Page 39 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
“Copy,” Duke replies. “Take the next right and browse ornaments. Gunner, you on the far side?”
“Like glitter on a kindergarten floor,” Gunner says.
We do as we’re told. The ornament shop is warm and too bright. I point at a glass lemon and make Melanie roll her eyes on purpose. Through the window, I see Duke do the nothing that’s something—crossing the street at an angle that forces a decision without looking like one. Mercer sees him. Doesn’t flinch. Then he does the smallest thing—touches his ear, pivots, and disappears into the flow toward the transit stop.
“On him,” Gunner says, already moving. “Don’t run. Don’t follow.”
I take my hand off the glass lemon like it’s a trigger and exhale slowly. Melanie watches me, reads the answer in my shoulders before I speak.
“He’s moving,” I say. “We’ll let the guys peel and see.”
“Do you need to go?” she asks. No guilt, just a question.
“I need to keep you safe,” I say honestly. “Staying with you is the job and the choice.”
Her hand slides into mine again like an anchor. The bubble reforms—not ignorance, just our perimeter, redrawn on the fly. We pay for the lemon because of course we do, and I walk her out into cold air and a day that’s decided to be blue.
“Do I get a debrief?” she asks, half teasing, half not.
“Later,” I say, scanning once, twice, then letting myself look at her instead of the world. “Over cocoa. With candy canes.”
“Good,” she says. “And Lucas?”
“Yeah?”
“If you want to ask me a big question sometime,” she says, eyes on the tree lot in the distance, voice soft but steady, “you can.”
It’s the kind of sentence a man lives on for a week. “Copy,” I say, swallowing a smile I can’t keep down. “I’ll make a list.”
She bumps my shoulder. “Of course you will.”
We head back to the car with bags cutting into my fingers and her laughter cutting into the part of me that’s been armored too long. My phone buzzes once more.
DUKE: Mercer peeled onto the Green Line. Gunner’s shadowing. You’re clear for now.
Copy. Heading home.
DUKE: Keep your bubble tight.
I glance at Melanie. Our bubble isn’t just ours. It’s work and choice, fear and cocoa, a tree and a wedge and a woman who tells me I can ask.
“Home?” I ask.
“Home,” she says.
And for the first time in years, the word doesn’t feel like a place I leave. It feels like a place I build.
16
Melanie
The apartment is soft and golden—the tree on its timer, the lemon ornament catching light like a wink—but Lucas is quiet in that way that makes the room feel… edged. He does his normal sweep—deadbolt, wedge, blinds, glance at the fire escape—and then leans a shoulder against the kitchen counter, eyes far away, thumb worrying the ridge of his knuckle like he’s filing down a thought.
“Hot cocoa?” I offer, rattling candy canes like maracas.
“Always,” he says, automatic, and the smile happens, but the rest of him stays at half-power.
I steam milk, stir in chocolate, crown each cup with a whipped-cream mountain and striped cane. We sit on the couch. He wraps his hands around the mug like he needs the heat to decide what to say. I can almost hear the gears. Baby Peanut does a lazy roll, either voting for cocoa or reminding me I’m not the only one listening.
