Page 19 of Carrick
There was a pause, and in it, I realized my hands had stilled over the next dish. I blinked and grabbed it, rinsing with a little more force than necessary. Niko didn’t comment. Just kept drying. Steady. Quiet. Letting me come back to center without making it weird.
“You served?” I asked finally, softer this time.
“Yeah. Marines. All of us were. Well, Jax was Air Force, but we were stationed together a lot.” He didn’t offer more than that. Didn’t need to. It was in the posture, the stillness. The way he tracked everything in the room without ever looking like he was watching.
I nodded. “You miss it?”
His eyes flicked toward me—not sharp, not guarded. Just aware. “Some parts. Not others.”
I didn’t ask which. He didn’t offer. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, just filled with the soft clatter of dishes and the hum of voices behind us. Sully was waxing poetic about syrup as an art form. Maddy launched into a dramatic reading of the pancake box. Carrick muttered something dry that made Deacon huff—maybe amusement, maybe warning. Hard to tell. He never smiled. But I could’ve sworn his lip twitched.
Niko passed me another plate and leaned in, just a little. “You’ve got a good eye, you know. The kind that watches without trying to control everything. It’s rare.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. So I didn’t. He didn’t seem to mind.
We kept working—quiet, in sync—and somewhere in the rhythm of rinsing and drying, I stopped waiting for the crash. For the suspicion. For the sharp, inevitable moment someone decided I was too much trouble to feed. No one flinched when I moved. No one commented when I lingered. They just let me be.
No spotlight. No pressure. Just presence—and a plate to dry.
I was used to reading rooms for threat, filling silence before it turned on me. But here, with dishes clinking, water running, Niko humming under his breath, and the others still finishing their dinner and conversation, I didn’t feel watched. I felt allowed.
By the time the last dish was done, the energy in the room had softened. Loud had turned lazy. Chairs tilted back. Jokes lost their bite. Maddy curled into her chair, legs tucked under her and tossing sleepy barbs at Sully, who looked half-asleep already. Jax was still rambling about syrup trajectories, and Deacon looked one breath away from duct-taping his mouth shut.
And Carrick… hadn’t said a word. Just watched from his seat, unreadable, like he was parsing the evening frame by frame.
I leaned back against the counter, towel still in hand, unsure what to do next. No one gave orders. No one dismissed me. They just… drifted. Maddy yawned. Sully declared a need for a blanket and a beer. Jax stacked forks like it was a logic puzzle. Niko wiped his hands and walked out without a word.
Chairs scraped. Lights dimmed. And before I could disappear, I felt him beside me—quiet, steady, magnetic.
Carrick.
He didn’t speak, just fell into step like we’d done it a hundred times. I didn’t look at him. I didn’t have to. The heat rolling off his body was enough to make my skin prickle.
We walked in silence. Not awkward, not strained. Just charged. The air between us buzzed with tension that seemed to breathe on its own. I couldn’t read his thoughts, but I felt the weight of them—the quiet awareness, the unnerving precision, the way he observed everything and said almost nothing. And I felt it, all of it, in places I had no business feeling anything.
I didn’t have time for this. My brother was missing. My world was on fire. And still, my body responded to him like he was a warm bed and an open invitation.
He didn’t touch me. Didn’t brush my arm. Somehow, the absence made it worse. The space between us felt deliberate, each step winding the tension tighter. The hallway stretched longer than it should have, sconces casting pockets of light across the floor, shadows pulling behind us like breath. My bare feet made no sound on the wood, but my pulse thundered.
It wasn’t fair—how easily he slipped under my skin. How little it took to stir something sharp and unwelcome. This wasn’t supposed to be a story laced with heat. Not here. Not now.
I was supposed to be numb. “You always sneak up on people like that?” I murmured, finally breaking the silence.
“Only when I want to,” he replied, tone bone-dry.
“Congratulations. You’ve mastered the art of looming.”
“I wasn’t looming,” he said, casting a glance sideways. “You just weren’t paying attention.”
“Oh, I was paying attention,” I muttered under my breath, too quiet for him to hear—or so I hoped.
But the twitch at the corner of his mouth told me otherwise. When we reached my door, he stopped, and so did I. The weight of his gaze hit me full-force—unapologetic and steady, like he wasn’t just lookingatme butthroughme. I hated that it made me feel seen in a way I couldn’t shake off.
“You did good tonight,” he said, voice low and rough like it had to scrape its way out. It wasn’t casual. Wasn’t flippant. The words felt intentional, like he was delivering a verdict. One he knew I needed but didn’t want to ask for.
My fingers curled tighter around the edge of my sleeve. “So did you. Minimal brooding. No doors slammed. Not even one punch thrown. Honestly? I’m impressed.”
That almost-smile was back. Barely there, but undeniable. “I’m working on my people skills.”
