Chapter Twenty-Eight
Gabriel
The house was... presentable.
Mostly.
My eyes swept the living room in the three seconds it took Ms. Rodriguez to step fully inside, cataloging every detail with the same precision I used to assess a patient’s vitals.
The couch cushions were back in place, but the middle one sat slightly askew, about two inches off-center. The toy bins were lined up against the wall, but one of them was overflowing. A stuffed giraffe’s neck bent at an unnatural angle as it tried to escape. The coffee table gleamed—suspiciously so, like someone had just polished it with enough force to remove the finish. And there, catching the light from the window, was a faint trail of glitter leading from the dining room toward the stairs.
Fuck.
The glitter was immortal. I’d known it the moment Cate had pulled out that craft kit. Glitter didn’t just disappear. It multiplied, spread, and became part of the molecular structure of your home.
“What a lovely space,” Ms. Rodriguez said, her pen already moving across her clipboard.
“Thank you,” I replied, my hand finding the small of Cate’s back. She was vibrating with tension, her breathing too fast, too shallow. “We’ve worked hard to make it comfortable for Megan.”
And by ‘worked hard,’ I mean ‘four grown men just spent thirty minutes frantically dismantling a craft store explosion while my wife told you about her recurring ninja dream.’
My colleagues were positioned around the room like they’d been strategically placed by a director with a sadistic sense of humor.
Fitz stood by the bookshelf, one hand casually resting on a shelf, trying to look relaxed. His tie was gone, probably used to wipe down something in a panic, and his shirt was untucked on one side. There was a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead.
Nathan was in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, going for “casual friend dropping by” but landing somewhere closer to “exhausted man who just loaded a dishwasher at Olympic speed.” His hair was sticking up at the back.
Hayden sat on the arm of the couch—not even on the actual couch, on the arm, like some kind of furniture-challenged teenager—with what I could only describe as a forced smile. And there, catching the light, was a distinct sparkle in his hair.
Glitter.
He has glitter in his hair.
If Ms. Rodriguez notices…
Julien was the only one who looked relatively composed, standing near the dining room with his hands in his pockets. But I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes kept flicking toward the kitchen like he was worried something might explode.
“These are Gabriel’s colleagues,” Cate said, her voice too bright, too loud. “From the clinic. They were just—they werehelping with the furniture. The rearranging. That’s what we were doing. For organizational purposes.”
Please stop talking.
Please, for the love of God, stop talking.
“How nice,” Ms. Rodriguez said, making a note. “It’s good to have a support system.”
“Oh, we’re very supportive!” Fitz said, his grin just a touch too wide. “Very... furniture-oriented. Love a good rearrangement.”
I shot him a look that said, “I will end you.”
He coughed, suddenly very interested in the books on the shelf.
“Would you like a tour?” I asked Ms. Rodriguez, my hand still on Cate’s back, feeling her heart racing through her sweater.
“That would be wonderful.”
Here we go.
I guided her toward the kitchen as Cate pressed against my side, practically vibrating with anxiety.
