Page 111 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1

“Perfect,” Rebel agrees, scrolling through options.

As they debate movie choices, I sink deeper into the couch, surrounded by the warmth of these women who understand exactly what it means to love men like Hank and Gabe. For the first time since their departure, the knot of anxiety in my chest begins to loosen.

Malia catches my eye and winks. “Welcome to the family, Ally,” she whispers. “Charlie’s Angels stick together.”

Family.

The word settles around me like a blanket. I’ve been so focused on what I’ve lost—my research, my freedom, my sense of security—that I hadn’t considered what I might have gained. Afamily forged in fire, women who understand the darkest parts of my experience without explanation.

As Rebel finally selects a movie and the opening credits begin to roll, Malia drapes her legs across my lap, Sophia passes me more wine, and Jenna tosses a blanket over us. Max settles with a contented sigh at our feet, his warm weight a comforting presence against my legs. I find myself smiling, genuinely smiling, for the first time since Hank and Gabe left.

“They’re going to be fine, you know,” Malia whispers as if reading my thoughts. “Charlie team always comes home.”

“Always,” Sophia echoes firmly.

As if agreeing, Max lifts his head to look at me, his intelligent eyes somehow reassuring, before he rests his muzzle on my foot.

I nod, letting myself believe them. Tonight, surrounded by my newfound sisters and one protective German Shepherd, I’ll choose hope over fear.

Tomorrow will bring what it brings, but tonight, I’m exactly where I need to be—among Charlie’s Angels, my unexpected family, waiting together for our men to return.

Chapter 32

I’m halfwaythrough my first shift at The Guardian Grind when the morning crowd finally thins out. My arms ache from the repetitive motion of pulling espresso shots, and my lower back complains from hours of standing. I roll my shoulders, trying to work out the knots forming there.

“You want me to cover for a bit?” Malia asks, wiping down the counter beside me. “You look like you could use a break.”

“I’m fine,” I say, though the offer is tempting. “Just getting my second wind.”

The truth is, I’m grateful for the distraction of work. With my thesis defense looming, the coffee shop has become my sanctuary—a place where I can focus on simple, concrete tasks instead of quantum equations or the constant, low-grade anxiety that’s become my companion.

Malia doesn’t look convinced. “At least sit down for five minutes. Doctor’s orders.”

“Since when are you a doctor?” I laugh, but I’m already untying my apron.

“Since Walt started teaching me field medicine. Trust me, I candiagnose exhaustion when I see it.” She gives me a gentle push toward an empty table. “Go. Sit.”

I don’t argue further, sliding into a chair with a grateful sigh. From this vantage point, I can see the entire café—Jenna at the register, her movements efficient and precise; Rebel organizing pastries with the same intensity she probably brings to combat training; and in the corner, the espresso machine that’s been Malia and Jenna’s collective nemesis for weeks.

The machine gives an ominous sputter, and right on cue, the door chimes as Mike, the repair technician, enters. He’s dressed in gray coveralls, toolbox in hand.

“Morning, ladies.” He’s got an easy smile—the kind that spreads without trying, tugging at the corners of every mouth around him. Even the most caffeine-deprived person in line perks up. “Heard the beast is acting up again.”

“Third time this week,” Jenna sighs, not bothering to hide her frustration. “At this point, we should just name it and charge it rent.”

Mike laughs, but the sound is just a touch too calculated. “Let me take a look. Might need to order a replacement if I can’t get it sorted this time.”

He moves behind the counter, setting his toolbox down. Confidence in his movements seems at odds with his repeated failure to actually fix anything. As he opens the espresso machine’s side panel, his attention flicks briefly to the security camera in the corner before returning to his work.

It’s such a small thing—a glance that lasts less than a second—but it catches my attention. Why would a repair technician be concerned with security cameras?

“Ally?” Malia’s voice cuts through the fog. “You okay? You’ve got that thousand-yard stare going on.”

I blink, dragging my attention back to her. “Yeah. Just thinking about… stuff.”

“Very specific,” she teases. “Thesis stuff or sexy men stuff?”

“Neither.” Which is weird—for me.

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