She studied his handshake offer the way she used to examine our palms for hidden scrapes. "You eat?"
James hesitated, and I watched his researcher's brain try to calculate the correct response to this deceptively simple question. "Uh—"
I leaned close. "Say yes. Trust me." Three decades of Sunday dinners had taught me there was only one acceptable answer.
"Good. Sit down before the food gets cold." She turned back to her pots, but not before a quick smile animated her lips.
The woman who'd raised four boys to run into burning buildings and gunfire had just offered her first subtle blessing. And James, brilliant man that he was, had navigated her opening gambit without even knowing the rules of engagement.
A small weight lifted off my shoulders, but as I watched Ma add another handful of fresh basil to the sauce, I knew we were only getting started. The real test would come when Michael arrived.
Around the oak dining room table clustered an ever-evolving collection of chairs, no two exactly alike. Each one had its own story—the antique ladder-back Ma found at a yard sale, the sturdy captain's chair that had been Dad's, and the modern ergonomic piece Miles had contributed after declaring the old wooden seats "a chiropractor's dream."
Matthew and Miles held court at their usual spots, plates already heaped with Ma's garlic bread. Matthew sprawled in his chair with the loose-limbed ease of someone who spent their days maneuvering in tight spaces. Miles sat straighter, his crisis counselor's observation skills sharp even in the comfort of home, reading the room's emotional temperature as naturally as breathing.
Matthew's grin spread wide and wicked when he caught sight of us. "Good to see you again, James." His eyes sparkled. "This is the guy who's been keeping our big brother out past curfew."
Miles, ever the more observant brother, raised an eyebrow as he studied James. "You didn't tell us he was a psychologist."
"That's 'cause Marcus knew we'd grill the poor bastard." Matthew leaned forward, elbows on the ancient oak, beer bottle dangling from his fingers. "Can't blame him. Remember what happened to Michael's first date?"
"The one who tried to psychoanalyze Ma's sauce recipe?" Miles's lips twitched. "I think he made it halfway through explaining the symbolism of oregano before Ma started praying in Italian."
James slid into an empty chair. Even here, surrounded by the controlled chaos of a McCabe family dinner, he maintained that quiet composure I'd first noticed at the warehouse fire scene. "I'd be disappointed if you didn't ask questions. Though I should warn you—I charge my usual consultation rates for mealtime analysis."
Miles's quiet chuckle mingled with Matthew's surprised bark of laughter. "Alright, I like him," Matthew declared, raising his beer in salute. "Anyone who can give as good as they get at this table's got potential."
The warm glow of their approval settled in my chest. I explained that James's background was in psychology, but he now used his skills to fight arson instead of counseling the distressed. Before I could relax into the dinner too much, heavy footsteps in the hallway announced a late arrival.
Michael entered like an approaching storm front. My SWAT team brother always knew how to command attention. He crossed to his chair—Dad's old captain's seat—with the controlled grace that had made him the youngest team leader in department history.
The warm scents of Ma's cooking seemed to fade beneath the weight of his silence. He studied James, looking for weaknesses.
James met his gaze without flinching. He waited, calm and immovable.
The silence stretched like piano wire, humming with unspoken questions. Around us, the familiar sounds of Sunday dinner faded to background static.
Before the moment could intensify any further, Ma's voice cut through the taut scene. "Michael James McCabe, if you don't pass that bread basket right now, I'm getting out the baby photos."
And just like that, the tension eased one notch. Not gone—not by a long shot. But the immediate threat of a bomb detonating had passed.
Dinner moved along, much as usual for a Sunday dinner. Ma's short ribs fell off the bone at the slightest touch, and the sauce was rich enough to make Miles close his eyes in appreciation. Matthew told stories about his latest rescue calls between bites of garlic bread, his hands sketching scenes in the air while Ma tsked at the crumbs falling on her tablecloth.
Beneath the familiar Sunday rhythms, stress lingered. I saw the subtle signs in Michael's controlled movements and how his eyes tracked James's every gesture. My SWAT brother had interrogated suspects with less intensity than he was currently applying to watching James reach for the salt.
The serving dishes circled the table in their usual pattern, a dance we'd learned at Dad's insistence. "Pass left, serve right, and make sure everyone gets enough" was one of his cardinal rules, right up there with checking your gear twice and never leaving a brother behind. James picked up the rhythm naturally as if he'd been part of our Sunday dinners for years instead of minutes.
When Michael finally spoke, his voice was firm and steady. "So, tell me, Professor. What's your expert opinion on why some asshole is setting my brother's life on fire?"
The question landed like an unexploded hand grenade in the middle of the table. Matthew's fork froze halfway to his mouth. Miles set his water glass down with deliberate care.
I slowly closed my hands into fists, ready to step in and shield James from an interrogation disguised as dinner conversation. Then, he surprised me again.
He finished chewing his bite of short rib, dabbed his mouth with his napkin, and met Michael's stare with the same steady calm he showed at crime scenes. There was no rushed defensive reaction or academic posturing. It was the quiet certainty that had first drawn me to him.
"He's not trying to kill Marcus."
Michael tilted his head, a gesture I recognized from a thousand tactical briefings. "No?"
