Page 73 of Boomer
Boomer nodded once, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Callsign, sir. You know Americans…we’ve got a nickname or an acronym for just about everything.”
Alaric’s mouth curved into the softest hint of a smile. “Yes. You do, and humor to spare.” His gaze lingered a second too long, like he was measuring something behind Boomer’s eyes. Approval? Tolerance? Something between. Boomer returned the smile, respectful but grounded. Then came the question. “Tell me,” Alaric said, voice still mild, measured but Boomer heard the fracture behind it, so faint it barely echoed. “Since you're here for the good fight, trying to stop these monsters from spreading their poison…what is it like, working with my daughter?”
Boomer caught the slight shift in the man’s tone, too soft at the end, like the words were weightier than he’d intended. Alaric didn’t look at him when he said it. He looked at the table, at the edge of his glass, at nothing at all.
But Boomer felt it.
The mention ofmonsterswasn’t abstract.
The wordpoisondidn’t land like a headline. It landed like a gravestone.
Alaric wasn’t asking out of politeness. He was a father who’d already buried one child in this war. Now, the daughter he had left, the one who still fought, was walking into the same shadows. He was asking what kind of man stood beside her.Who would protect her? Who wouldunderstandwhat it cost her to keep showing up.
Boomer’s heart thudded once, hard and slow.
When he answered, everything about him changed, his posture, his tone, his drawl. He didn’t speak like a SEAL.
He spoke like a man who knew what it meant to lose something that couldn’t be replaced.
Boomer locked up inside, not that anyone could see, but he felt every word bubbling to be said. Every breath, every heartbeat, every image of Taylor he'd ever buried and brought back rushed to the surface. That first briefing in Colombia. The way she never flinched under pressure. The way she moved, thought, commanded. The steel in her spine. The fire in her silence. God help him, the softness she'd let him hold.
He swallowed. When he spoke, his accent came thicker than usual, the Georgia grit curling hard against every vowel, like his body was trying to anchor him in the only place that could carry this kind of truth. “Well, sir,” he started, voice slow, low. “Workin’ with your daughter ain’t like workin’ with anyone else.” Taylor glanced up, and he didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. Not yet. “She’s sharp,” he continued. “Quick on her feet. Holds her ground in a way that makes the rest of us tighten up and do better. She doesn’t flinch in the hard moments, doesn’t chase the easy way out. She plans like a commander and moves like an operator.”
He paused. The silence at the table was complete.
“But it’s more than that,” he added, voice rough now. He lookeddirectlyat Alaric. “She sees people, sir. Not just their role or their job. She sees what’s under the armor.” Another swallow. His throat felt tight as hell. “When someone like her sees you…I mean really sees you…” He shook his head faintly. “It’s hard to come back from that unchanged.”
Taylor’s breath caught, soft as the wind outside.
Boomer still didn’t look at her. He stared at the linen, then back at her father, steady. “I trust her,” he said. “With my six. With the mission. Hell, with more than that.”
Alaric didn’t smile this time. But his eyes changed. They softened, just a little. A flicker of understanding or maybe recognition. Like he saw something he hadn’t dared to hope for. Something quiet. Somethingtrue.
Taylor sat frozen, fork in hand, lips parted but silent.
Boomer reached for his water and drank slowly, steadying his pulse. His drawl hadn’t backed off an inch, and maybe that was the tell. When his voice got thick like that, when he let the edges roughen, it wasn’t just about Taylor’s skill or bravery.
It was about a woman who’d cracked his chest open, walked inside without asking, and made him want her to stay.
“I can tell you that I have her back. Unwavering. Focused. Intent.” He looked at her, and she met his eyes with a kind of heat that had nothing to do with desire. “She might walk into danger,” he said, voice tightening, holding her gaze. “But I’ll be there. To pull her out. Or cover her.” He looked at her father, and he nodded once, a quiet vow etched in steel. “I promise you both that.” No one spoke. But Gretchen’s knuckles eased on her fork. Alaric’s eyes dropped, just for a moment, and Ansel set his small hand on Boomer’s forearm.
That small gesture unraveled him, but Boomer didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. That kind of vow required direct-action eye contact, and damn, if he wasn’t falling in love with this kid.
12
The clinkof dishes and the hush of clearing silverware filled the room like the last act of a symphony, all winding down in the soft hush that came after a heavy meal. Boomer stood to help but Taylor shook her head gently, her touch brushing his wrist. “Go breathe,” she murmured, her lips curved in something soft and knowing. “I’ll meet you outside.”
So he went looking for the kid.
He found Ansel in the hallway, lingering near the bottom stair like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to disappear.
Boomer crouched beside him, voice low. “Hey, I’ve been thinking…you mentioned you sculpt. Would you show me some of your work?”
Ansel blinked, startled. “You want to see?”
“Sure do.”
He hesitated, then turned, gesturing for Boomer to follow. They padded up the stairs together, the house creaking beneath their steps like it was bearing witness. Ansel led him to a room at the end of the hall and pushed open the door.
