"Yeah." The name didn't hurt as much as it once had. "I couldn't understand the value of cooking for one."
He nodded, understanding without needing elaboration. The toaster popped, and he plated the slightly burnt slices, sliding one toward me alongside a jar of peanut butter.
"Gourmet," I teased.
"Five-star cuisine." He spread peanut butter on his toast with methodical precision, covering every corner. "After dinner last night, it's only right that you get the full McCabe breakfast experience."
I wanted to live in that small, stupid moment forever. The peacefulness was profound. It was the kind of negative space historians rarely documented.
I took a bite of toast, savoring the simple flavors on my tongue.
Michael's burner phone rang. He told me he purchased it a week after returning to Seattle.
It had a sharp, ugly ring that made both of us flinch. The device sat on the counter near his elbow in a utilitarian black plastic case.
Michael's entire demeanor shifted. His shoulders squared, and his jaw tightened as he reached for it. The man who'd laughed over breakfast disappeared, and he became the officer I'd watched run toward danger in Tahiti.
He turned his back to me and answered in a low, clipped voice. "McCabe."
I pretended to focus on my coffee but strained to catch his words. He stood and moved to the living room.
"When?" A pause. "You're sure you saw someone?" Another pause, longer this time. "No. Not yet."
I didn't catch much, just enough to know it was bad news. His posture told me everything his words didn't—the tension in his frame and a slight crouch that signaled he was ready to move if necessary.
"I'll handle it." His voice dropped even lower. "Yes, I understand."
When he hung up, he stood motionless for several beats, staring at the phone's blank screen. His thumb traced its frame as he turned back toward the kitchen.
"Everything okay?" I already knew the answer.
He lied with his body first before saying it out loud. "Nothing urgent."
"Work?" I gave him an opening.
"Just checking in." He picked up his coffee mug but didn't drink from it. "Administrative stuff."
I let him have the lie, even though it hurt. His eyes kept drifting to the window.
I set my mug down. "Michael, what's happening?"
He met my gaze, and for a moment, I thought he might tell me the truth. Instead, he shook his head slightly.
"It's nothing you need to worry about."
The words stung. After everything we'd been through, he was still holding back and trying to shield me. Protector to the end.
I crossed the room before he could entirely shut me out. When we were close again, I touched him—chest first, then shoulders. He froze momentarily and then slowly melted.
I whispered his name, not as a question or demand. It was a recognition that whatever storm approached, we'd already crossed too many boundaries to retreat now.
His hands touched my waist, uncertain at first, then gripping with a quiet desperation that resonated through my bones. "I can't drag you further into this."
"I'm already here." I traced the line of his jaw, feeling the tension there.
He stared into my eyes, searching for hesitation or fear. Finding neither, he pulled me closer, his hands framing my face.
I slid a hand under his thin t-shirt, and he reached for my buttons. We undressed each other slowly and reverently.
