16. Feels Like Home
Chapter sixteen
Feels Like Home
Melina
The smell of smoke hits me before I even put my purse down. Not fire—just the unmistakable scent of burning food.
“Please tell me that’s not dinner,” I call as I step inside.
From the kitchen, Steele’s voice rings out, smug and nonchalant. “Depends. You like your chicken blackened?”
Matt appears in the doorway with a pan clutched in one hand and a scowl that could kill a man at twenty paces. His shirt is damp, and his hair’s wild, like he’s been dragging his hands through it. “It was fine until somebody decided to crank the heat when I stepped away.”
“Can’t prove it was me,” Steele says, leaning against the counter with a beer in his grasp, grinning wide.
Matt mumbles something that sounds an awful lot like a death threat, then shifts aside.
That’s when I see him—built solid like Matt, maybe an inch shorter, with a shaved head and a neatly trimmed beard. He has a Jason Statham-like edge, handsome and controlled. He sits casually, but his eyes lock onto me with an assessing look. Not threatening, measured.
This has to be Bishop.
“Really?” I say, taking in all three of them. “This is what you consider hospitality? Smoke alarms and beer?”
Steele grins. “We’re setting the bar low, so you’ll be impressed next time.”
The stranger finally speaks. “You must be Melina.”
It’s not a question, more like confirmation. He already knows who I am. I cross the room and extend my hand. “And you must be the infamous Bishop.”
The corner of his lip quirks as he rises to take it—firm and respectful, not performative or showy. Unlike Lee, who gripped too tight, squeezing as if he had a point to prove. Bishop’s handshake is different.
“Infamous?” he repeats, glancing toward Matt. “You been talking shit about me, Mason?”
“Always,” Matt deadpans.
His grip lingers a moment longer before he lets go. “Good. Means he missed me.”
Steele barks out a laugh. “Missed you? The only thing Mason misses is foreplay.”
I arch a brow, deadpan. “I think your intel’s slightly outdated.”
Steele’s mouth kicks up, pleased with himself, but I catch Matt tense. His gaze cuts to Steele, hard enough to strip paint.
“Watch it,” Matt says, low and flat.
Steele smirks wider, proud of himself for getting under his skin. “Relax, Mason. She can handle a joke.”
“Doesn’t mean I won’t put a bullet in your knee if you make another one,” Matt mutters, taking a slow pull from his drink.
Steele shoots him an amused look, unbothered. “Touchy.”
I’m fighting a smile. God help me, this is what passes for normal with these three—Steele being an ass, Matt growling, and me stuck somewhere between exasperation and amusement.
The tension rolls off, settling into something easier, familiar. Banter layered over trust, the kind that only comes from men who’ve bled together. And somehow, instead of feeling like an outsider in someone else’s world, I feel my chest loosen.
Bishop leans forward then, his eyes steady on me. “Don’t worry. I’m not half as bad as he is.” He nods at Steele, who snorts in response. “I know when to keep my mouth shut.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” I reply, winking at him.
Steele pushes off the counter, swagger in every step, slinging an arm over Bishop’s shoulders. “Don’t fall for his strong, silent routine, Melina. Believe me, I’m way more fun.”
Bishop doesn’t blink. He takes a tilt of his beer, ignoring Steele completely.
Matt swears under his breath, shoving the pan aside. “Dinner’s trashed. I’ll call in Chinese.”
Steele perks up with some wisecrack about extra egg rolls, Bishop shakes his head, resigned, but I’m not listening anymore. I’m focused on the way Bishop settles into my kitchen, Steele makes himself comfortable, and Matt moves around them like it’s the most natural thing ever.
It’s chaos—loud and messy—and for the first time in a long time, it feels like home.
Later that evening, I walk into the living room and find Matt stretched out on the couch, half-watching the game. On the loveseat, Steele and Bishop sit shoulder to shoulder, Steele’s feet shamelessly propped on my coffee table.
“Really, Steele?” I gesture at his boots, an amused smile tugging at my mouth. “What is this, a frat house?”
“Yeah, Roderick, you should try it,” he fires back without missing a beat.
Matt doesn’t even glance up from his phone. “Feet down.”
Steele obeys, though his cheesy grin shows he isn’t sorry.
Little by little, nights like this begin to stack up. It starts small—Bishop’s steady presence, Steele’s dry humor—how their voices and laughter fill a space I didn’t realize had gone silent.
One night, it’s Scattergories. Steele cheats outrageously, scribbling words that don’t even exist.
“Why are you such a menace?” I demand, narrowing my eyes as he smugly waves his answer card.
“Don’t hate the player, babe, hate the game,” he retorts, grinning ear to ear.
I chuck a pencil at his head. He ducks, laughing as if it's the greatest victory of his life.
Bishop huffs, passing me a fresh drink before I even realize mine is empty. “You’ll never beat him at his own game, Mel.”
Another night, it’s Monopoly. Steele teams up with Spencer to bankrupt me. I pretend to be furious, but the truth is I’m more relaxed than I have in months.
Days pass—games, banter, Bishop’s quiet steadiness balancing Steele’s chaos. The rhythm of it works under my skin, chipping away at the heaviness I’ve carried.
Then, Steele shows up with a bottle of Jameson, smirking like he’s plotting trouble. Maybe I’m tired of his mouth. Maybe I’m stubborn and a little reckless.
Either way, I lift my chin and say, “You think I can’t drink you under the table? Try me.”
Famous last words.
One shot, and I’m feeling confident.
Two shots, and I’m trash-talking Bishop about his two-drink rule.
Three shots, and I’m loudly arguing over who’s the better Batman.
Four shots, and I’m cry-laughing, curled against Matt on the couch.
Five shots, and I’m slurring that it’s unfair how good he smells—criminal, really.
Six shots, and I’m on my knees in front of the toilet, retching while he holds my hair and rubs slow circles on my back.
“Ugh. Kill me,” I plead.
Bishop leans in the doorway, arms crossed, smirking. “Hugging the porcelain God, huh?”
I flip him off without lifting my head.
Matt chuckles. “Come on, lightweight. Let’s get you to bed.”
“I hate you,” I groan.
Steele, of course, films the entire thing.
The next morning, I wake to a brutally unflattering video of myself—red-faced, glassy-eyed, passionately defending Christian Bale as the ultimate caped crusader. Steele swears I’m never living it down. Bishop just shakes his head, muttering, “You’re all idiots.”
And even through the mortification, I can’t stop smiling. Because for the first time in years, I’d let go completely. And God, it felt good.
In the nights that follow, Bishop keeps a steady watch—making sure I have space on the couch, sliding a coaster under my glass, distracting Steele before he can push too far.
It’s a quiet, brotherly protectiveness that stirs something I haven’t felt in a long time. Jack always looked out for me, always made sure I wasn’t excluded. When he died, that piece of me hollowed, and I stopped believing it could ever be filled.
These men aren’t here because they want something. They’re just here. Not out of obligation. Not because Matt asked them to. They’ve claimed me as their own—stepping into the space Jack left behind.
MATT
It’s been twenty-one days since we pulled the security footage.
Eighteen since Steele lost patience and called in a favor.
Sixteen since the guy swore he was “almost there”, and three since he finally snapped and left a voicemail that would make the old ladies at church clutch their pearls and pray for mercy.
"Three weeks, motherfucker. Three. Either finish it, or I swear to God I’ll drag your ass out of whatever hole you’re hiding in and make you watch while I do it myself. I don’t give a damn about your job—this is life or death."
Steele tried cleaning the image himself first. If it had been a standard low-quality frame, he could’ve sharpened it, layered extractions, maybe even rebuilt missing details. But the rental company’s system was outdated garbage, the footage compressed to hell.
A year ago, he could use CIA tools—the kind that can reconstruct a face from a reflection. But that’s locked behind a firewall now, so he reached out to a former contact.
But weeks later, he still hasn’t delivered anything clear enough for facial rec, and if there’s one thing to know about Steele, he doesn’t let shit slide. That’s the only reason I’m not hunting this asshole, putting a gun to his head, and compelling the photo out of him myself.
I exhale slowly and shift my eyes back to Steele. He stops pacing, body rigid, fingers clamped around the phone. Then—
“I don’t give a damn. If I had access, I’d have had this in hours. Stop making excuses and fucking get it done.”
I haven’t told Melina that Steele’s still tearing through leads. Two weeks of silence have given her enough hope to breathe again. I won’t take that from her. She’s started to believe he might be gone.
I see it in everything she does—the way her smile comes easier, her shoulders aren’t so tight, how she lets out slow exhales when she thinks no one’s watching.
She’s lighter now. Happier. And fuck, if that doesn’t affect me.
“This is the happiest I’ve seen her in ages,” Harper murmurs one night after Melina drifts off on the couch.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Harper hesitates, eyes flicking to her mom. “Not just since all this happened. Before that, too. Before things got bad with Lee. Before she stopped… being herself.”
She’s quiet for a beat, then looks at me. “I think you have something to do with that.”
I have no idea what to say, so I nod, my gaze fixed on Melina as she sleeps.
***