Christmas
I'd been trained to assess a room in seconds. Exits, threats, vulnerabilities. Old habits died hard, even when the only threat was the ten-foot spruce in Noah's living room toppling over from the weight of too many ornaments.
But standing in the doorway of his house that Christmas morning, watching my new family in their pyjamas, I wasn't cataloging escape routes or defensive positions. I was just... taking it in.
The tree dominated the space—silver and gold ornaments catching the light from what had to be a thousand white bulbs, a gold star perched on top like a crown. Presents spilled out from underneath in a chaotic pile that would've made my old drill sergeant twitch. Seven kids bounced around the room in various states of excitement, their voices overlapping in a way that should've set my teeth on edge but somehow didn’t.
Finn was pressed against my leg, his small hand gripping my pyjama pants. My son. Safe. Happy. Home.
This was my unit now.
The thought settled in my chest, warm and solid. I'd lost my first family—Eva's death had shattered that beyond repair, no matter what the official reports said. I'd carried that weight for years, the guilt and the grief and the goddamn helplessness of watching someone you love destroy themselves and being unable to stop it.
But this... this was my second chance.
"Ronan!" Aria's voice cut through my thoughts. She was curled up on the couch, her blonde hair messy from sleep, wearing flannel pyjamas that had little reindeer on them. Her smile was bright enough to rival the tree. "You made it. I was starting to think you'd gotten lost."
"Just taking it all in," I said, moving into the room. Finn released my pants and made a beeline for the presents, joining the other kids in their barely contained chaos.
Aria patted the cushion next to her. "Come sit. Watch the madness with me.”
I settled beside her, close enough that our shoulders touched. From this position, I had a clear view of the entire room. Noah was manning the coffee maker in the kitchen—tactical positioning, keeping himself useful while maintaining oversight.
Gabriel stood near the tree, arms crossed, that cop alertness never quite leaving his posture even on Christmas morning. Ethan was already on the floor with the kids, helping Leo tear into a package. Julian leaned against the doorframe to the dining room, relaxed but watchful. Liam sat in the armchair, his daughter Mila on his lap, both of them grinning.
My team. My brothers. My family.
"They're going to destroy that wrapping paper in about thirty seconds," I observed.
Aria laughed, the sound doing something dangerous to my carefully maintained control. "That's the best part."
She was right. The kids tore through presents with the efficiency of a tactical breach—fast, loud, and leaving destruction in their wake. Wrapping paper flew. Squeals of delight echoed off the walls. Finn found a set of building blocks and immediately started constructing something that looked vaguely like a fortress.
Smart kid.
I watched Aria watch them, and something in my chest tightened. She looked at these kids—all of them, not just the ones related to her by blood or law—with such genuine affection that it made my throat close up. She'd come back. After everything, after the photos and the accusations and the fear, she'd come back.
To us. To me.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
She turned to look at me, her brow furrowing. "For what?"
"For being here. For..." I gestured vaguely at the room, at the chaos, at everything. “This."
Her hand found mine, fingers lacing together. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."
I believed her. And that was the most dangerous thing of all—letting myself believe in this, in her, in the possibility that I could have this kind of happiness again.
But I was done running from dangerous things.
Aria insisted on cooking breakfast for everyone, and I wasn't about to argue. I took up position in the kitchen doorway, ostensibly to keep her company but really to maintain visual contact with both the living room and the cooking area. Old habits.
She moved around Noah's kitchen with easy confidence, pulling out pans and ingredients like she'd done this a hundred times before. Maybe she had. The domesticity of it—the casual intimacy of watching her crack eggs and flip pancakes while humming along to the Christmas music playing softly in the background—hit me harder than I expected.
Eva had never been like this. She'd been brilliant and beautiful and broken, and by the end, she could barely get out of bed, let alone cook breakfast for a crowd.
I shoved the thought away. Not today. Today was about this family, this moment, this second chance I'd been given.
