Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
Ronan
Christmas
I'd been trained to assess a room in seconds. Exits, threats, vulnerabilities. Old habits died hard, even when the only threat was the ten-foot spruce in Noah's living room toppling over from the weight of too many ornaments.
But standing in the doorway of his house that Christmas morning, watching my new family in their pyjamas, I wasn't cataloging escape routes or defensive positions. I was just... taking it in.
The tree dominated the space—silver and gold ornaments catching the light from what had to be a thousand white bulbs, a gold star perched on top like a crown.
Presents spilled out from underneath in a chaotic pile that would've made my old drill sergeant twitch.
Seven kids bounced around the room in various states of excitement, their voices overlapping in a way that should've set my teeth on edge but somehow didn’t.
Finn was pressed against my leg, his small hand gripping my pyjama pants. My son. Safe. Happy. Home.
This was my unit now.
The thought settled in my chest, warm and solid.
I'd lost my first family—Eva's death had shattered that beyond repair, no matter what the official reports said.
I'd carried that weight for years, the guilt and the grief and the goddamn helplessness of watching someone you love destroy themselves and being unable to stop it.
But this... this was my second chance.
"Ronan!" Aria's voice cut through my thoughts. She was curled up on the couch, her blonde hair messy from sleep, wearing flannel pyjamas that had little reindeer on them. Her smile was bright enough to rival the tree. "You made it. I was starting to think you'd gotten lost."
"Just taking it all in," I said, moving into the room. Finn released my pants and made a beeline for the presents, joining the other kids in their barely contained chaos.
Aria patted the cushion next to her. "Come sit. Watch the madness with me.”
I settled beside her, close enough that our shoulders touched. From this position, I had a clear view of the entire room. Noah was manning the coffee maker in the kitchen—tactical positioning, keeping himself useful while maintaining oversight.
Gabriel stood near the tree, arms crossed, that cop alertness never quite leaving his posture even on Christmas morning.
Ethan was already on the floor with the kids, helping Leo tear into a package.
Julian leaned against the doorframe to the dining room, relaxed but watchful.
Liam sat in the armchair, his daughter Mila on his lap, both of them grinning.
My team. My brothers. My family.
"They're going to destroy that wrapping paper in about thirty seconds," I observed.
Aria laughed, the sound doing something dangerous to my carefully maintained control. "That's the best part."
She was right. The kids tore through presents with the efficiency of a tactical breach—fast, loud, and leaving destruction in their wake.
Wrapping paper flew. Squeals of delight echoed off the walls.
Finn found a set of building blocks and immediately started constructing something that looked vaguely like a fortress.
Smart kid.
I watched Aria watch them, and something in my chest tightened.
She looked at these kids—all of them, not just the ones related to her by blood or law—with such genuine affection that it made my throat close up.
She'd come back. After everything, after the photos and the accusations and the fear, she'd come back.
To us. To me.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
She turned to look at me, her brow furrowing. "For what?"
"For being here. For..." I gestured vaguely at the room, at the chaos, at everything. “This."
Her hand found mine, fingers lacing together. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."
I believed her. And that was the most dangerous thing of all—letting myself believe in this, in her, in the possibility that I could have this kind of happiness again.
But I was done running from dangerous things.
Aria insisted on cooking breakfast for everyone, and I wasn't about to argue. I took up position in the kitchen doorway, ostensibly to keep her company but really to maintain visual contact with both the living room and the cooking area. Old habits.
She moved around Noah's kitchen with easy confidence, pulling out pans and ingredients like she'd done this a hundred times before.
Maybe she had. The domesticity of it—the casual intimacy of watching her crack eggs and flip pancakes while humming along to the Christmas music playing softly in the background—hit me harder than I expected.
Eva had never been like this. She'd been brilliant and beautiful and broken, and by the end, she could barely get out of bed, let alone cook breakfast for a crowd.
I shoved the thought away. Not today. Today was about this family, this moment, this second chance I'd been given.
"You're staring," Aria said without turning around.
"Observing," I corrected.
"Uh-huh." She glanced over her shoulder, her smile teasing. "See anything interesting?”
"Yeah," I said honestly. "I do."
Her cheeks flushed pink, and she turned back to the stove, but I could see her smile widening.
The breakfast was massive—pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausage, fruit, toast. Enough to feed a small platoon.
We crowded around Noah's dining table, kids and adults mixed together in a chaotic arrangement that somehow worked.
Finn sat between me and Gabriel, carefully cutting his pancakes into precise squares before eating them.
Definitely my kid.
The conversation flowed easily, punctuated by laughter and the occasional argument between the twins about who got the last piece of bacon. I found myself relaxing in increments, the tension I'd been carrying for weeks slowly unwinding.
This was what normal felt like. This was what home felt like.
I'd almost forgotten.
After breakfast, Noah fired up his grill for lunch—because apparently one massive meal wasn't enough. The man took his cookouts seriously, treating the process with the same precision he probably applied to his structural engineering projects. I respected that.
While he worked, Ethan disappeared into the backyard. I tracked his movement out of habit, noting the large bags he was carrying, the way he kept glancing back at the house with a grin that spelled trouble.
"Should I be concerned?" I asked Gabriel, who'd taken up position next to me on the back porch.
"Probably," he said, but he was smiling.
Twenty minutes later, Ethan emerged from behind the shed and called out, "Hey, kids! Who wants to play in the snow?"
The response was immediate and deafening. Seven children stampeded toward the back door, and I instinctively moved to block them before they trampled anyone.
"Easy," I said, holding up a hand. "Single file. Nobody gets hurt."
They actually listened, forming a somewhat orderly line as they filed outside. Finn looked up at me with wide eyes. "Is there really snow, Dad?"
"Let's go find out.”
What Ethan had created was impressive, I had to admit. Fake snow covered a section of the yard, white and fluffy and convincing enough that the kids didn't care it wasn't real. They dove into it immediately, throwing handfuls at each other and shrieking with laughter.
"Incoming," Julian said from behind me, and I turned just in time to catch a faceful of fake snow.
I wiped it off slowly, deliberately, and fixed him with the look that used to make junior officers reconsider their life choices.
"You just made a tactical error.”
His grin widened. "Prove it."
What followed was chaos—the good kind. A full-scale snowball fight that pulled in all the adults and kids, alliances forming and breaking as quickly as the fake snow flew through the air.
I found myself laughing, actually laughing, as I scooped up ammunition and launched it at Liam, who was using Mila as a human shield.
"That's a war crime!" I called out.
"All's fair in love and snowball fights!" he shot back.
Aria appeared at my side, her hair dusted with white, her cheeks flushed from cold and laughter.
"Need backup?”
"Always."
We worked together, covering each other's flanks, communicating with looks and gestures like we'd been doing this for years instead of months. She was good at this—at reading the field, at anticipating movements. It was attractive as hell.
Then, as if the universe wanted to prove it had a sense of humour, real snow started falling.
The fake stuff was still scattered across the yard, but now actual flakes drifted down from the grey sky, fat and lazy and perfect. The kids noticed immediately, their excited shouts reaching a new pitch.
"Christmas magic!" Hazel yelled, spinning in circles with her arms outstretched.
Aria looked up at the sky, snowflakes catching in her hair, and smiled. "Would you look at that."
I looked at her instead. At the wonder on her face, the pure joy, the way she fit into this moment like she'd always been meant to be here.
Yeah. Magic.
We retreated inside for hot chocolate once the cold started seeping through our clothes. Noah's kitchen became command central again, Aria and Liam working together to make enough hot chocolate for a small army while the rest of us corralled the kids into the living room.
I found myself on the couch with Finn curled against my side, his small body warm and solid and real. He was telling me about the snow, about how it was "the best Christmas ever," and I had to agree.
Best Christmas ever.
The hot chocolate appeared, topped with marshmallows and whipped cream, and we settled in as a group. The kids were starting to wind down, the sugar crash imminent, and I could see the adults exchanging knowing looks.
"Alright," Gabriel said eventually, standing up with the authority of someone used to being obeyed. "Time to get you guys ready. Grandparents are expecting you."