5. Following the Evidence #3
Garrett looked deep into her brilliant blue eyes, feeling the absolute, unshakeable strength of the Mating Bond humming between them.
"Always."
He leaned in, pressing his lips to hers in a slow, deep kiss that tasted of quiet promises and survival. When she pulled back, she kept her hands on his jaw. "We'll figure it out, Garrett. Together."
It wasn't a promise to miraculously or magically fix him. It was a vow to stand in the trench beside him. And right now, that was exactly what he needed.
By the time dinner rolled around, being with everyone provided a massive, much-needed dose of absolute normal. It was the first time the entire day Garrett felt like he could breathe.
They gathered at the main house, and within ten minutes, the heavy tension of the morning was thoroughly buried under a mountain of loud family chaos. Grey was being aggressively obnoxious, loudly reminding everyone how Garrett used to demand dessert before his vegetables when they were kids.
"He literally tried to hide a slice of chocolate cake under his shirt once," Grey deadpanned, passing a basket of rolls. "Big brother remembers everything."
"You woke up naked on a chicken coop, Grey," Star countered smoothly from across the table, not even looking up from her plate. "Your memory privileges are permanently revoked."
Carrick let out a loud grunt, stabbing a potato with his fork. "The only real tragedy here is that there isn't enough dessert tonight. Ginnie, the pie-to-person ratio in this house is a structural failure."
"Keep complaining, ya' Old Dragon," Ginnie threatened from the stove, brandishing a wooden spoon with an authoritative glare. "And I'll ban every single one of you from my kitchen until next Fall."
Garrett laughed. It was a real, easy sound that filled his chest and made the shadows in his mind recede. The last of his clenched muscles relaxed.
Much later, as the storytelling and laughter finally started to die down, it was time for bed.
Garrett performed his new security protocol with methodical precision.
He took a picture of his boots. They were clean and dry beside the mudroom door.
He photographed the locked deadbolt. He checked the brass bell, capturing its exact position on the phone.
Heading upstairs, he snapped a photo of his watch on the nightstand, and placed his phone beside it.
He looked up to find Sydney watching him from her side of the bed. Her expression was soft. There was no sign of her usual teasing. He could see in her eyes that she knew he was fighting for control.
As he finally climbed under the covers and reached for the lamp, she looked over at him. "Coffee tomorrow?" She winked with a cute little crinkle of her nose.
Garrett looked at her, and this time, there was a tiny, imperceptible pause. It wasn't fear, just the sheer weight of the unknown waiting for him in the dark. Then, he smiled. "Absolutely, Mo chroí."
The night passed in total, uninterrupted peace.
There was no sudden awakening, no missing time, no phantom sounds. When the morning sun finally broke through the window, painting the bedroom walls in bright gold, Garrett blinked his eyes open and stretched.
Turning his head to the side, he found Sydney right beside him, sleeping deeply. She looked so beautiful and peaceful that he once again thanked the Universe for his Mate.
Sitting up, Garrett immediately checked himself. He lifted his hands. They were clean. He checked his feet. There was no mud, no dirt. He sank back into the pillows, a massive, overwhelming wave of relief crashing over him so violently he practically sagged against the mattress.
Then he checked his watch. It was 6:15 AM. Had he slept through the night? Could he account for every hour? Only time would tell, but first, there was something he wanted to do.
A vibrant surge of hope flared in his chest. Maybe it really was just a temporary glitch. A brief physical aftershock of his recovery that was already fading away.
Careful not to disturb Sydney, he slid out of bed, pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek, and quietly headed downstairs. He wanted to surprise her. He brewed a fresh pot of coffee, the rich aroma filling the kitchen, and set out a couple of the sweet cinnamon rolls Ginnie had sent home with them.
Everything was perfect. The sun was shining, the house was safe, and he was completely in control.
Smiling, Garrett walked over to the kitchen island and opened his leather-bound notebook to log the successful baseline. His neat, precise handwriting from last night stared back at him: 11:06 PM — Doors secured. Boots clean. Going to bed.
Garrett smiled, picking up a pen to write a fresh entry for the morning. But as he went to turn the page, his fingers froze.
Directly beneath his bedtime entry, written in the exact middle of the white paper, was a second line of ink.
The handwriting was a perfect match to his. The slant of the letters, the pressure of the pen, the sharp cross on the numbers. It was undeniably his own.
3:42 AM.
His handwriting.
His pen.
His notebook.
Not his memory.