Chapter 5 Mac
Chapter five
Mac
The glow-in-the-dark stars were fading.
I'd counted them twice since midnight—forty-three total, arranged in constellations. Michael stuck them up there when he was twelve.
It was 3:02 AM, and I moved on to concentrating on sounds. The radiator hissed every eleven minutes. The refrigerator hummed a flat B.
My phone sat dark on the nightstand. Silent for the last three days. Nearly a week past Thanksgiving, the quiet was more alarming than the threats.
847 documented images.
I rolled onto my side. The mattress springs squealed. Everything in Ma's house announced itself—you couldn't move through it quietly if you tried.
Downstairs, Eamon was on the basement fold-out. Twenty-three stairs away. I knew the exact path: through the kitchen, down the basement steps, turn left. The couch faced the ground-level window he didn't like.
My mind conjured an image without permission: Eamon asleep, one arm thrown across the pillow above his head. The grey hoodie pushed up from shifting in sleep, exposing the pale stretch of his stomach, with a trail of amber hair below his navel disappearing into his flannel waistband.
That flush he got so easily would fade in sleep, leaving just the freckles I'd noticed scattered across his forearms. His chest would rise and fall in the deep rhythm of actual rest—something I hadn't managed in days.
The sheet probably tangled around his legs, kicked half off because I'd bet he ran hot, always too warm in Ma's overheated house. His beard would be softer without the day's tension held in his jaw. Mouth slightly open. Vulnerable in a way he never allowed when conscious.
I'd sit nearby, looking.
I shoved the thought away, but it left heat in its wake.
Professional relationship. Bodyguard doing his job.
The bodyguard who'd made me tea yesterday without asking. Who'd positioned me away from windows without making me feel weak. Who'd looked at me in the rain and understood that sometimes you needed to feel something other than afraid.
The radiator hissed.
I tried Mom's breathing technique. Four counts in. Hold. Four out.
Made it through two cycles before my brain started calculating: if someone broke through that basement window, would Eamon hesitate? He'd mentioned failing once. Would that second cost—
Stop.
I sat up. 3:08 on the clock.
Water. That's all I needed.
The hallway floor announced every step. I gave up trying to be quiet, letting the house broadcast my presence.
I crept past Graham McCabe's firefighter portrait. Past my dad's wedding photo. Past ten-year-old me with a baseball bat taller than I was.
The kitchen light was already on.
Eamon stood at the stove, barefoot, in his grey hoodie and soft, worn flannel pants. Steam rose from Ma's dented kettle.
He'd pulled the hoodie down properly. Of course it was. My imagination had been working overtime.
"Chamomile," he said without turning. "Two bags. My mother's remedy for everything from insomnia to heartbreak."
I walked in. "Guess I'm not the only one who can't sleep."
"You're allowed." He poured into two mugs—one with faded shamrocks, one that said World's Best Mom. "Three hours is standard for me anyway."
"That's not healthy."
"Neither is lying awake counting glow-in-the-dark stars." He glanced over his shoulder. "Forty-three, right?"
Heat crawled up my neck. "You counted them too?"
"When I worked with Michael on a case. I spent a night here in the guest room. He told me he put them up when he was twelve. Said the Big Dipper's wrong, but he was too stubborn to fix it."
Eamon carried both mugs to the small kitchen table and set one in front of the chair facing the window. Took the other where he could see both doors.
Professional habits. Even at 3 AM, the man couldn't stop working.
"Your mom made you tea when you couldn't sleep?"
"Every time. She'd... sit there. Never asked what was wrong."
The invitation was clear: I'm sitting. You don't have to talk.
I didn't know what to do with care that showed up without demanding a show.
My brain started calculating immediately. He made me tea—why? What does he need in return? What's the appropriate reciprocation? Should I offer to make breakfast tomorrow? Take a shift watching the house?
The thoughts came automatically, like muscle memory. Every gift had a price, and every kindness required balancing the scales.
Except Eamon wasn't watching me expectantly. Wasn't waiting for gratitude, acknowledgment, or whatever transaction would close the loop. He just sat there, drinking his own tea, shoulders finally dropping from around his ears.
I forced myself to drink. Tried to just... accept it.
It tasted of herbs and honey. My throat was tight with something that wasn't fear.
We sat in silence. Two men were drinking tea at 3 AM because it was better than lying alone in the dark.
"The tea's helping," I said finally. Testing. Waiting for the other shoe.
"Mostly psychological."
"I'll take it." I paused.
"What do I owe you?" The words came out before I could stop them.
Eamon looked at me across the table. "Nothing."
"I mean for—" I gestured at the mug. "You didn't have to—"
"I know." His voice stayed gentle. "That's why I did it."
My hands tightened around the ceramic. I wanted to argue. Wanted to establish the terms of exchange so I'd know how to perform gratitude properly.
Instead, I sat there, holding tea someone made me because he noticed I couldn't sleep. No angle. No expectation. No transaction.
I didn't know how to do this.
"Thank you," I said finally. It came out rough. "For not making me talk about it."
And for not making me earn it first. But I couldn't say that part out loud.
"Some things don't need words." He stood and collected both mugs.
Matter-of-fact. No drama. Just acknowledgment.
I watched him rinse and dry the mugs, then put them back in their exact spots.
"You noticed I take two sugars," I said.
"Professional observation."
"That's not professional."
He hung the towel back, precise and careful. Buying time.
"No," he said finally. "It's not."
"I should let you sleep," I said.
"Probably."
Eamon turned off the light. It plunged us into darkness except for the small nightlight near the stove.
"Go back to bed, Mac," he said quietly. "I'll be downstairs if you need anything."
"I know."
"Good."
I walked past him. Close enough to catch his scent—cedar from Ma's linen closet, chamomile tea, and the faint smell of organic soap.
At the doorway, I looked back.
He stood in shadow, faint glow catching the copper in his beard.
"Eamon?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you're here."
Silence. Then: "So am I."
I climbed the stairs. Back under Ma's wedding ring quilt, I looked up at Michael's fading constellations. The Big Dipper was slightly wrong, like Eamon said.
I closed my eyes.
At 3:47, I fell asleep.
I woke to grey windows and coffee already brewing.
Two hours of sleep. Better than none.
5:53. No new messages. I checked twice.
Downstairs, Marcus and Eamon's voices rumbled. Men solving problems over morning coffee.
My body ached—not an injury. It was the stiffness of an athlete who lets days go by without proper training. Another week and I'd feel like a stranger in my own skin.
I pulled on jeans and a hoodie, grabbed my running shoes. Paused at the mirror.
Exhaustion painted shadows under my eyes. My hair stuck up in three directions. I looked like exactly what I was—someone who'd gotten two hours of sleep and was about to pretend otherwise.
Downstairs, voices rumbled. Marcus's baritone. And underneath it, Eamon's lower register, that slight rasp that meant he was on his second cup of coffee.
My body woke up before my brain caught up.
Heat spread low in my stomach. I closed my eyes.
This was professional. He made you tea because you couldn't sleep. That's care, not—
My mind conjured him anyway: leaning against Ma's counter in that grey hoodie, flannel pants sitting low on his hips. The morning light would catch the copper in his beard. His hands wrapped around a mug, those long fingers I'd been staring at for days.
Would there be a flush creeping up his throat yet? Or was it too early, before the day's tension had time to wind him tight?
Stop.
I opened my eyes. Gripped the dresser edge.
This wasn't helping. This was the opposite of helping.
I needed to train. Needed to feel like an athlete again, instead of someone whose body had apparently decided Eamon Price was more interesting than self-preservation.
I grabbed my shoes and headed downstairs before my imagination could get more specific about what that hoodie would look like pushed up past his navel.
Marcus and Eamon looked up when I hit the kitchen.
"Morning," Marcus said. "Sleep okay?"
"Fine. I need a gym."
Eamon's eyes tracked me as I crossed to the coffee pot. "We discussed the dangers of public venues."
"I need to train." I poured coffee. Black. Two sugars. "My body forgets too fast."
"Your body will remember."
"You don't know that." I sounded more confrontational than necessary. "The timing, the reaction speed, the muscle memory. When I lose a week, it takes a month to get it back."
Marcus cleared his throat. "There's a place near the station. Firefighter training facility. Keyed entry. No public access."
I turned. "A gym?"
"A secure gym," Eamon added. "No press. No cameras."
"I need a batting cage."
"We'll work on it."
"This is my career," I said. Quiet. Measured. It was the voice I used with umpires when I was one word from ejection. "Spring training starts in eight weeks. I have to be ready."
"You'll be ready."
"You can't promise that."
"We'll figure it out, one day at a time," Eamon said.
Marcus stood, grinning. "I'll give you two some space. The facility opens at seven. I'll text the code."
He left.
"I'm not trying to control you," Eamon said carefully. "I'm trying to keep you alive."
"I know."
"Do you?"
I stared at him. Shadows under his eyes matched mine. Tension in his jaw said he'd slept less than two hours.