Page 94 of Override

"He's threatening us now because he's emotional." Samantha laughs and leans into Cross.

The backyard erupts into laughter again. And for the first time all week—I let it happen.

No surveillance feeds. No Gallagher. No cameras. No wondering what fresh hell Maeve Gallagher is walking through.

Just family.

And maybe that's why I don't realize I'm smiling again until Sloane points at me for the third time and announces to the entire backyard:

"Look! He did it again!"

Bastards.

*****

The fire crackles softly in the backyard while the rest of the group slowly filters inside. Matt is helping clean up. Cross and Samantha disappeared twenty minutes ago. Wheels is currently arguing with Bullet about whether a hot dog qualifies as a sandwich. Which somehow feels like a conversation they've probably had before.

I stay where I am. Alone in one of the Adirondack chairs near the fire pit. Watching flames dance across the logs. Trying very hard not to think.

It's going poorly. My laptop has been inside the house for almost two hours. Two hours. Which shouldn't matter. And yet I've checked my watch twenty-seven times.

Not that I'm counting.

I shift in the chair. The restless energy follows. The same one that's been riding beneath my skin all evening. The urge to check. To verify. To make sure everything is okay.

I flex my hand against my leg. Once. Then again. My brain immediately starts counting. One. Two. Three. Four.

I stop. Force myself to stop. The fire pops. Somewhere inside the house, laughter drifts through an open window. Normal. Everything is normal. Which should make this easier. Instead, it only makes things worse.

Because normal means I shouldn't be sitting here wondering what Maeve Gallagher is doing. Whether she's okay. Whether Ronan is still angry. Whether she smiled when the music started.

The thought lands hard enough that I close my eyes.

Jesus Christ.

The music was overstepping. I know it was. I crossed a line. No matter how I try to justify it. No matter how much I tell myself she looked lonely. Or sad. Or trapped. The truth remains the same. I inserted myself into her life again because I didn't like seeing her hurt. The realization settles heavily into my chest — that shouldn't matter this much. It shouldn't matter at all.

A chair creaks beside me.

I don't look over. I already know who it is. Rachel. She settles into the chair next to mine without saying anything. Just sits. Watching the fire. Waiting.

It's one of the reasons everybody loves her. Rachel never forces conversations. She just sits long enough that eventually people start talking.

Unfortunately, she's very good at it.

The silence stretches comfortably between us. Thirty seconds. Maybe a minute.

"You've checked your watch four times since I sat down."

I sigh. "You were counting?"

"I live with Matt."

Fair. I can't even argue that. The firelight dances across her face while she pulls her blanket tighter around her shoulders. Spring nights in Chicago still carry enough chill to bite. For a while neither of us says anything.

Then Rachel nudges my boot with hers. "Gonna tell me what's going on?"

"No."