Page 75 of Beyond Protection
Mac appeared in the doorway, hair damp, wearing a Mariners hoodie that had seen better decades. Our eyes met. Held.
Two days of this. Living in the same house, circling each other, pretending the kiss hadn't changed the geometry of every room we shared.
"Ma, what can I—"
"Stay out of the way. Too many bodies already."
But she smiled when she said it, and Mac smiled back—the real one. He grabbed a beer and leaned against the counter near Michael, and within seconds, they were arguing about basketball with the comfortable rhythm of people who'd been having the same argument for years.
I focused on the bread. Clean cuts. Even slices.
The house filled. Matthew and Dorian arrived with something in a casserole dish. Marcus and Alex came last, apologizing for the traffic. By the time we sat down, the table groaned under the weight of mismatched dishes and too much food.
I ended up at the far end, between Miles and the wall. Could see both exits, the kitchen door, and Mac's profile three seats down.
Close enough to read. Too far to reach.
Ma said grace—brief, practical, asking God to keep everyone safe because she had enough to worry about. Then chaos: plates passing, conversations overlapping, laughter building and breaking like waves.
Ma kept dragging me in.
"Eamon, you'll want the roast."
"It looks fine, Ma."
"I'm just saying, don't judge the presentation."
Mac caught my eye and almost smiled.Welcome to Sundays.
I watched him navigate the chaos. Reading the room not for threats but for openings—anticipating what Ma needed before she asked, delivering punchlines that made everyone laugh. But there were moments. Minor fractures in the performance. His shoulders dropped. His laugh came out unfiltered. When Marcus asked about spring training, Mac answered with actual uncertainty.
"I don't know yet. Depends on a few things."
The table absorbed it and moved on.
This was Mac without armor.
The realization hit harder than it should have.
Miles reached across me for the butter. "So, Eamon. How does one become a professional bodyguard? Is there a test? Do you have to practice brooding in a mirror?"
Laughter rolled around the table.
"Certification process," I said evenly. "Background check, training—"
"But the jawline." Miles kept his expression deadpan. "Standard issue, or did you bring your own?"
Matthew choked on his water. Heat climbed my neck.
"The intimidation factor is optional."
"I bet it helps with client retention." Miles grinned, then seemed to register he'd made the entire table uncomfortable. "Sorry. Occupational hazard."
Conversation shifted, but Mac had gone quiet. Not withdrawn. Shuttered. His fingers turned his water glass in small increments.
I wanted to fix it. Had no idea how.
Claire's eyes found mine across the table. She didn't smile. Didn't frown. Just looked at me with that particular stillness that meant she was seeing more than I wanted seen.
