Page 67 of Oliver

The hum of the fridge. The faint murmur of the TV, where a news anchor was still breathlessly replaying Langston’s perp walk on repeat. The rustle of Emery’s bare feet as she padded around the kitchen, determined to fuss over me even though I swore I didn’t need fussing.

Outside, Raven and Gage were bickering about grill temperatures like two old men, their wives shaking their heads at them. While Cyclone leaned against the porch railing, phone to his ear, face pulled tight in thought.

I’d dragged us all back here — to my house, my space — because after weeks of dust, blood, and unanswered questions, I needed four walls that belonged to us. To me, Emery, and Olly.

And maybe, selfishly, I wanted my people where I could see them. Safe. Fed. Alive. You would think I was their father, how I sometimes act.

Emery’s hand brushed my jaw. “Hold still.”

I flinched when the antiseptic hit the cut near my ear. She clicked her tongue like I was a misbehaving dog.

“You’ll survive, tough guy,” she muttered, soft and fierce at once.

“I’m fine,” I said.

She leaned in, nose to nose. “You say that every time you come home looking like a bar fight and a demolition derby had a baby.”

I caught her wrist and kissed her pulse. I’d seen death this week—too much of it. And every time I did, it reminded me what losing her would do to me.

“I’m here,” I said, low so only she heard. “We’re here. That’s what matters.”

Her eyes glassed over, but before she could answer, Raven called through the screen door, “Hey, lovebirds — you want your steaks medium or shoe leather?”

Emery laughed into my chest. God, that sound. I’d crawl through fire for that sound.

“Medium!” she yelled back.

The sun dipped lower.Laughter rose and fell. For a couple of stolen hours, it felt like we were just people, not warriors, not weapons, not hunted.

Family.

I caught Cyclone’s eye once. He nodded toward Jude’s empty seat beside him, but said nothing. I’d ask later. Or maybe I wouldn’t. Some secrets needed to ripen in their own time.

Emery curled into my side, fingers tracing the inside of my palm. “You think they’ll let us be boring now?” she whispered.

“Never.” I kissed the top of her head. “But tonight? We can pretend.”

She hummed. “Good enough.”

50

Oliver

The house was still when I woke up.

No footsteps, no team banter, no buzz of emergency communications. Just the hush of dawn and the soft, steady weight of Emery’s breath against my shoulder.

For a minute, I lay there staring at the ceiling.

The part of me wired for battle cataloged threats by habit — windows locked, dog on the porch, Cyclone probably awake and pacing — but the bigger part, the one Emery had brought back to life, was selfishly, stupidly grateful that the only thing I had to do right now was breathe.

And love her.

God, I loved her.

I slipped out of bed carefully so I wouldn’t wake her. She didn’t stir — exhaustion finally winning out over that fire she carried like a sword. She’d sleep through an earthquake if it hit this house right now.

I padded barefoot to the kitchen, found eggs, bread, and the last few pieces of bacon Gage hadn’t demolished last night. As I cooked, I caught my reflection in the window over the sink.

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