Chapter 1
Jackson
The kitchen had gone full tilt, all heat and clatter and smoke, like it always did when we tried to cook together. Barrett was in charge of onions, which meant we were all in trouble. The skillet hissed, flames licking higher than they had any business doing, and the smell of burnt garlic was starting to edge toward weaponized.
Lopez swore in Spanish, waving smoke away. “Barrett, hermano, you trying to poison us?”
Barrett bristled. “It’s called searing.”
It was called ruining, but I didn’t bother saying it. Jace already had him covered. Without a word, he slid in at Barrett’s elbow, nudging the spatula out of his death grip just long enough to scrape the worst bits off the pan, sliding in a handful of fresh onion like it was all part of the plan. Barrett didn’t even notice. Classic Jace—keeping the peace before it cracked.
I stuck to my corner, where the ham roasted in the oven, butter and brown sugar turning into something golden and good. Cooking I could do. Watching, too. From here I could see everything—the way chaos ricocheted across the kitchen like shrapnel and the way it always landed back in Liz’s hands.
Not that she looked overwhelmed. Liz never did. She moved through the storm like it was hers to command. Clay drifted behind her, quiet as a shadow, fetching, pouring, sliding utensils into her hand before she even thought to ask. She didn’t need to look; he already knew. It was subtle, easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention. But I’d seen it before—Clay studying her, reading her like a map, anticipating what she’d need before she realized it herself.
It was seamless. The way they worked together without a word. The way her shoulders never stiffened because she knew he was there.
Across the counter, Frank and Juan were at it again.
“I’m telling you, that fence line’s too close to the ridge,” Frank barked, voice booming like he was leading cavalry. “One hard rain and it’s gone.”
Juan didn’t even glance up from kneading dough. “Fence is fine.” His voice was steady, calm as always. “You’re just loud.”
Frank pointed, flour dust flying. “Loud and right.”
Juan’s hands kept moving, patient, unhurried. “We’ll see after the storm.”
Colton shuffled in then, looking like hell warmed over. His eyes were shadowed, his hair wild, shoulders slumped. He made for the coffeepot like a drowning man to shore.
Liz didn’t even turn. “Don’t.” She slid a glass of water across the counter. “You’re already half-dead. If you drink coffee, you’ll be all the way dead.”
Colton froze mid-reach, his scowl cutting sharp. “I need the coffee,” he muttered, low, defiant. His hand twitched toward the pot again.
Behind Liz, Clay’s presence was quiet but unmissable. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, and his eyes locked on Colton with that hard, flat warning only Clay could deliver.
Colton’s jaw tightened. He met Clay’s stare, but he didn’t back down. “One cup. I’m fine.”
Liz moved then, sharp as a whip. She stepped in front of the coffeepot, shoved the chair out with her hip, and planted a firm hand on Colton’s chest. “Sit.”
For a heartbeat, he looked ready to argue—shoulders squared, mouth opening for another protest. Then Liz’s eyes pinned him, steady and unblinking, and her shove landed with more authority than force. He stumbled back a step, dropped into the chair, and glared at the water like it had betrayed him.
“Drink,” she said simply, arms folding as she stood over him.
He muttered something under his breath that didn’t quite qualify as English, but he lifted the glass and took a swallow.
Clay’s mouth twitched—approval, maybe amusement—but he didn’t say a word. Liz had Colton handled, the kitchen settling for half a breath before the next storm. And sure enough, out of the corner of my eye, Andrews was already eyeing the cinnamon rolls like a man plotting a heist.
And right on cue, he made his move. He thought he was slick, hand creeping toward the cinnamon rolls on the tray like he was breaching an enemy compound. Eyes sharp, movements precise—he even paused halfway like he was listening for the crack of distant gunfire.
The spoon in Liz’s hand flew before Andrews’ fingers even grazed the pan. It cut the air sharp, whistling past half the kitchen, and Andrews’ reflexes kicked in. He spun, caught it clean out of the air, and pivoted into a stance like he was back in a firefight—weapon ready, arm cocked, spoon poised to launch.
Then he saw Liz.
She wasn’t rolling dough anymore. She stood with one hand on her hip, the other steady and sure, like she’d fired the shot on purpose—and never missed in her life. Her glare locked on him, daring him to move.
“Try it,” she said flat. “I dare you.”
Andrews froze, shoulders sagging as fast as they’d tensed, muttering something about “rules of engagement” under his breath.
The kitchen cracked, not the kind of laughter that floored you, but the kind that rolled steady and warm. Lopez slapped the counter, Frank’s laugh came out wheezy and too loud, and even I had to bite down on a grin.
Andrews set the spoon down like it was live ordnance, slid it across the counter with two fingers, then stepped back from both it and the rolls like he was clearing a blast radius. “Not worth dying for,” he muttered.
Colton smirked into his water. “That’s debatable.”
And then Will spoke — calm, clipped, voice flat as if he were back on comms:
“Hostile intercepted. Threat contained. Recommend no further attempts on the objective.”
The room broke again, sharper this time, because he said it like he was delivering a sitrep straight from the field. Andrews shook his head, muttering something about “never living this down,” while Colton just grinned wider, the kind that actually reached his eyes.
Liz swept past Clay on her way to the sink, spoon back in hand. He caught her arm lightly as she passed, slowing her just enough. She looked up, startled, and Clay bent to kiss her—quick, gentle, sure.
She stilled for half a beat, cheeks pinking, before shaking her head with that quiet smile only he could draw out.
“Really?” Barrett groaned. “In the middle of the kitchen?”
Juan didn’t look up from the dough. “At least they’re quiet about it. You burn onions louder than they kiss.”
The room cracked again, laughter bouncing off the walls.
I glanced toward the doorway where Harper leaned against Will, her smile soft and warm, Grace perched near Pike, eyes bright at the storm of noise and motion around her. Pike didn’t move much, just sat like stone while the rest of us rattled the walls—but when she leaned in, his arm came up, wrapping her close without him even thinking about it. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, eyes slipping shut for half a breath, and I swear I saw the corner of his mouth ease into a smile. Subtle. Quiet. But it was there.
In a room full of chaos, Pike found his peace in her—and for a man like him, that said more than words ever could.
I stirred the glaze over the ham, letting the noise roll over me. Smoke and laughter, scolding and soft kisses. Chaotic, loud, messy. Ours.
Family.
