It wasn't a casual invitation. It was a test. Could he trust me to agree to get to know him beyond what was broken?
Something flickered behind his eyes — a flash of relief, maybe, or fear. I wasn't sure which, but for the first time since I'd shown up in his life, he didn't look like he was bracing for impact.
A lump formed in my throat. If I went, I wouldn't be only a distraction anymore. I'd officially be part of his story.
Guilt about Marissa suddenly rattled me. Was I allowed to step into someone else's family when part of me still belonged to a different life?
I heard Marissa's voice in my head, nudging me. "Love is additive, not a replacement."
My voice was rough and raw when I responded. "Yeah, I'd like that."
Michael excused himself to shower, and I remained at the kitchen table, fingers holding onto the edge. The apartment settled around me—creaking pipes, the muffled rush of water, and someone's footsteps in the unit above.
I traced the grain of the wooden tabletop, following its whorls and interruptions. Each knot told a story of resistance, growth, and obstacles incorporated instead of overcome.
I thought about how grief worked the same way. It wasn't something you could defeat. You grew around it, enclosing it inside your rings.
Maybe love worked the same way.
Maybe I wasn't betraying Marissa by moving forward.
Maybe I was building a life that could hold all the parts of me — the old grief and the new hope.
I closed my eyes, letting the sound of running water and the faint hum of Michael's apartment wrap around me like a lullaby.
Whatever came next, I wouldn't face it alone.
Chapter thirteen
Michael
Thetiresofmytruck crunched over the familiar gravel driveway. My childhood home stood defiant against the darkening sky—a two-story brick house with weathered cedar shingles and gutters that sagged slightly at the corners. Paint peeled from the window frames in delicate curls, like birch bark after a long winter.
I killed the engine but kept one hand on the steering wheel.
Reaching over with the other, I gripped Alex's hand. "This is it, McCabe headquarters."
The basketball hoop still hung at an angle over the garage door, its net half-gone, tattered by years of Northwest winds and too many of Marcus's aggressive dunks. The porch light flickered erratically, sending shadows dancing across the front steps. It was a minor repair that Marcus had promised to fix before I left for Tahiti.
"Still broken."
"What is?" Alex followed my gaze.
"The porch light. Marcus swore he'd fix it months ago."
"Maybe he left it for you." His voice teased gently.
My stomach knotted as I stared at the house. I hadn't been home since before everything collapsed—before Tahiti, before Lars Reeves, and before they confiscated my badge and gun. The McCabe Sunday dinner ritual loomed like an event from a different lifetime.
Alex smoothed imaginary wrinkles from his button-down shirt. He'd borrowed it from my closet—navy blue, slightly too broad in the shoulders. His fingers drummed against his thigh, then moved to check his watch, though I knew he didn't care about the time.
It was all pure nervous energy. I almost offered him an escape route—We can leave, head back to my place, order takeout—but before I could form the words, Alex looked at me and nodded once.
"Your family's waiting."
We climbed out of the truck and strolled up the front sidewalk. Three steps from the front door, the unmistakable aroma of my mother's cooking hit us, wafting through partially opened windows. Garlic and onions caramelized slowly in olive oil, and the earthy scents of oregano and thyme mingled with browning ground beef.
Those smells had followed me everywhere—through training, deployments, night shifts, and nightmares. They were the backdrop to every McCabe memory, good or terrible. And now they wrapped around Alex, pulling him in before he'd even stepped through the door.
