Chapter 9 #2
"It's not." She sipped her tea, watching the organized chaos around us. "I know what I taught you. Gaman. Endurance. Showing the world only your best, most disciplined self." She set down her mug. Folded her hands in her lap. "I thought I was protecting you. Teaching you strength."
"You did."
"I taught you to hide." Her voice stayed soft, but the words cut clean. "To compress yourself into something manageable. Something that wouldn't burden anyone else." She looked at me. "I'm watching you learn something different now. With him."
She meant Eamon. Obviously. The man currently mounting a camera in the hallway, professional, focused, and fooling absolutely no one in the family.
"I don't know how to do this," I admitted. "Stop pretending. Just... be."
"Neither do I." Something shifted in her expression. Understanding. "But you're braver than I was at your age. Than I am now."
She stood. Collected both mugs. Pressed a kiss to my hair like I was ten again and small enough to protect.
"Go help him," she said. "He needs you, even if he doesn't know how to say it yet."
By five, the contractors were packing up, and Eamon was teaching me the camera system. I followed him through the house, phone in hand, learning how to check feeds and adjust angles.
"This one covers the back gate," he said, pointing to the screen. "Motion-activated. You'll get alerts, but it'll catch animals too. Don't panic over a raccoon."
"How do I tell the difference?"
"Raccoons don't pause to test door handles." He moved to the next camera. I followed close enough to catch the cedar smell of his jacket and coffee on his breath. "This one covers the driveway. You'll know when anyone pulls in."
"Including you."
He glanced at me. "Including me."
In the upstairs hallway, Eamon checked the last camera mount. I held the ladder steady while he made final adjustments, his weight shifting above me.
"There." He climbed down, stopped on the second-to-last step, so we were almost eye level. "That should do it."
He braced himself with his hand on my shoulder. My hand steadied the ladder.
I reached up. Covered his hand with mine.
We stayed like that—him on the ladder, me below, hands touching, both of us breathing too carefully. Outside, the last contractor's truck pulled away. Somewhere downstairs, Marcus was showing Ma how to use her phone to check the feeds.
For the first time all day, we were alone.
His thumb moved against my collarbone. Small motion. Deliberate.
"We should—" I started.
"Yeah," Eamon said. "We should."
Marcus called from downstairs about dinner, and the moment broke.
But I'd felt his thumb move against my skin. Felt him choose not to pull away.
That was enough.
For now.
***
I gave up on sleep an hour after I retreated to the guest room. Lay in bed staring at the ceiling while the new security system beeped softly every time the furnace kicked on or a branch moved past a window sensor.
My phone was on the nightstand. I picked it up. Opened the security app. Cycled through the feeds.
Back porch: Eamon's silhouette, standing at the railing, breath visible in the cold.
He couldn't sleep either.
I was down the stairs and out the door before I could talk myself into staying put.
The cold hit immediately—December sharp, wet with fog, the kind that seeped into your bones.
I'd pulled on jeans and sneakers, hadn't grabbed a jacket, and was already shivering by the time the door closed behind me.
Eamon turned. "Couldn't sleep?"
"No better than you."
"Not really my strong suit these days."
I crossed to stand beside him. Close enough to feel his warmth. Far enough that I wasn't crowding. The new camera was mounted above us, red light blinking. Watching.
"I can't do my job if I'm this compromised." His voice was rough. "Every time you walk into a room, I lose focus. Every time you smile at me, I forget to check exits. Every time you look at me like—" He stopped. Jaw tight. "Like you're looking at me right now."
I moved closer. Just one step. Just enough that our arms brushed. "Then maybe stop trying to do your job for a minute."
"Mac."
"I've been performing my whole life," I said quietly.
"Every smile, every interview, every public appearance.
Playing straight when I was dying inside.
Playing fine when I was falling apart. Playing whatever version people needed so they'd keep loving me.
" I turned to face him fully. "I don't want to perform with you.
I don't want to pretend anymore. I don't want you to either. "
"I don't know how to keep you safe while wanting you this much," he said.
"Don't stop wanting me." I closed the distance between us. Inches now. Close enough to feel his breath. "And don't stop keeping me safe. Do both."
For a heartbeat, he didn't move.
"Mac," he said again. This time it didn't sound like a warning.
It sounded like surrender.
I kissed him.
Closed the last few inches and pressed my mouth to his, tentative and terrified and done waiting. His lips were cold from the night air, slightly chapped.
For three seconds, he was still. Careful. Letting me lead.
Then his hand came up to cup the back of my head, fingers sliding into my hair, and he kissed me back.
God. Yes.
His other hand found my hip, pulled me closer. I went willingly—no, eagerly—pressing against him until there was no space left between us.
His beard was rough against my jaw, exactly like I'd imagined and better. I made a sound—desperate, needy—and gripped his jacket, held on like he might disappear if I let go.
He backed me against the porch railing. I stopped thinking entirely.
His weight was solid against me. His fingers gripped my hair. He made a quiet noise when I bit his bottom lip, testing, wanting. His hand slid to my lower back, pressing us closer.
I wasn't pretending. Wasn't calculating angles, managing responses, or thinking about what we looked like from the outside.
I was present. Real. Wanting him with an intensity that scared me, and feeling him want me back.
His phone buzzed between us.
We broke apart—both breathing hard, both flushed.
The phone buzzed again. Insistent.
"Fuck," Eamon breathed against my mouth. "Security alert."
He pulled back enough to check his phone. I watched his face shift into professional mode—walls sliding back up, distance returning.
"Probably nothing," he said. "Motion sensor on the back gate. I need to check."
I laughed shakily. Reached up to touch my mouth, still feeling the ghost of his kiss. "Don't."
"Don't check?"
"Don't tell me it was a mistake. Don't apologize. Don't—" I stopped. Met his eyes. "Don't make this less than it was."
His expression softened. He stepped close again, long enough to cup my jaw with one hand, thumb brushing across my cheekbone.
"It wasn't a mistake," he said quietly.
"Good."
"I still need to check the alert."
"I know." I caught his hand before he could pull away. Brought it to my mouth. Kissed his knuckles.
He left to check the gate.
I stood there on the porch, touching my lips, grinning despite everything—the cold, the stalker, the complexity we'd just added to an already impossible situation.
He'd kissed me back.
He'd said it wasn't a mistake.
He'd wanted it—wanted me enough to let his control slip.
The camera blinked its red light above me. Recording everything and watching me stand there like an idiot, touching my mouth like a teenager.
I didn't care who saw.
For once in my life, I wasn't performing.
I was living.
Eamon returned a few minutes later. "Possum. Big one. Knocked over the recycling bin."
"Terrorizing the neighborhood," I said.
"Should I call SWAT?"
I smiled. "Please don't shoot Ma's wildlife."
We stood there another moment. The cold seeping in. Reality settling.
"We should probably—" he started.
"Talk about this. Yeah." I shivered. "Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow." Eamon's voice was soft. "Go inside before you freeze."
"You too."
"In a minute."
I went inside. Climbed the stairs. Got back into bed and stared at the ceiling constellations with my fingers pressed to my mouth, feeling the ghost of his beard rough against my skin.
My phone buzzed.
Eamon: Definitely a possum. Big one.
I smiled in the dark.
Mac: Terrorizing the neighborhood.
Eamon: Go to sleep, Mac.
Mac: You too.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Then:
Eamon: Not sure I can.
Mac: Because of the possum?
Eamon: Because of you.
I set the phone on my chest. Let myself feel it—the wanting, the fear, the possibility of something real.
Sleep came eventually.
Dreamless, for once.
***
The following morning, the kitchen was bright when I finally came down. Eamon was at the sink, drying his hands. He glanced up when I walked in, and the look that passed between us—acknowledgment, memory, and the echo of his mouth on mine—nearly stopped me in the doorway.
"Possum," he said. Voice steady. Professional. "Big one. Knocked over the recycling."
"We've already established that," Marcus said dryly from the table. "Multiple times. Via text. At two in the morning."
Ma smiled into her coffee. She knew. Of course, she knew.
They all probably knew.
I slid into the chair across from her and tried not to smile.
Ma set down her mug with a decisive clink. "The Christmas boat cruise is on Friday. We're all going."
Eamon froze at the sink. "No."
"Excuse me?" Ma's voice could cut glass.
"With Kensington out there, testing doors, escalating—" He turned to face the room. Shoulders tight. "Putting Mac on a boat in the middle of Elliott Bay, surrounded by crowds, limited exits—it's tactically insane."
"It's Christmas," Ma said. "It's tradition."
"It's a security nightmare."
Marcus straightened. "He's not wrong, Ma. We don't even know where she is. She could be anywhere. Waiting for precisely this kind of opportunity."
"So we hide?" Ma's voice sharpened. "Lock ourselves in this house? Let her take Christmas from us?"
"It's not about hiding," Eamon said carefully. "It's about keeping Mac alive."
"By making him a prisoner?" Ma didn't back down. "That's not living. That's… not dying yet. And I didn't raise these boys to settle for not dying yet."
"You're asking me to secure a public event on a moving vessel with unauthorized access points and zero control over who gets on that boat." A flush crept up Eamon's neck. "I can't guarantee his safety."
"You can't guarantee it here either," Marcus pointed out. "She already tried the door."
"Which is exactly why—"
"I want to go," I said.
Everyone stopped. Turned to look at me.
Eamon's jaw tensed.
"I've been hiding since I got here." I stood. "Except for one trip to the Roastery and the market—and look how that turned out. I'm not leaving the house. Not living my life. I'm existing until she decides to move." I paused. "I'm done with that."
"This isn't about pride," Eamon said.
"No. It's about living." I looked at him. "She said two weeks. That's her timeline. She's not moving on Friday."
"You don't know that."
"Neither do you." I softened my voice. Took a step toward him. "I know it's dangerous. I know she could be there. But I can't—" I stopped. Started again. "I've been hiding my whole life." I looked at him. "Different reasons. Same result. I'm just—I'm done with that."
The kitchen went quiet.
"I want Christmas with my family," I said. "On that boat. Even if it's scary." I looked directly at him. "Especially because it's scary. I want to do it anyway. With you."
Ma smiled into her tea.
Eamon gripped the edge of the sink. Knuckles white.
"Friday," he said finally. Voice rough. "But we do this my way: security protocols, no exceptions. You stay in the center of the group. You don't wander off. Anything feels wrong, we leave immediately."
"Deal."
"I'm serious, Mac. First sign of trouble—"
"We leave. I got it." I moved closer. Dropped my voice below the family noise. "I trust you."
His expression shifted. Something raw flickered across his face before the professional mask slid back.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Okay."
Marcus pulled his laptop closer. "I'll coordinate with harbor patrol. Get the passenger list. Run backgrounds on the crew."
"I'll map the boat," Eamon said. "Exits, sight lines, dead zones. We'll have a plan before we set foot on that dock."
"And you'll have fun," Ma said firmly. "All of you. That's non-negotiable too."
My phone buzzed on the table—unknown number.
My stomach dropped.
I picked it up. Read the message. My blood ran cold.
"Mac?" Eamon moved closer. "What is it?"
I turned the screen toward him.
Lovely that you finally have a name to go with the face.
Vanessa Kensington. You've been learning about me while I perfect my understanding of you.
The boat cruise Friday—such a thoughtful family tradition.
Christmas lights on the water, carols, hot chocolate.
I do appreciate being included in the planning.
It will be perfect. See you there. —V.K.
She was listening.
Somehow, impossibly, she was listening to us.
Eamon took my phone. Read the message.
"Marcus," he said quietly. "We need to sweep the house. Now."
"For what?"
"Bugs. Cameras. Something." He looked at me. At Ma. "She heard us talking. Just now. About Friday."
The kitchen that had felt secure five minutes ago suddenly wasn't. The stalker had violated it.
Ma's house—my aunt's house, the place that had always meant safety—had been compromised.
And Vanessa Kensington was coming to the Christmas boat cruise.
Whether we wanted her there or not.