Chapter 16 Eamon #2
"Why not?" He turned to face me. "Give me one good reason."
I could've listed tactical justifications. My behavioral analysis experience. Pattern recognition.
I said: "Because you matter to me. More than I expected."
He lowered his head and wove his fingers together.
"I've spent three years keeping distance," I continued.
"Staying professional. Not letting clients become people I cared about because caring compromises judgment.
" I set down the magazine. "But somehow you've gotten under my skin anyway.
And now the thought of sitting here while someone else handles the threat—while someone else decides whether you get to be safe—I can't do it. I need to be there."
"What if something goes wrong?"
"Then I'll handle it."
"What if you get hurt?"
"I won't."
"You don't know that." His voice cracked. "Eamon, you don't know that."
I reached for his hand. Found it cold and trembling. "Three years ago, I hesitated when I should've moved. And she died. Tonight I get to move when it matters. I get to be there for you. I get to prove to myself that I didn't destroy my instincts."
"But what if you freeze again?"
"I won't." I squeezed his fingers.
He looked at me. His eyes were glistening.
"I'm terrified of you getting hurt." He raised a hand to cup my face. "But we're doing this anyway because the alternative—letting her win, letting fear keep us frozen—that's worse. Right?"
"Right."
"So we trust your instinct. We trust Michael. We trust that you'll know what to do when it matters." He leaned in. Rested his head on my shoulder. "I'm putting my life in your hands. Not because I have to—because I want to. Because I believe in you."
"I'm scared," I said.
"Good. So am I. We're both terrified and doing it anyway. That's courage."
We stayed like that for several minutes.
"I need you to come back," Mac whispered.
"I will. I promise."
He kissed me. Harder this time. Desperate. His hands gripped my jacket, pulling me closer as if proximity could keep me safe.
When we broke apart, we were both breathing hard.
"Come back to me," he said against my mouth.
"I will."
Somewhere inside, Ma started cooking again—the smell of roasting meat drifting out to us.
"I should go back in," Mac said eventually. "Ma's going to need help."
"Probably."
He kissed me one more time. Quick.
The door closed. I was alone again with my equipment, the gray afternoon, and the weight of promises.
I picked up the magazine. Rechecked it. The spring tension was fine. Everything was fine.
***
Sixteen forty-five. The kitchen was full of competing smells—roasted garlic, rosemary, and something sweet baking. The air was thick with heat and anticipation.
I was helping Michael load gear into his truck when headlights swept the driveway. A Subaru pulled in behind my rental—the engine cut. Then Claire emerged carrying something wrapped in cloth.
She moved differently from her son—slower, more deliberate, each step considered. Where Mac filled space with energy, Claire carved calm around herself.
Ma opened the door before Claire could knock. "You're early."
"I wanted to catch them before dinner. Is Cormac inside?"
"Guest room. I'll get him."
"No need." Mac appeared behind Ma. He immediately looked at what Claire carried. "Mom?"
She stepped inside. Unwrapped the cloth with careful hands, revealing the bowl she'd collapsed at her studio.
Except it was whole again.
The vessel sat in her palms, approximately eight inches tall. Gold lacquer traced through the cracks where she'd pieced the shards back together, the repairs visible and deliberate.
The bowl was more beautiful for being broken.
Mac stared at it. His throat worked. "You fixed it."
"No." Claire's voice was gentle. "I joined it. There's a difference. The cracks are still there. They're just not separations anymore."
She crossed to him. Held out the bowl. He took it like she was handing him something alive—careful, reverent, his fingers touched the gold seams.
"This bowl survived the kiln," Claire said quietly. "You'll survive this."
Claire turned to me. "Eamon, walk with me?"
I glanced at Mac. He nodded.
I followed Claire through the kitchen and out onto the back porch. The rain had softened to mist.
Claire didn't sit. She stood looking at the backyard.
"Mac tells me you're going tonight," she said.
"Yes."
"And that you're scared."
I blinked. "He told you—"
"He didn't have to. I can see it." She glanced at me. "You're terrified something will go wrong."
There was no point denying it. "Yes."
"Good."
"Good?"
"Fear means you understand the stakes. Means you care about coming back.
" She turned to face me fully. "My son has spent most of his life learning to hide what he feels.
Learning that vulnerability is weakness.
That love requires perfection. I taught him that.
Not intentionally—but I taught him nonetheless. "
The admission was raw.
"You're teaching him differently," Claire continued. "Teaching him that he doesn't have to be perfect to be worth protecting. That falling apart doesn't mean shattering."
I didn't know what to say to that.
"The bowl I gave him—I didn't fix it. I can't undo the collapse." Her voice remained calm. "But I can show him that you can make broken things whole again. The repair doesn't erase the damage—it transforms it into something new. Something that remembers what it survived."
I rested a hand on the porch rail.
"He needs someone who sees the cracks and doesn't demand he hide them," Claire said. "Someone who understands that protection isn't about preventing damage—it's about being there after the damage happens."
"I'm trying," I said quietly.
"I know." She reached out. Her hand settled on my forearm—brief contact, but deliberate. "Take care of yourself tonight. Come home. And when you do, keep teaching my son what I couldn't. That showing up fractured is enough."
"I will," I said. "I promise."
"Good." She released my arm. Stepped back. "I should go help my sister-in-law."
She went inside before I could respond.
The back door opened again. Mac stood with the bowl cradled in his hands.
"She talk to you?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"Did she do the thing where she says something profound and then walks away before you can process it?"
"Very much that."
He smiled. Stepped onto the porch. Held out the pot. "Look at it."
I took it. The ceramic was cool, the gold seams slightly raised. They didn't hide the repairs. They made it the focal point.
"She broke this," Mac said. "I thought it was completely gone."
I nodded. "But she put it back together."
"She showed me it was always meant to break. The collapse wasn't a failure—it was part of the process. The kiln comes after. The gold comes after."
He took the bowl back. Held it carefully.
"I'm keeping this," he said. "Putting it somewhere I'll see it every day."
"That's a good reminder."
"Yeah." He looked at me. "You need one too?"
"Maybe."
"Then here." He pressed the bowl into my hands again. "Hold it. Feel the weight. Remember that we've already survived this much. We'll survive tonight, too."
I held the bowl. Felt the gold seams under my fingertips.
"Okay," I said.
"Okay?"
"Yeah. I'll come home after the raid, and then we'll figure out what we're building."
"With visible seams?"
"With visible seams."
He kissed me. Brief.
"Come on," he said. "It's almost time for dinner."
Seventeen forty-five. Ma had set the table for twelve.
The dining room that had held tactical maps three hours ago now held mismatched plates, silverware, and napkins from a package of holiday-themed paper goods.
Everyone arrived within ten minutes. Marcus and James first, Marcus carrying a pie that smelled like bourbon and burnt sugar. Matthew and Dorian next. Miles and Rowan came through the back door, both of them quiet.
Michael was already there. He stood near the window now, watching the street with tactical eyes that never fully rested. Alex finally pulled himself away from his laptop.
Claire sat in the corner closest to the kitchen, spine straight, hands folded. She'd changed into something darker—a charcoal sweater and black slacks.
Mac moved through the space like water around stones. Helping Ma carry serving dishes and fetch extra chairs.
"Sit," Ma commanded when she'd loaded the table. "Everyone. Now."
We sat. I ended up between Mac and Michael, wedged into a space that barely contained my shoulders. Mac's thigh pressed against mine—deliberate. Grounding himself.
The table groaned under the food. Roast beef, thickly sliced, potatoes in cream sauce, green beans with almonds, glazed carrots, and golden-brown rolls.
"I made too much," Ma said, standing at the head of the table. "I always make too much. You'll take leftovers."
"Ma—" Marcus started.
"You'll take leftovers," she repeated. Firmer. "I don't want to see any of this food tomorrow. You're going to come back hungry, and I'm going to feed you again. That's how this works."
The subtext landed hard. You're coming back. Not a hope. A command.
"Yes, ma'am," Michael said quietly.
Ma sat. For a moment, nobody moved. Then Marcus picked up the serving fork. "Well, let's not let it get cold."
The table came alive. Plates passed hand to hand. Voices overlapped—requests for butter, comments on the roast, Marcus telling a story about a fire call that went wrong in ways that were funny now but probably terrifying at the time.
I took what Mac handed me: roast beef, potatoes, beans. My appetite had died somewhere around seventeen hundred, but I ate anyway because Ma was watching.
"You're quiet," Mac said beside me. Low enough that the others wouldn't hear.
"Thinking."
"About?"
"This." I gestured at the table. "All of you. How you do this."
"Do what?"
"Sit together before something dangerous and pretend everything's normal."
Mac's knee pressed harder against mine. "We're not pretending. This is how we cope. We show up. We eat. We remember why we're scared in the first place."
I looked around the table. Marcus cutting beef with careful concentration. Michael checking his watch every ninety seconds. Matthew pushing food around his plate. Miles and Claire both quiet, observing.
"Your family's loud," I said to Mac.
"Yeah."
"Mine wasn't. We ate dinner in silence."
"That sounds lonely."
"It was." I cut into the roast. The meat was tender enough to fall apart. "This is better."
Mac reached for my hand under the table. Squeezed once. Released.
"So, Eamon," Marcus said from across the table. "Michael says you used to do executive protection."
"Mostly. Some government contracts."
"Then you'll get it right," Ma said quietly. Simple. Absolute. "You'll move when you need to move. And you'll come home."
Michael caught my eye. Nodded once. Agreement. Faith.
"Besides," Matthew added. "Michael's going with you. And Michael's incapable of letting things go wrong."
"I've let plenty of things go wrong," Michael said.
"Name one."
"The chandelier incident."
"That was Marcus."
"Was not."
"Was too. I have photographic evidence."
The table dissolved into argument—good-natured, familiar, the kind of bickering that came from decades of shared history.
This was what I was fighting for. This table. These people. I wanted to come back to this.
Dinner wound down. Ma brought out Marcus's bourbon pie and served portions that could've fed twice as many people. I ate mine and tasted nothing except the shape of fear.
Eighteen thirty. Michael checked his watch. Caught my eye.
Time.
"We should head out," Michael said quietly. "Give ourselves some buffer time."
I stood. Mac stood with me. He reached for my hand again—this time in full view of everyone.
"I'll walk you out," he said.
We headed for the front door, and the family followed.
Ma intercepted us in the hallway. She looked at Michael first. Cupped his face. "Careful."
"Always."
Then me. Her hands were smaller than I expected. Rough from years of work. "You too. Both of you. Careful and quick and home."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And hungry. Come back hungry."
She released me. Stepped back. Her eyes were dry, but she swallowed hard.
Outside, snow had started. Not the wet Seattle rain-snow hybrid but actual snow—big flakes drifting down, lazy and determined. The street was already dusted white. Michael's truck sat running, exhaust drifting as puffy clouds into the cold air.
Mac pulled me aside. Away from the door. Into the small space between Ma's porch and the neighbor's fence, where the Christmas lights couldn't reach.
"I need to say something," he said.
"Okay."
"I love you."
The word came up before, but this was the first time it was part of a direct statement.
"I know—wrong timing. But if I don't say it now and something goes wrong—" His voice cracked. "I need you to know. I love you. The real you. The one who spirals, overthinks, and teaches me how to fall apart. I love you."
I kissed him. Right there in the snow with his family watching, and Michael waiting in the truck.
When I pulled back, snowflakes had caught in his hair.
"I love you too," I said. "And I'm coming back."
"Promise."
"Promise."
I released him. Stepped back. The space between us was already too much.
Michael honked once. I crossed to the truck. Climbed into the passenger seat. The heat was running full blast, the cab smelling like coffee and gun oil.
Through the windshield, I watched Mac standing in the snow. His family stood on the porch—Marcus and Ma and Claire and all of them. Standing together and watching us leave.
Michael shifted into gear. "Ready?"
"Yeah," I said. "Let's go."
The truck pulled away from the curb. I watched in the side mirror as Ma's house receded—the porch light still on, the Christmas tree glowing in the window, and the family standing together in the snow.
Michael handed me a travel mug. Coffee, black, too hot to drink yet. "You good?"
"Getting there."
"Mac told you he loved you?"
"Yeah."
"Did you tell him back?"
"Yeah."
"Good." Michael's hands were steady on the wheel. "Then you've got something to fight for. That's what will keep you sharp."
The truck turned north. Toward the cabin. Toward Vanessa Kensington and whatever came next.
I held the coffee mug. Felt the heat against my palms.
I was coming back to him.
Whatever it took.