Page 153 of Beyond Protection
"You got here early," I said after a while. "Thirty minutes early. How?"
"Michael drove like the city was clearing a path for us. Every light turned green. Traffic parted like—" He paused. Smiled slightly. "Like Christmas magic."
"Christmas magic," I repeated.
"Yeah. I think Ma would say Santa was watching out for us."
"Maybe he was."
Eamon's eyes closed. His breathing evened out.
I sat in the chair, held his hand, and watched him sleep.
The nurse came eventually. Checked vitals. Nodded approval.
"His pressure's holding steady," she said quietly. "That's good. You can stay if you want."
"I want."
She left.
I leaned back in the chair. Didn't let go of his hand.
Outside the window, snow was still falling. Gentle now. The storm had passed.
Through the glass, I saw the city lights twinkling and the streets were quiet.
We'd survived.
The rest—recovery, rebuilding, whatever came next—we'd figure it out.
Maybe Ma was right about surviving worse.
Maybe Claire was right about breathing through it.
Maybe Michael was right about moving being what mattered.
And maybe Eamon was right about having something worth moving for.
Or maybe it was just this: two men who'd learned that protection wasn't about control—it was about presence.
Outside, the snow kept falling. The city kept breathing. And so did we.
Chapter eighteen
Eamon
The world reassembled itself one piece at a time.
White ceiling tiles. A rhythmic beep somewhere to my left. The chemical bite of antiseptic cutting through anesthesia fog. When I tried to shift, pain bloomed hot and immediate in my shoulder.
Christ.
"Don't." Mac's voice, close. His hand closed around mine before I registered he was there. "Don't try to move yet."
I forced my eyes open. Everything swam, then steadied. Mac's face materialized above me—exhausted, unshaven, but the person I most wanted to see.
"Did we get her?" My voice was raw.
