28. Claiming Protection Through Ice Cream And Whisky Part One #2
Willa makes another small sound, her hand coming up to rest against my chest, right over my heart. The gesture is unconscious, trusting, and it brings me crashing back to the present—to this truck, this parking lot, this woman who's depending on me to keep her safe.
Just like my team depended on me.
The parallel is a knife between my ribs.
Once again, I'm in a position of protection.
Once again, I'm letting emotion override logic—kissing her in public, claiming her like some caveman, making decisions based on what feels right instead of what's tactically sound.
The way she responded to Blake, the fear in her eyes, it triggered the same protective instinct that made me charge up those stairs.
And we all know how that ended.
I look down at her sleeping face, peaceful despite the exhaustion written in every line, and feel that familiar weight settling on my shoulders.
She trusts me. They all do— Cole, River, Austin. They trust me to be smart, to think three steps ahead, to keep everyone safe.
But what happens when keeping her safe requires the kind of choices that got my team killed?
What happens when protecting her means breaking all my rules?
My phone buzzes against my thigh, and I'm grateful for the distraction from this spiral of guilt and what-ifs.
Careful not to wake her, I fish it out one-handed, squinting at the screen in the growing dusk.
The past might be carved in stone and blood, but the present is still mine to shape. And right now, the present is Willa warm against my side, trusting me even in sleep, needing the kind of care that has nothing to do with tactical decisions and everything to do with being human.
Maybe that's the lesson I never learned from that night— sometimes the right choice isn't about protocol or logic or minimizing casualties.
Sometimes it's about recognizing that certain people are worth any risk, any consequence, any amount of carefully maintained control shattered on the altar of keeping them safe.
I press my lips to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of honey and exhaustion and something uniquely Willa, and make a promise to ghosts who probably aren't listening:
This time, I'll get it right. This time, I'll save everyone.
Even if it means saving them from myself.
I angle the phone screen away from Willa's face, dimming the brightness with one thumb while using my pinky to steady it—a maneuver I've perfected during too many late-night stakeouts where light discipline meant the difference between success and blown cover.
Cole's name flashes on the screen, followed by a string of messages that started ten minutes ago.
Cole: You coming home? Just pulled in with the feed
Cole: Austin said you left with Willa
Cole: If that fucker Blake followed you I swear to god
Cole: Mav answer your fucking phone
I can practically hear the growl in that last text.
My thumb moves across the screen, typing one-handed while my other arm stays wrapped around Willa, keeping her secure against my shoulder.
Me: Relax mother hen. We're fine. Stopping for dinner but she's out cold
The three dots appear immediately—Cole was waiting for my response.
Cole: Let her sleep. Our Girl hasn't been getting proper rest
*
Me: How do you know that?
Cole:
Because I have fucking eyes? Also, she told me those Iron Ridge douches didn't teach her anything about nesting. Can you believe that shit?
I frown, the expression pulling at my face as I glance down at Willa.
Now that Cole mentions it, the signs are obvious.
Beyond the dark circles, there's a hollow quality to her cheeks I hadn't noticed before, the kind that comes from running on caffeine and stubbornness instead of actual rest.
Her breathing hitches again— not quite a snore but close —and she burrows deeper into my shoulder like she's trying to crawl inside my skin.
The angle of light from the setting sun highlights things I missed earlier: the way her fingers twitch in her sleep, restless even in exhaustion.
When t he faint tension in her shoulders doesn't fully release, even when unconscious. The way she's clutching my shirt now, fabric twisted in her grip like I might disappear if she lets go.
**Me**: Jesus. How long has she been like this?
Cole: My guess? Years. That kind of bone-deep tired doesn't happen overnight
Me: What are you doing about it?
Cole:
What do you think? We're setting up the best damn nest in all of Sweetwater Falls
The mental image of Cole— gruff, practical Cole —arranging pillows and blankets makes me bite back a laugh that would definitely wake Willa. He's probably standing in the middle of her room right now, hands on his hips, surveying his work like it's a tactical operation.
Which, knowing Cole, it probably is.
Me: Better add extra of my shit or I'm conning all of you
Cole: Already raided your closet. That green henley you never wear? It's hers now
Me: The fuck it is. That's my favorite shirt
Cole: You literally haven't touched it in six months
Me: Because it's my FAVORITE. You don't wear your favorites, you save them
Cole:
Cole: Just exhaust her and bring her home late. We need time to finish
The suggestion hangs there, loaded with possibility.
Exhaust her.
My mind immediately goes places it shouldn't—flashes of all the ways I could tire her out, make her sleep the deep, satisfied sleep of someone thoroughly taken care of.
The kind of exhaustion that comes from pleasure, not anxiety.
Me: And if I don't bring her home at all?
Cole: Then you better have a damn good explanation
Me: Your approval is all the explanation I need
Cole: Do NOT use that angel emoji when we both know you're thinking with your dick
Me: Who says I'm thinking with my dick? Maybe I'm being a gentleman
Cole: You carried her out of town like a caveman and kissed her in front of god and everyone. Real gentlemanly
Me: She needed it
Cole: She needed YOU to stake a claim in front of her ex?
I consider that for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Did she need it? Or did I need it?
The line got blurry the moment Blake opened his mouth, the moment I saw her shoulders hunch like she was trying to become smaller. Everything after that was pure instinct.
Me: She needed to see someone choose her. Publicly. Proudly.
The dots appear and disappear several times, like Cole's writing and deleting responses.
Finally:
Cole: Yeah. She did.
Cole: Doesn't mean you get to keep her out all night
Me: If I did, that's on you for giving permission
Cole: I did NOT give permission
Me: "Exhaust her" sounds like permission to me
Cole: Exhaust her with FOOD. And TALKING. Jesus Christ
Me: Sure. We'll go with that
Cole: Maverick, I swear to god
Me: What? I'm agreeing with you. Food and talking. Very exhausting.
Cole: Go fuck yourself
The response comes so fast I know he's getting flustered, which only makes this more fun.
Cole's easy to rile when it comes to Willa—all that protective instinct wrapped up in propriety he doesn't actually feel.
Me: Maybe I will. Have Willa join in on the fucking
Cole: I'm going to murder you
Me: With what? Your disapproving glare?
Cole: With my bare fucking hands
Me: Kinky. Does River know about this side of you?
Cole:
Me: Triple birds? I'm honored
Cole: Just... take care of her, okay? She looked rough earlier. Seeing Blake fucked her up more than she let on
The abrupt shift to sincerity catches me off guard.
That's Cole— all jokes and crude banter until something actually matters, then he's the most earnest bastard you'll ever meet.
It's one of the reasons I trust him…why we all do.
Under all that gruff exterior is someone who'd bleed himself dry for the people he loves.
Me: I've got her
Cole: I know you do
Me: Nest better be fucking amazing when we get there
Cole: It will be. Austin's supervising. You know how he gets about comfort
Me: Like a mother hen with OCD
Cole: Exactly. Luna's already claimed one corner. We're building around her
The image makes me smile against Willa's hair.
Luna, tiny and determined, planted in the middle of what will be Willa's space.
Austin, fussing over thread counts and pillow arrangements.
River, probably contributing some obscure technical solution to optimize scent distribution.
Cole, grumbling but secretly loving every minute of taking care of someone.
This is what we do.
What we are.
A pack of broken pieces that somehow fit together, each of us carrying damage we don't talk about but show in how fiercely we protect what's ours.
And Willa— whether she knows it or not —is ours now.
Me: Give me two hours
Cole: Mav...
Me*: To feed her. Christ you have a dirty mind
Cole: Says the man who just offered to fuck himself
Me: Only if Willa helps
Cole: I'm muting this conversation
Me: Sure you are. See you in two hours. Three if traffic's bad
Cole: There IS no traffic
Me*: Might be. You never know
Cole: MAVERICK
I chuckle low in my throat, the sound vibrating through my chest where Willa's pressed against me.
She stirs slightly, murmuring something that sounds like "tickles," before settling again.
The simple trust in that—the way she doesn't wake, doesn't startle, just accepts my presence as safe—does something complicated to my insides.
These men, this makeshift family we've built, they're everything.
And now there's Willa, fitting into our chaos like she was always meant to be there, filling spaces we didn't know were empty.
The nest they're building is just the physical manifestation of what we're all trying to offer—a safe place to rest, to heal, to be herself without fear or judgment.
My phone buzzes one more time.
Cole: Hey. Meant to say earlier - good job with Blake. Asshole needed to see what he lost
Me: He didn't lose her. He threw her away. Different thing entirely
Cole: His loss. Our gain.
Me: Damn right