Page 31 of Beyond Protection
He hung the towel back, precise and careful. Buying time.
"No," he said finally. "It's not."
"I should let you sleep," I said.
"Probably."
Eamon turned off the light. It plunged us into darkness except for the small nightlight near the stove.
"Go back to bed, Mac," he said quietly. "I'll be downstairs if you need anything."
"I know."
"Good."
I walked past him. Close enough to catch his scent—cedar from Ma's linen closet, chamomile tea, and the faint smell of organic soap.
At the doorway, I looked back.
He stood in shadow, faint glow catching the copper in his beard.
"Eamon?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you're here."
Silence. Then: "So am I."
I climbed the stairs. Back under Ma's wedding ring quilt, I looked up at Michael's fading constellations. The Big Dipper was slightly wrong, like Eamon said.
I closed my eyes.
At 3:47, I fell asleep.
I woke to grey windows and coffee already brewing.
Two hours of sleep. Better than none.
5:53. No new messages. I checked twice.
Downstairs, Marcus and Eamon's voices rumbled. Men solving problems over morning coffee.
My body ached—not an injury. It was the stiffness of an athlete who lets days go by without proper training. Another week and I'd feel like a stranger in my own skin.
I pulled on jeans and a hoodie, grabbed my running shoes. Paused at the mirror.
Exhaustion painted shadows under my eyes. My hair stuck up in three directions. I looked like exactly what I was—someone who'd gotten two hours of sleep and was about to pretend otherwise.
Downstairs, voices rumbled. Marcus's baritone. And underneath it, Eamon's lower register, that slight rasp that meant he was on his second cup of coffee.
My body woke up before my brain caught up.
Heat spread low in my stomach. I closed my eyes.
This was professional. He made you tea because you couldn't sleep. That's care, not—
My mind conjured him anyway: leaning against Ma's counter in that grey hoodie, flannel pants sitting low on his hips. The morning light would catch the copper in his beard. His hands wrapped around a mug, those long fingers I'd been staring at for days.
