10. Sean
SEAN
Eli’s been quiet. Normally, he’s thoughtful and a little wary. The kind of kid who watches a room before stepping into it. He lets Maeve be the star of the show, always with a sarcastic remark or a joke. He’s usually too busy with a book or his toys to bother.
But today, something’s different.
He doesn’t hum while he builds his Lego set. Doesn’t bounce when he runs down the hallway, choosing to walk instead. Doesn’t call anyone to come see what he made.
He just disappears into the library and closes the door.
Bailey notices too. She gives me a look from across the kitchen, the kind of look that asks a question without saying it out loud.
I nod once. I’ll handle it.
The library’s one of the warmest rooms in the house. Low bookshelves, beanbags, big windows that catch the sun in the afternoon. It’s a soft space. A safe one. Bailey made sure of that.
When I open the door, I find him curled up on the window bench, hugging a Star Wars plushie to his chest, staring down at a book he isn’t reading. He’s just looking at it.
“Hey, bud,” I say, stepping in quietly. “Room for one more?”
He doesn’t look at me. Just nods.
I sit at the far end of the bench, giving him space. Let the quiet settle between us like a blanket instead of a wall. Sometimes the best thing you can give someone is silence.
Eventually, Eli glances up. “Are you here to make me talk?”
“Nope,” I say, leaning back against the wall. “Just here in case you want to.”
He considers that. Then goes back to pretending to read. A long minute passes. Then Eli asks, without looking up, “Were you always big?”
I blink. “Big?”
“Like…grown-up. Strong.”
I hide a smile. “Nope. I was a string bean until I hit fifteen. Couldn’t lift a backpack without tipping over.”
He peeks up at me, just a little. “Did people make fun of you?”
“All the time. Especially my older brothers.”
“You have brothers?”
“Two,” I say. “Twice as annoying and half as smart as me.”
That gets the ghost of a smile. Eli shifts on the bench, adjusting his grip on the plushie. His voice drops a little. “My dad says I’ll never be a quarterback like him if I keep wearing glasses.”
My gut twists.
Eli keeps going, staring down at his hands now. “He said quarterbacks don’t read books all day. Said I should spend more time outside playing and less time with my nose in books. That it’s not…manly.” He says the last word like it tastes bad.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Do you like reading?”
He nods.
“Do you like being inside more than outside?”
Another nod.
“Do you like wearing glasses?”
He hesitates, then shrugs. “I like seeing.”
I nod. “Then that’s all that matters.”
He looks at me, eyes wide behind thick lenses. “But he said I won’t be like him if I keep being like me.”
I meet his gaze head-on. “Good.”
That stuns him.
“Your dad wants you to be like him. I want you to be like you. ”
“But he says I’ll get picked on.”
I sit back. “Eli, let me tell you something. The people who get picked on? The nerds, the bookworms, the kids who see the world a little differently? They’re the ones who grow up to run it.”
He blinks. “Really?”
“Really. You know Wesley?”
He nods fast.
“Biggest nerd I know. He built a business with a laptop and too much caffeine. Now we all work for him. ” Not entirely the truth, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Eli snorts. “Wesley’s not a nerd.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Have you seen his video game setup?”
He laughs. “No.”
“You know what else?” I ask, pulling the contacts case from my pocket to gesture to it. “I wear contacts.”
Eli squints. “You do?”
“Yup. Have since I was seventeen. I can’t see anything past ten feet without ’em. Total blur.”
“Really?”
“Really. Glasses, contacts, whatever—it’s just gear. It doesn’t change who you are. It’s no different than wearing a helmet when you ride your bike or sneakers when you run.”
He’s quiet for a second. Then, softly, “What if I want to play football one day?”
“Then we’ll get you the best glasses in the world—or a killer pair of contacts—and you’ll play like a champ.”
Eli smiles. Just a little. But it’s enough. He slides his glasses higher on his nose. “You think it’s okay to like both? Reading and football?”
“I think it’s more than okay. I think it’s smart. If you want to be a good quarterback, you have to learn about strategy and leadership. That usually requires books.”
He leans back against the window. “But it’s not what Dad wants.”
“Maybe not,” I say. “But your job isn’t to be what he wants. It’s to be who you are.”
He watches me carefully, like he’s not used to hearing that. His little brow furrows, trying to solve the disconnect I just threw at him.
Hell, I remember being that kid. The one trying to meet someone else’s idea of strength.
Trying to act right. Be useful. Fit into a frame that didn’t match my shape.
It doesn’t matter how hard you try—it never feels right.
Until someone shows you that you don’t have to break yourself to be worth something.
“You know what I think makes someone a real man?” I ask him.
Eli’s brows rise just a little.
“Someone who knows what he loves and protects it.”
He nods like that makes sense. “That’s what you guys do.”
“Exactly.”
We sit there for a moment longer, not talking.
Then he grins. “Can I get contacts?”
“With your mom’s permission. We’ll make it a whole mission. Operation: Secret Eyes.”
He giggles.
I ruffle his hair and stand. “You good?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
“Need anything else?”
“Nope.”
“You ever need someone to talk to, I’m your guy. Deal?”
“Deal,” he says, holding up a pinky.
I hook mine around his, and that little knot of tension behind my ribs loosens when he smiles. Because he’s okay, and I’ll make damn sure he stays that way. I leave Eli in the library with his book and his plushie and a little more light in his eyes than he had an hour ago.
He doesn’t say goodbye. He just waves without looking up, already lost in the story on his lap.
The hallway is quiet. Afternoon sun slants through the windows in long, clean lines across the floors. Somewhere, I can hear the low murmur of Jessica’s voice and the faint rhythmic hum of the laundry machines spinning.
I pass one of the side windows and glance out.
Bailey’s on the patio, standing by herself, arms crossed tight over her chest like she’s holding something in. She’s staring out at the view with that look she gets sometimes—like the world’s pressing in and she’s too proud to flinch.
I don’t go to her. Not yet. Not when I’m still carrying this much fury in my chest. It feels wrong to be near her when I’m angry. Not that I’d ever hurt her—God knows—but that she should never be exposed to this kind of greasy vitriol.
David. The photos. The kid. The nerves she won’t let settle because someone made her believe that peace is something she has to earn instead of something she deserves.
It all burns. But I won’t let that fire touch them. I won’t let him touch them. Not Eli. Not Maeve. Not Bailey.
I head back and sit in the ops room, lights low, monitors running quiet. I pull up the security feeds, double-check the gate logs, scan for any anomalies. I work my way through the routine like it’s a prayer. Not because I doubt Wesley did it already. But because I need to do it too.
This job was never about a paycheck.
The second Bailey looked at me with her whole heart cracked open, the contract was already signed. It’s personal. Whatever happens next—more blackmail, more press, more ghosts from David’s playbook—I’ll handle it.
Quietly. Thoroughly.
And if the kid ever forgets how strong he is, or if Bailey ever needs reminding she’s not in this alone, or if anyone else tries to tear this family down?
They’ll have to come through me first.