Page 18 of Carrick
Jax jumped in again, god bless him, like he was born to cut tension with a scalpel of trivia. “Did you know that the human brain can distinguish over one trillion different scents, but emotionally, we’re most reactive to the ones tied to memory? Olfactory recall is stronger than visual or auditory triggers. That’s why motor oil can feel like a hug and a hospital hallway can smell like fear.”
“Jesus,” Sully muttered. “Do you come with a pause button?”
“I’ve been studying,” Jax said with faux dignity. “If I’m gonna be the resident weirdo, I might as well be accurate.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Maddy said, elbowing me. “He once quoted an entire article about the mating rituals of penguins because I said I was cold.”
“Another valid metaphor,” Jax said. “Monogamy, pebbles, persistent waddling—love is brutal.”
Carrick groaned. “We should’ve left you in Alaska.”
“You’re just mad I won that snowball fight,” Jax shot back.
“I’m mad you built a fucking trebuchet.”
“That’s called innovation.”
The table cracked open with laughter, a tangled mess of insults and what sounded suspiciously like Maddy accusing Sully of being a syrup snob. Carrick let out a rough, genuine laugh before wincing, his hand drifting to his side like even he hadn’t expected the pain. The bruises must have been worse than he admitted.
I stayed quiet and let it wash over me—noise, warmth, absurdity. They weren’t normal, not by any stretch, but they weren’t hollow either. Not just muscle and menace, but people. Tangled, flawed, infuriating. Somehow, they were making room for me inside the madness.
I didn’t speak. Just kept chewing, letting the edges of my defenses soften in a way that felt too dangerous to name. I wasn’t bracing anymore. And that terrified me more than I could explain.
I had barely lifted my fork again when Sully’s voice rang out like a battle cry. “If anyone puts maple syrup near these eggs, I’m invoking my right to disown you.”
Niko looked up from his spot near the end of the table, eyes narrowed in warning. “If I hear one more word about syrup, I’m revoking all condiment privileges for a week.”
“You wouldn’t,” Sully gasped, placing a hand over his heart like he’d been shot.
“Try me.” The table burst into laughter, and I—God help me—I laughed, too. Not a full-bodied belly laugh, but something real. Something more than just air through my nose.
And they noticed.
Carrick’s eyes flicked to mine, the briefest spark of approval in their depths before he looked away again, sipping his coffee with that infuriating calm. Maddy bumped my shoulder with hers and whispered, “Told you we’re a disaster. But we’re a fun one.”
“You’re not wrong,” I murmured, fighting a smile and losing. I could have slipped away at any point, made an excuse, vanished down the hall, and buried myself in the hush of the guest room, smothered by the thoughts I still hadn’t found the nerve to name. But I didn’t leave. I stayed. Not because the noise was easy or the chaos familiar, but because something in it felt like oxygen—raw and unfiltered, a reminder that real things still existed. And after so long holding my breath, I wasn’t ready to give that up.
Niko stood first, but there was no announcement, no dramatic stretch or sigh. Just the soft scrape of a chair and the quiet grace of someone who moved like it was muscle memory, not obligation. He gathered plates with calm precision, never asking, never expecting help.
Still, I followed.
My body moved without consulting me, reaching for my dish, brushing stray crumbs to the center, scooping up Maddy’s mug mid-sentence when she handed it off without looking. At the sink, the water was already running. A towel waited in Niko’s hand, like he’d somehow known I would be there beside him. No commentary. No performance. Just a simple hand-off, like we’d done it a hundred times before.
We fell into rhythm. He rinsed. I dried. I stacked. He wiped. The silence between us didn’t strain or demand. It just lived there, soft and steady, like a song you didn’t need to hear to understand. For the first time in weeks, I wasn’t bracing for impact. Not for a question. Not for judgment. Not for the slow unravel of being too much in too small a space. I just stood there, hands slick from rinse water, heart strangely quiet, and no one flinched.
Somewhere between a coffee mug and a butter knife, Niko looked over. “Quinn mentioned the car you drove to the precinct was something else. ’67 Impala, right?”
I nodded, not looking up from the plate in my hands. “And he’d better take damn good care of her, too. She’s been with me for a while. Picked her up half-built from a guy in Wichita who thought zip ties and duct tape were a long-term plan.”
His mouth twitched like he was trying not to laugh. “I’ll be sure to tell him to put on the kid gloves. Did you finish the rebuild yourself?”
“Mostly,” I said, handing him a rinsed fork. “The suspension’s mine. So is the custom wiring harness. And I replaced the fuel system after it tried to kill me in St. Louis.”
“Respect,” he murmured, drying the fork with almost surgical precision. “Not a lot of people who actually know what to do under the hood these days. Plenty who pretend.”
“I don’t pretend,” I said, maybe a little too sharp. “That car’s gotten me out of more bad nights than therapy ever could.”
The words hung in the air for a second, exposed and a little too raw. But Niko didn’t prod. He just nodded once, slow and solid. “Yeah. I get that.”
