He didn't have to.
Garrett Stone had spent eight years apart from the only woman he'd ever loved because they'd both thought it was for the best. He knew the inside of what I was carrying.
He wasn't going to say a word about it.
He nodded once and picked his gear bag up. On his way past me to the kitchen door, he set his hand on my shoulder for the count of one. Then he was through.
Brian was already calling the probie across the bay about something I didn't catch. I picked my bag up off the floor.
I'd been at 295 for eleven minutes.
The kitchen hadn't changed. Same counter. Same coffee pot, or a replacement for the same pot. Somebody had put a fresh one on for the change.
Shane was at the island.
He was in the captain's blue uniform shirt I hadn't seen on him before. The badge was new. The lieutenant's bars he'd worn for the four years I'd been on his line in this house were gone. A captain's double bar sat in their place. He looked like the rank had always been there.
He set his coffee down when he saw me come in.
"Brother."
"Captain."
His face scrunched up.
"Don't."
"Briggs."
"Better."
He came around the island and pulled me into the back-slap version of a hug that men did when they'd been waiting on a man to walk through a door for two and a half years. He held it a beat longer than I expected. He stepped back.
"You made the bridge."
"I made the bridge."
"Tuesday."
"Tuesday."
"You been eatin'?"
"I been eatin'."
"Mhm." He turned to the counter. "Coffee."
He poured me a cup and handed it to me. He'd remembered the cream and the one sugar, the way he'd remembered for four years before I'd left.
"Crew's in the bay," he said. "I'll walk you through. Then you get the morning check."
"Yeah."
"You alright, Ford?"
"I'm alright."
"Ford."
