Chapter 5 Mac #3
I swallowed around a lump in my throat. My face pressed into the mat with Eamon's hands on me. I had nowhere to hide.
"I don't—" My voice cracked. "Everyone wants something."
"I know you think that, but I'm going to keep showing up anyway. And eventually you'll figure out that sometimes people only want to give you things because you're worth it."
I couldn't speak.
His hands kept working. He wasn't only treating an injury anymore. He was teaching me—slowly, patiently—how to receive. How to accept care without calculating the debt. How to be still and let someone else carry the weight for five goddamn minutes.
When he finally sat back, I didn't move immediately. I lay there, breathing, feeling the places where his hands were still there like ghost prints on my skin.
"Better?" he asked.
I pushed up. Rotated my shoulder. The joint moved clean. No click. No compensation.
"Yeah," I said. "Better." I exhaled.
"Where'd you learn to do that?" I asked. Safe question. Easier than acknowledging something more profound had happened.
"My mother. She was a massage therapist. Made me practice on her when I was fourteen. Said if I was going to be big like my father, I needed to learn how to be gentle."
The image of teenage Eamon learning to use his hands carefully made me smile.
"Thank you," I said.
"It's just stretching."
"It's not, though."
We both knew what had just happened. He'd seen the wound I'd been hiding behind performance and charm. The one that said I can give, but I can't receive. I can be desired, but I can't be cared for.
Instead of backing away, he'd leaned in and met it with patience. My phone buzzed.
The sound cut through everything. I grabbed it from my bag.
My blood turned to ice.
Unknown number.
A photo loaded slowly as my stomach dropped.
It was us. This morning. Maybe forty minutes ago, based on the light.
Eamon and I are walking from his car to this building. The angle was from across the street—telephoto lens, professional quality. Rain is visible in the frame. Time stamp in the corner: 7:42 AM.
Below the image:
New location documented. Firefighter training facility, Fremont. Arrival time: 7:41 AM. The man accompanying you increases your stress markers by 14%. His proximity is damaging. Removal scheduled.
I couldn't breathe.
"Mac?" Eamon stepped up beside me. "What—"
I handed him the phone.
I watched his face change. Fear, rage, and then his professional mask snapped into place.
"When did this come in?"
"Just now."
He was already moving toward the windows and scanning the street visible through the high openings. Then to the door, checking the lock, the frame, the sight lines.
"They followed us." His voice was flat and tactical. "From Ma's house. I should've—" He cut himself off. "We need to move. Now."
"Eamon—"
"Now, Mac."
I grabbed my bag. He was at the door, checking through the small window before opening it.
"Stay close. Don't run. Act normal."
The parking lot looked the same. Empty except for two fire trucks and Eamon's rental car.
The threats were in the cars on the street. Someone had been close enough to photograph us. They might still be close enough.
Watching.
Always watching.
His proximity is damaging. Removal scheduled.
Eamon opened the passenger door, hand on my shoulder, guiding me in. His eyes never stopped scanning.
He was in the driver's seat in seconds. Engine on. Pulling out.
"They knew about this place," I said. My voice was shaky. "How did they know about this place?"
"They followed us. From the house." His jaw was tight. "I checked for tails. I was careful. But they're good. Better than I thought."
"Removal scheduled." I couldn't stop hearing it. "Eamon, they're threatening you."
"I know."
"Because of me. Because you're—" My voice cracked. "Everyone I let get close ends up paying for it."
Eamon reached out and touched my thigh. Squeezed once. Hard enough to hurt.
"Stop," he said. The gentle tone was gone. "You don't get to make that decision for me."
"But—"
"No." He turned to look at me for just a second before his eyes went back to the road. "I'm not leaving because it's too dangerous. I'm not leaving because you think you're not worth the risk. I'm staying because you are worth it, and you're going to have to get used to that."
"You don't know—"
"I know enough." He tightened his grip on my thigh.
"I know you've spent your whole life believing you have to be perfect to be worth keeping.
I know you think anyone who gets close will leave once they see the real you.
And I'm telling you right now: I already see you.
The real you. The one who can't sleep. The one who pushes too hard because control is the only thing that makes sense.
The one who doesn't know how to accept care without calculating the debt. "
I couldn't breathe.
"And I'm staying. You're not a burden, Mac. You're the point."
I grabbed my phone and called Michael. He answered on the first ring.
"We've got a problem," I said.
Eamon's knuckles were white on the wheel. His hand had moved back to the gearshift, but I still felt the imprint of his fingers on my body. His words echoed in my head: I already see you.
Nobody had ever said that to me before.
We pulled up to the house. Michael was already on the porch, phone to his ear, adopting the SWAT officer stance that meant business.
Eamon parked. Killed the engine. Sat there for a moment, breathing.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said finally. "We will adjust our tactics."
Michael rapped on the window. We got out.
Inside, Ma was in the kitchen with Marcus. Both looked up when we entered.
"What's going on?" Ma asked. "Michael said—"
"New message." I showed her the phone.
She went pale. Then angry. "Someone was watching my house? Following you from my house?"
"We're handling it, Ma," Michael said.
"Handling it how?"
"I've got calls in to SPD," Eamon said. "And I'm vetting private security for additional surveillance. We're also changing all protocols—routes, timing, locations."
"What about Mac's training?" Marcus asked.
"We'll figure something else out."
I looked at the photo again. The time stamp. The angle. The clinical observation about stress markers and proximity damage.
Removal scheduled.
They'd been close enough to photograph us. Close enough to count the seconds from when we got out of the car to when we entered the building.
Close enough that they could've done anything.
But they hadn't. They didn't want to damage me.
They wanted to remove Eamon.
And then they wanted to take me.
"We need to talk," I said. "All of us."
Michael nodded. "Kitchen table. Now."
We filed in. Ma put coffee on without asking.
As we sat around the scarred table that had survived forty years of McCabe crises, I looked at Ma—started to say something. Stopped.
"What?" she asked.
"I shouldn't have come here." The words came out hollow. "I shouldn't have brought this to your house and your family—"
"Stop." Ma's voice cut through. "You think we don't know what it costs you to bring your trouble to our door?"
She reached across the table and took my hand.
"Sweetheart, you've been carrying things alone since you were a boy.
Since your daddy died and you decided the world needed perfect Mac McCabe and nothing less.
" Her grip was fierce. "But that's not how family works.
You carry ours, we carry yours. That's the deal.
You don't get to opt out because you think you're too much trouble. "
"Ma—"
"Over my dead body," she said. "Over my dead body does anyone take you from this house. You understand me?"
Her eyes were fierce. "You're not too much, sweetheart. You've just been too alone."
I nodded.
Marcus put one hand on hers and the other on mine. Michael was already on his phone. Eamon watched me with an expression I was learning to read—it meant he'd burn the world down before he let anyone take me.
The McCabes were circling their wagons.
My phone buzzed again.
I didn't want to look. Had to look.
Observation: Subject shows increased agitation following morning exercise. Companion's influence detrimental. Extraction timeline accelerated. Will contact soon with restoration parameters.
I set the phone on the table.
"They're not waiting anymore," I said quietly. "Whatever they're planning, it's happening soon."