshmallows. Will quietly handed Ash the last spoonful of whipped cream.
They watched cartoons curled up in the living room. Greg talked through every episode, Will corrected his mistakes, and Ash… listened.
At some point, she laughed. Genuinely.
Not a snort. Not a huff.
A real, breath-stealing laugh that left her hand clamped over her mouth in shock.
Greg pointed, delighted.
Will didn't say anything.
But he noticed.
---
Later, they built a blanket fort across the living room using couch cushions, a broom handle, and Will's insistence on structural stability.
Inside it, Ash sat cross-legged on a pile of pillows, light from the window casting golden beams across her face.
> "This isn't survival," she thought.
"This is something else."
> "This is what I never had."
Not as Lili.
Not as Bruce.
Not even once.
Just one day where she didn't need to be tough. Didn't need to hide.
A day to just be.
---
The sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting long orange beams across the Wilsons' hardwood floors. Outside, the last of the snow glistened, shrinking in patches beneath the trees. Inside, the air was still warm, the fire crackling low in the living room hearth.
The three of them had collapsed in a soft heap of blankets and popcorn after dismantling their blanket fort. Now, sprawled on the wide leather couch, they were half-watching an afternoon cartoon rerun—some cheesy adventure with knights and robots and a talking animal sidekick.
Ash sat curled up on the left side of the couch, tucked into Will's old hoodie like it was armor. Her legs were pulled beneath her, sleeves covering half her hands. She still didn't quite know how to sit in comfort. Every position felt too casual, too exposed—but she was trying.
Greg lay across the opposite end, feet dangling over the armrest, already half-asleep with his mouth open and a bag of chips on his chest. Will sat in the armchair beside them, thumbing through a worn comic book, occasionally glancing up at the screen.
The room smelled like butter, dust, and warmth.
---
Ash exhaled slowly.
It was strange how she could feel every texture now. The soft fleece of the hoodie. The blanket bunched at her hip. The weight of her hair, still a little damp, pulled back with a string. Every piece of her felt... cushioned.
Not hard. Not sharp. Not braced for a fight.
She didn't realize how much of her life had been spent waiting for the next impact—until it stopped coming.
---
She looked around the room. The cushions. The bookshelf full of strange, colorful spines. The weird plastic figurines Greg had arranged on the windowsill like they were preparing for war.
And then the framed photos.
Will and Greg, younger, with a woman who could only be their mother. Smiling. Holding them both in matching sweaters by a pine tree.
Ash stared at it for longer than she meant to.
---
> "They have a past. A family. A place to go back to."
"I have a cave. A blanket. And this."
And yet… it didn't feel so bad.
Not here. Not right now.
---
Greg stirred and rolled over, mumbling something about "lasers" and "candy swords."
Ash let out a small smile, barely visible.
Will looked up from his comic.
> "You smiled."
Ash blinked.
> "No I didn't."
> "You did."
She crossed her arms inside the hoodie sleeves.
> "Must've been gas."
Will smirked slightly and returned to his book.
---
A moment passed.
Greg suddenly mumbled:
> "She's way cooler than Jessica. And tougher."
Ash tensed slightly.
Will looked up again.
Greg stretched and added, sleepily:
> "Even if she's a girl."
Ash blinked. Turned.
Will looked like he was about to say something to correct him.
But Ash beat him to it.
Softly.
Almost without thinking:
> "I'm not a girl."
Greg blinked at her, half-awake.
> "Oh. Right. Sorry."
Then he shrugged, yawned, and went back to his chip bag.
No teasing. No argument.
Just acceptance.
---
Ash looked down at her hands, swallowed hard.
For the first time, it didn't sting.
She still didn't feel like a girl.
But it was okay if someone else thought she was.
Just for now.
Just with them.
---
The sky outside had gone dark. The room was lit only by the soft golden glow of the fireplace and the faint blue static of the paused VHS screen. Greg bounced back into the living room holding a worn copy of Alien in its black plastic sleeve like it was a treasure.
> "Okay," he said, grinning like a lunatic. "Now it's time for the real movie."
Ash raised an eyebrow.
> "Real?"
Will, already pulling the tape from its case and pushing it into the VCR, answered without looking up.
> "He means scary. And old."
> "Classic," Greg corrected. "Best monster ever."
> "You screamed last time," Will muttered.
Greg ignored him.
---
Ash tucked her legs up on the couch, wrapping herself in the same soft blanket from earlier. Greg plopped down beside her with a fresh bowl of popcorn. Will took his usual post in the armchair—then, hesitating, shifted and sat beside her on the couch instead.
Ash didn't move.
> "Why would I?" she thought.
"They're just kids."
The room went dark. The screen came to life.
The Alien logo flickered in slow silence. The hum of the ship began.
And Ash… leaned forward.
---
At first, she was calm. Focused.
She watched the set design. The lighting. The details. The slow tension. She analyzed everything like Bruce used to—like a soldier watching a security feed.
> "They're not checking blind corners."
> "Why would they send the science guy?"
Greg whispered trivia every few minutes. Will occasionally corrected him.
But as the tension built, Ash found herself… feeling more than thinking.
---
The facehugger scene came.
Ash flinched.
Then the chestburster.
She gasped—high-pitched and sudden.
Greg nearly fell off the couch laughing.
> "That was a kyaa! You did a kyaa!"
Ash turned red. "Shut up."
But she didn't pull away.
And the boys didn't mock her again.
---
As the alien stalked the crew in the vents, Ash curled tighter under the blanket. Her eyes were wide, her breathing shallow. She let out another squeak as the creature dropped from the ceiling—and then another when it lashed out from the shadows.
Greg was chuckling nervously now, obviously scared but trying to hide it.
Will said nothing.
He just leaned ever so slightly closer.
And gently, slowly, slipped his arm around Ash's shoulders.
She didn't react. Didn't stiffen.
She was too deep in the movie.
Too warm.
Too… safe.
---
By the time Ripley was launching the alien out of the escape pod, Ash's head was resting lightly on Will's side. She hadn't meant to. Hadn't thought about it.
But it felt… okay.
Natural.
---
The credits rolled.
The room fell quiet.
Greg, half-asleep now, yawned loudly.
> "Told you it was awesome."
Ash sat up slowly, blinking like she'd just woken from a dream.
Will pulled his arm away gently, no comment. No tease.
Ash didn't look at either of them.
She just whispered:
> "I should go."
And for the first time that day—
she meant it with a kind of sorrow.
---
Ash stood from the couch, brushing popcorn crumbs from Will's oversized sweatshirt. Her blanket slipped from her shoulders and pooled on the floor. The air felt cooler without it—like reality had returned all at once.
She crossed to the window and looked outside. The world beyond the glass was black, the woods thick with moonlight shadows. Somewhere up there, beyond the road and the trees, was her cave. Cold. Silent.
Alone.
She didn't want to go.
But she also didn't want to ask to stay.
---
> "I should head back," she said, not turning around. "It's getting late."
Greg, still slouched on the couch, blinked blearily at her.
> "Why?" he asked, rubbing one eye. "You can just sleep over."
Ash hesitated.
> "I mean... it's not a big deal," Greg continued, stretching out like a lazy cat. "We're friends, right?"
Ash turned slowly.
> "Friends?"
Greg shrugged.
> "Yeah. You're cool. You're fun. Will likes you. I like you. That's what friends are."
Will, still beside the couch, gave a small nod.
> "You don't have to go if you don't want to."
---
Ash stared at them both.
The word hit her harder than she expected.
Friend.
No one had ever said it to her—not like that.
Not without strings.
Not with warmth.
Not even as Bruce.
Not really.
Her chest tightened. Her throat felt thick.
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Then managed:
> "I guess… we are."
Her voice was quiet. Brittle. But real.
Greg grinned like he'd just won something.
> "Awesome! I'll get extra blankets. You can have the other bed!"
---
Ash stayed standing a moment longer.
That feeling—not wanting to leave—was new.
She picked up the blanket, folded it loosely in her arms, and followed them down the hall.
---
The hallway was dark, lit only by the nightlight glowing dimly from the corner of the boys' room. It cast long shadows on the wooden floor and flickered faintly over the posters on the wall—spaceships, martial arts stances, monster schematics.
Greg was the first to flop into his bed with a dramatic grunt.
> "I'm gonna sleep like a boulder," he muttered, half under the covers already.
Ash lingered in the doorway, arms folded around the blanket she carried, her steps small, quiet. She didn't say anything, but her eyes moved across the room like someone looking for threats.
Will noticed.
He stepped past her, pulled the spare mattress from the closet corner, and began laying it out on the floor beside Greg's bed.
> "You can take mine," he said quietly, without looking at her. "It's warmer. I'll sleep down here."
Ash blinked.
> "You sure?"
Will shrugged, already pulling a blanket around himself on the floor.
> "You're our guest. It's only fair."
Ash hesitated. Then nodded. She stepped forward, placed the folded blanket at the foot of Will's bed, and slowly climbed in.
---
The sheets smelled like soap and something woodsy. The mattress gave under her body—not like moss or packed leaves, but in a way that cradled. It was the first real bed she'd ever laid in.
She didn't know how to relax in it.
But it didn't matter.
Her body began relaxing for her.
---
Greg yawned from his side of the room.
> "That was a good day," he mumbled.
> "Best one in a while."
Will hummed in agreement.
Ash stayed quiet.
Then softly said:
> "Thanks for letting me stay."
Greg turned under the covers.
> "Don't be dumb. We're friends, remember?"
Will added, more quietly:
> "Sleep well, Ash."
---
They brushed their teeth earlier—standing side by side at the sink, sharing a cup of water, spitting into the same porcelain basin while Greg made foam fangs and tried to scare them.
Ash had laughed then. Genuinely.
Now, that laughter echoed somewhere in her chest as she lay in the dark, soft sheets up to her chin, her toes finally warm.
---
She stared at the ceiling, where faint shadows from the hallway nightlight danced across the paint.
And she thought:
> "I don't want to leave."
Then, just before her eyes closed—
> "I have a home."
Even if it wasn't hers.
Even if it wasn't forever.
It was enough for tonight.
---
The key turned softly in the front door lock just past midnight.
Natalie Wilson stepped into the darkened house with the trained grace of someone who could move soundlessly through any terrain. Her heels barely tapped the floor. Her coat was already folded over her arm. Her breathing barely stirred the air.
Behind her, Dmitri locked the door without a word.
They had returned from a short overnight trip—part business, part ritualistic "couples' time," as she liked to call it. No meetings tonight. No reports. Just silence, cool air, and the familiar stillness of their home.
---
Natalie moved through the hall like a shadow.
The house was quiet. Clean. Nothing disturbed. No broken vases, no scorch marks, no signs of injury. That was good. Greg hadn't tried to build another "test rocket" indoors.
She reached the boys' bedroom and eased the door open.
The light was low, as expected. The quiet hum of the nightlight in the corner filled the room with a faint electric buzz.
She smiled faintly.
Greg was curled up in his usual mess of sheets, one arm slung off the bed, snoring softly into his pillow.
On the other mattress—the one Will usually slept in—was a figure, small and still, wrapped in blankets.
Natalie stepped closer.
Her footsteps were as soft as breath.
She leaned down and kissed the sleeping child on the cheek.
The skin was soft.
Softer than she expected.
Not Will's.
The cheek was rounded, smooth. The jaw delicate.
Natalie blinked.
Paused.
Then gently brushed a bit of hair from the child's forehead.
The light caught it—fine, pale strands. Light blonde.
> Not Will.
Not Greg.
> A girl.
She stepped back slightly.
Then looked down again.
The child shifted in her sleep. A faint smile. A sleepy sound—more of a contented breath than a word.
Natalie stood still for a long moment.
And then…
She smiled.
A soft, knowing smile.
> So… they brought someone home.
And she's clean. Resting. Not afraid.
They trust her.
And she trusts them.
---
She stepped back without waking her.
Closed the door quietly.
And walked back down the hall.
---
Dmitri was waiting in the living room, coat still in his hands.
> "Well?" he asked, voice low.
Natalie looked up at him.
> "There's a girl in Will's bed."
Dmitri raised one eyebrow.
> "Greg's doing?"
> "Both of them," she said. "She's… small. And alive. And smiling in her sleep."
Dmitri frowned. "You think she's—"
> "A threat? No. Not tonight."
She paused.
Then added, almost with pride:
> "They brought someone home. And she didn't run."
---
Dmitri grunted softly and folded his coat over the chair.
> "We'll talk to them in the morning."
> "Yes," Natalie said.
But even as she moved into the kitchen to warm water for tea, she couldn't stop thinking about the girl's face in the dark.
How peaceful she had looked.
Like a child who had finally, for the first time, found safety.
---
The key turned softly in the front door lock just past midnight.
Natalie Wilson stepped into the darkened house with the trained grace of someone who could move soundlessly through any terrain. Her heels barely tapped the floor. Her coat was already folded over her arm. Her breathing barely stirred the air.
Behind her, Dmitri locked the door without a word.
They had returned from a short overnight trip—part business, part ritualistic "couples' time," as she liked to call it. No meetings tonight. No reports. Just silence, cool air, and the familiar stillness of their home.
---
Natalie moved through the hall like a shadow.
The house was quiet. Clean. Nothing disturbed. No broken vases, no scorch marks, no signs of injury. That was good. Greg hadn't tried to build another "test rocket" indoors.
She reached the boys' bedroom. And then she,
Natalie eased open the boys' bedroom door, just wide enough to slip in without a creak. The soft buzz of the nightlight filled the room with a dim golden glow, casting long shadows on the wall. She moved instinctively—silent, efficient, her heels long since discarded.
As always, she went first to Will.
Greg was a loving chaos bomb, always wriggling in his sleep, often ending up half off the bed or with a comic book in his arms. Will, though, was orderly. Predictable. Sensitive.
She stepped lightly past Greg's bed, not even glancing down. Her eyes flicked to the mattress on the floor near the footboard—just a vague bundle of shadows and cloth. It could've been a sleeping bag, a stack of pillows, or one of Greg's many "fort projects."
Without looking back, she leaned down over the bed—Will's bed—and pressed a soft kiss to the figure's cheek.
---
It was the wrong shape.
The skin beneath her lips was warm, yes—but the texture was softer, smoother than Will's. The cheek rounded. The jaw too small.
Natalie drew back slightly, puzzled.
She narrowed her eyes, letting them adjust to the dim light.
The figure didn't stir—just a gentle breath through the nose and the faintest, unconscious giggle.
She brushed a lock of hair aside and froze.
Blonde. Fine. Pale. Not her son's.
Her eyes flicked back toward the mattress on the floor—and now she saw it: Will, curled up tightly in a blanket, one hand peeking out from beneath.
---
The girl—this stranger—was in Will's bed.
Clean. Resting. Smiling in her sleep.
Natalie stepped back slowly, her expression unreadable.
Then, something shifted.
The corners of her lips lifted—just slightly.
A flicker of genuine pride crossed her features.
> "So… they brought someone home."
"And she stayed."
---
She exited the room as quietly as she came.
Dmitri was in the hallway, coat still over his arm.
> "Well?" he asked.
> "There's a girl in Will's bed," she said.
He raised an eyebrow.
> "Greg's work?"
> "Both of them. She's small. Clean. And safe. They trust her. And she trusts them."
Dmitri frowned. "Should I be worried?"
> "Not tonight," Natalie said.
"Tonight, she's just a child."
---