Chapter Text
She’d gotten off work early on purpose, which already felt like a mistake.
Not because she regretted it. Not exactly. She just didn’t like giving herself enough time to think.
Time was dangerous that way. Give it a little room, and suddenly it started dragging things out from under the floorboards.
Old recipes. Old kitchens. Her mother’s voice telling her not to rush the onions. The faint memory of standing on a chair because she’d been too short to see over the counter properly.
Michelle stirred the pot again and narrowed her eyes at it like it had personally offended her.
So far, it looked alright. Probably.
She hadn’t made this dish in years, and the recipe card she’d dug out of the bottom of one of her old storage boxes had not survived time with dignity.
Half the writing had faded. One corner had torn off completely. A smear of something dark and ancient covered what she was fairly sure had once been an amount of spice, which meant she had guessed and was now pretending confidence was the same thing as accuracy.
It usually worked for missions, though cooking could show some respect.
The common area kitchen was quieter than usual, which was the only reason she had attempted this before dinner turned into its normal full-contact sport.
Elijah and Lila handled most of the proper cooking when they were both around. David and Britney pitched in sometimes, usually when the meal involved enough structure for David to treat it like a build and enough room for Britney to make fun of him for it.
Michelle cooked when she had to. Mostly lunches for Micah when he had to travel off-world, because if no one handed him something wrapped and labeled, he’d survive on coffee, stubbornness, and whatever ration bar Judah threw at his head.
Micah never complained about anything she made.
She wasn’t sure whether that meant he actually liked her cooking or was just scared of her.
She supposed both could be true.
A pot lid rattled faintly as the steam built beneath it. Michelle lowered the heat, then glanced toward the hallway on instinct.
No footsteps yet.
Good.
She had time.
That was the point. She wanted it ready before he got back. Not because she was being sentimental or anything. Absolutely not. She was merely being practical. Obviously.
He’d been gone since before sunrise, dragged into three separate briefings, two minor crises, and one very stupid argument with a supply coordinator who had apparently thought “Micah Nelson looks tired enough to agree to anything” was a sound strategy.
Amateur mistake.
Micah was at his most agreeable when he was well-rested. When he was exhausted, he became polite in a way that made people nervous and Michelle start looking for sharp objects.
She reached for the cutting board and swept the last of the chopped vegetables into the pan, then paused when she heard a soft, familiar rhythm from the doorway.
Not Micah.
Judah leaned into the kitchen with both hands braced on the frame, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who had clearly not come to help.
“Oh,” he said. “This is suspicious.”
Michelle didn’t even bother turning around. “Leave.”
He grinned, “Can’t. I smelled food and emotional repression.”
She glanced at him, narrowing her eyes slightly, “I’m holding a knife.”
“Exactly. That’s how I knew it was you.”
She pointed the knife in his direction without looking. “Judah.”
He raised both hands, stepping in anyway because he had never once treated survival instinct as anything more than a light suggestion. “I’m not here to bother you.”
She scoffed, “That’s never been true a moment in your life.”
Judah put a hand to his chest in mock theatrics, “I’m here as a concerned brother.”
“That’s worse.”
Judah drifted closer, peering into the pot. “Is this for Micah?”
Michelle gave him a flat look.
He grinned. “That was a yes.”
Her eyes narrowed further, “That was me deciding where to hide your body.”
His grin softened into a smirk, though no less mischievous, “Also a yes, emotionally.”
Before Michelle could decide whether Patience would be genuinely upset if she injured him a little, another voice came from the hallway.
“Judah.”
He froze, smirk disappearing, lips pressing together and eyes widening in that 'deer in headlights' way.
Caught.
Michelle smiled into the pan.
Patience appeared behind him a second later, still in her field jacket, hair pulled back messily from a long day, her expression calm in the way that usually meant someone had tested her patience and lost. She took in the scene at once: Judah too close to the food, Michelle armed, something simmering on the stove.
She sighed, hands on her hips, “Are you bothering her?”
“No,” Judah said immediately, the same time Michelle said, “Yes.”
Patience raised an eyebrow.
Judah sighed. “I was providing moral support.”
“You were snooping.” She corrected.
He shrugged, “Those are emotionally adjacent activities.”
Patience rolled her eyes and walked into the kitchen, took him gently by the sleeve, drawing him away from Michelle’s workspace. He went with only token resistance, which told Michelle he was more tired than he looked.
His jokes still came fast, but the edges had softened. He’d probably been running interference all day, keeping the younger agents loose, checking on Shiloh, making sure no one noticed when things got too heavy.
Michelle noticed, which meant Patience definitely noticed.
That was the problem with marrying people who watched everyone else. Eventually, someone had to watch them back.
Patience settled Judah onto one of the stools at the island with a quiet, “Sit.”
“I was already basically sitting.”
“You were standing.”
“In spirit.”
“Judah.”
He sat properly.
Michelle snorted and went back to stirring. “Trained him well.”
Patience’s mouth curved faintly. “He still bites sometimes.”
Judah leaned his elbows on the counter. “I’m right here.”
“Yes,” Patience said, brushing a hand over his shoulder as she passed him. “That’s why I said it.”
Michelle caught the movement without meaning to. Small. Familiar. Patience’s fingers squeezed once, just at the top of Judah’s shoulder, and his whole posture eased by a fraction. He kept the grin, but something underneath it loosened.
Michelle looked away before it felt too much like spying.
Patience came to stand beside her. “Need help?”
Michelle almost said no. It was automatic, already sitting on her tongue.
Then the pot gave a threatening bubble, and the memory of her mother’s handwriting flashed through her mind again, faded and imperfect and too far away to ask.
She exhaled through her nose. “Maybe.”
Patience didn’t make a big deal out of it. That was one of the many reasons Michelle liked her.
She simply washed her hands, glanced over the counter, and said, “Tell me what you need.”
Michelle handed her the recipe card.
Patience read it carefully, eyes flicking over the faded lines. “This is your mother’s?”
Michelle stirred a little harder than necessary. “Yeah.”
Judah, to his credit, did not make a joke.
Patience softened, but only slightly. “It smells good.”
“It smells edible you mean.”
“That too.”
Michelle gave her a sidelong look. Patience smiled innocently.
Judah leaned forward, because apparently the man couldn’t stay quiet for more than a minute at most. “For the record, I am also willing to test for poison.”
“For the record,” Michelle said, “you’re not getting any before Micah.”
He gasped dramatically, “Cruel. Unjust. Anti-family.”
“You’ll recover.” she deadpanned.
“I might not.” Judah lamented.
Patience set a glass of water in front of him. “Drink.”
Judah looked down at it, then up at her. “Is this because you love me or because you’re trying to keep me from stealing food?”
“Yes.”
He accepted that with a nod and drank.
Michelle watched them for half a second too long, then turned back toward the stove. She didn’t usually mind their rhythm. If anything, it made things easier. Judah and Patience had a way of filling a room without making it feel crowded. He brought the noise. She kept it from becoming too much. Together, they made the space feel lived-in instead of just occupied.
It was nice.
Annoying, but nice.
The sound of the main doors opening carried faintly down the hall.
Michelle’s hand paused on the spoon.
Judah noticed immediately, because of course he did. His grin came back, slower this time. “Oh, he’s home.”
“Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You breathed smugly.”
“I have a medical condition.”
Patience took the spoon from Michelle’s hand before she could use it as a weapon. “I’ll watch this.”
Michelle blinked. “I didn’t say I was going anywhere.”
“No,” Patience said, calm and unbearable. “You just stopped stirring.”
Judah’s eyebrows shot up. “Wow. Domestic and exposed. Brutal.”
Michelle pointed at him. “The only reason you’re alive is because she’s here.”
“I know. And I thank her every day.”
Footsteps approached. Slower than usual.
Michelle’s irritation dropped, replaced by something sharper. Micah’s steps were normally easy to pick out, steady and purposeful even when he was tired. Tonight they dragged just enough to make her turn fully toward the doorway before he appeared.
He walked in with his jacket half-unzipped, hair mussed from either wind or too many hands run through it, and the kind of carefully neutral expression that meant his day had been worse than he planned to admit.
His eyes found her first.
They always did.
For a second, the room softened around the edges. Micah looked at her, then past her to the stove, then back at her again.
“You cooked,” he said.
Judah coughed into his glass. “Brilliant observation from Agency leadership.”
Micah didn’t look away from Michelle. “For me?”
Michelle folded her arms. “No. For the wall.”
He smiled, small and tired and genuine enough that it did something stupid to her chest, “The wall’s lucky,” he said as he walked toward her.
Not urgently, nor in a way that would make anyone turn and stare if they didn’t already know him too well. Just that usual controlled pace he kept when he was trying very hard not to look like he’d wanted to run to her the second he saw her.
Michelle’s arms unfolded the moment his hands found her waist.
That was still annoying, how easily her body betrayed her around him. She could glare down half the Agency, threaten Judah into silence, argue Micah out of three consecutive bad ideas, and still soften before she had time to make a decision about it.
His fingers settled warm and familiar against the back of her jacket. Close, but not clinging. Present enough that the last bit of tension in her shoulders gave up and left without asking permission.
For a millisecond, she thought he might say something. His eyes flicked over her face in that careful, too-quiet way he had after long days, like he was checking whether the world had changed while he’d been gone.
Then he just kissed her.
Michelle leaned into it before she could pretend she hadn’t wanted him to. The kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just him, tired and warm and finally within reach again, one hand sliding a little firmer around her waist as though he’d been holding himself together all day and had decided, now, that he didn’t need to.
It felt like coming home, even if he was the one who’d been gone.
He still smelled faintly of his cologne. He never wore much anyway, just enough that she’d started noticing it about a year ago and had hated herself for noticing it for roughly three seconds before deciding it was his fault for smelling good.
They pulled apart only slightly. Close enough that his forehead nearly brushed hers, close enough that she could see the weariness behind his eyes before he tucked it away for everyone else.
The smile he gave her now was for her eyes only.
“Missed you, babe.”
Michelle’s chest did that stupid thing again.
She covered it with a look, because dignity was important and also completely doomed around him. “Missed you, too.”
His smile deepened, softer around the edges, and then he leaned in again.
She let him.
From the island, Judah made a loud, wounded sound. “Disgusting as ever, I see.”
Micah did not move away. “Hi, Judah.”
“Don’t ‘hi, Judah’ me. Some of us are trying to hydrate and survive.”
Patience calmly took the glass from his hand before he could spill it while gesturing at them. “You’ll live.”
“This is emotional exposure.”
Michelle pulled back just enough to glare at him over Micah’s shoulder. “You're aware you're married, too, right?”
“Yes, and Patience and I are tasteful.”
Patience’s eyebrows lifted. “Are we?”
Judah opened his mouth, paused, then pointed at Micah and Michelle instead. “More tasteful than that.”
Micah finally turned his head, one arm still around Michelle like he had no intention of pretending otherwise. “I just kissed my wife.” He said this like he was genuinely confused on what the big deal was.
“In public.” Judah added.
“In the kitchen.”
“Exactly. Food is made here. Have respect.”
Michelle looked at Patience. “Do you want him back, or can I throw him out?”
Patience considered this with unfair seriousness. “He drank half his water. Let him stay until he finishes.”
Judah held a hand to his chest. “Romance is alive and well.”
Michelle snorted, but Micah’s attention had already drifted back to her. It was subtle. It always was with him, at least in public. His thumb moved once against her waist, a small, absent stroke through the leather of her jacket. His gaze dropped to the stove again, then to the counter, taking in the ingredients, the mess, the old recipe card beside Patience’s hand.
Something in his expression changed.
Not big. Not enough for Judah to make a joke about, probably. Just enough for Michelle to notice, because she always noticed him.
“You made something new?” he asked.
“Old,” she said before she could stop herself.
His eyes came back to her face.
She shrugged, trying to make it nothing. “My mom’s recipe.”
Micah’s hand tightened at her waist.
Only slightly. Only once.
But she felt it.
For once, he didn’t rush to fill the space. He didn’t make a joke, didn’t ask too much, didn’t try to turn it into something heavier than she’d meant it to be. He just looked at her with that quiet, open softness that still felt unfair after all this time.
“Yeah?” he said.
Michelle looked away first, because one of them had to preserve order in this room and apparently it was going to be her. “Don’t get weird.”
His brow furrowed slightly, “I’m not.”
“You’re doing the face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you look at me like I just rebuilt the moon.”
Judah leaned toward Patience. “He does have that face.”
Micah ignored him, which was a skill in and of itself. “I like when you tell me things.”
That shut her up.
Rude of him, really. Walking into the kitchen, kissing her in front of witnesses, and then saying something honest without giving her warning. Terrible behavior from a man who claimed to love her.
Michelle narrowed her eyes. “You’re lucky I’m holding nothing sharp right now.”
“I know.”
He said it with enough fondness that she almost forgot to be annoyed.
Patience, blessedly, stepped in before Michelle had to figure out what to do with her own face. “It’s almost done. She wouldn’t let Judah taste it.”
“Because she loves me,” Judah said.
“Because I don’t trust you,” Michelle corrected.
He shrugged, “Same emotion, different font.”
Micah’s stomach chose that moment to make a low, unmistakable sound, and everyone looked at him.
He looked down at himself as if betrayed. “That was aggressive.”
Michelle stared at him. “When did you last eat?”
Micah’s expression went blank in the specific way that meant he was trying to calculate whether lying would be worth the consequences, which it never was.
“...define eat.”
Judah sucked in a breath. “Ooh, rookie mistake.”
Michelle stepped out of Micah’s hold, but only so she could turn fully toward him. “Micah.”
“I had... coffee?” he tried.
She narrowed her eyes slightly, “That’s a drink, love.”
“And a ration bar.”
“When?”
He hesitated. Too long.
Patience, without looking up from the stove, said, “That means this morning.”
Judah pointed at her while he looked at his brother. “See? This is why we married them. Terrifying perception.”
Micah gave Michelle a cautious look. “It was a busy day.”
She didn’t look convinced. “It’s always a busy day.”
“I was going to eat.”
She raised an eyebrow, “When? Next fiscal year?”
His mouth twitched slightly at that, and she narrowed her eyes, “Don’t smile at me,” she warned. “You’re in trouble.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t. Sit.”
Micah glanced at the island.
Michelle pointed.
He sat.
Judah watched him with delight. “Wow. Immediate obedience. I’m proud and unsettled.”
Micah leaned back slightly on the stool and rubbed a hand over his face. “I’ve learned things.”
“Fear,” Michelle said, turning back to the stove.
“Love,” Micah corrected.
Judah gagged again, softer this time. “There it is. The kitchen contamination.”
Patience slid him the rest of his water. “Drink.”
“See? Love.”
“Also fear,” Michelle said.
Micah’s tired laugh followed her as she reached for bowls. It was quiet, roughened by the day, but real, and that mattered more than he probably knew. Or maybe he did know now. He was getting better at that. Slowly. Painfully. With occasional relapses into idiocy.
She filled the first bowl carefully. The food looked better than she’d expected, which was suspicious, but she decided not to question it. Her mother’s recipe had survived worse than her questionable memory and ancient spice measurements.
When she set the bowl in front of Micah, his expression shifted again. He didn’t touch it right away.
Michelle crossed her arms. “If you cry, I’m leaving.”
Micah glanced at her, “I’m not going to cry.”
“You look like you might.”
“I’m tired.”
“And underfed.”
“And married to someone intimidating.”
“Correct.”
He looked up at her again, and the corner of his mouth lifted. “Thank you.”
The words were simple. Too simple, maybe, for the way he said them. Michelle felt Patience glance over and pretended not to notice.
“You haven’t tasted it yet,” she said.
“I wasn’t thanking you for the food.”
There he went again.
Honest. Direct. In front of witnesses no less.
She was going to have to start keeping something sharp nearby.
Micah held her gaze for another second, then finally picked up the spoon and took a bite. Michelle watched despite herself, because if this tasted wrong and he tried to lie about it, she would know. She always knew.
His eyes widened a little.
Judah leaned forward. “Well?”
Micah swallowed. “That’s really good.”
Michelle studied him. “You’re not just saying that because you value your life?”
“I do value my life.”
“Micah.” she pressed.
“It’s really good,” he said, softer. “Seriously.”
The knot she hadn’t admitted was sitting under her ribs loosened.
She looked away and busied herself with the next bowl. “Fine. You can survive then.”
“Lucky me,” he mumbled around another bite.
Judah reached for his own bowl the second Patience handed it to him. “Finally. I was fading.”
“You were sitting for five minutes,” Patience said.
“A long five minutes.”
Michelle set another bowl down for Patience and glanced at him. “Eat before I change my mind.”
Judah saluted with his spoon. “Yes, ma’am.”
For a few minutes, the kitchen settled into the kind of quiet Michelle had not expected to like as much as she did. Spoons against bowls. The low hum of the lights. Judah making one satisfied noise before Patience elbowed him gently. Micah eating like someone had finally reminded his body it was allowed to need things.
He caught her watching him and gave her a look, “What?”
“Nothing,” she said.
“That never means nothing.”
“It means eat.”
He obeyed, but his foot hooked lightly around the leg of her stool when she sat beside him, a small, ridiculous point of contact under the island. Michelle didn’t comment on it. She also did not move away.
Across from them, Judah noticed. Michelle knew he noticed because his face did something unbearable.
“Don’t,” she said.
“I said nothing.”
“You were about to.”
“I was thinking lovingly.”
“Think quieter.”
Patience hid a smile behind her spoon.
Micah, warm and tired beside her, leaned just enough that his shoulder brushed hers.
Michelle let him stay there.
Michelle let him stay there because moving away would have meant admitting the contact mattered, and she had worked very hard for years to maintain the illusion that Micah Nelson did not routinely ruin her ability to act like a normal person.
He did, though. Constantly. Casually. Without even trying, which was the worst part.
It was never just the obvious things. The kissing was bad enough, obviously. The hands at her waist, the tired smile when he came home, the low softness in his voice when he called her soft things like they belonged there and always had.
Those were crimes, but at least they were identifiable ones. She could point to them and say yes, that was an emotional attack, and she had responded with reasonable weakness under hostile conditions.
The smaller things were what got her.
The way he ate the food she’d made him like it meant something. The way his shoulder stayed pressed against hers, warm and solid and completely unbothered by the fact that Judah was sitting three feet away and actively hunting for ammunition.
The way his foot remained hooked loosely around the leg of her stool, not trapping her, not demanding anything, just keeping some small point of connection like he was worried the room might pull them apart if he didn’t anchor himself somewhere.
The way he didn’t even seem to realize he was doing it.
Michelle stared into her bowl and considered briefly whether marriage had made her weaker or whether Micah had simply become more dangerous with practice.
Probably both.
Beside her, he made another quiet sound after his next bite. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just a low, pleased hum that he swallowed almost immediately, as if he hadn’t meant for it to escape.
Michelle’s fingers tightened around her spoon.
Absolutely criminal.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” she said under her breath.
Micah glanced over, confused. “Eating?”
“Being annoying.”
“I’m always doing that.”
“Yes, but you’re usually less effective.”
His mouth curved, and there it was again, that private smile that made him look younger than he had any right to after the day he’d clearly had. He turned back to his bowl, but not before his knee nudged hers once beneath the island, brief and affectionate.
Michelle hated him a little.
Not really.
That was the problem.
Across from them, Judah watched the exchange with his chin resting in his hand, looking like a man witnessing a tragedy unfold and deciding to sell tickets. Patience gave him one warning glance without even lifting her head fully.
Somehow, it worked. Judah’s mouth shut before it opened, which was rare enough that Michelle almost checked him for signs of fever.
Patience, meanwhile, had gone quiet in the way Michelle had learned to recognize. Not withdrawn. Just observing. The softness at the corner of her mouth said she was enjoying herself, but her eyes moved between Judah and Micah with that careful, steady attention she gave everyone she loved when they were pretending they didn’t need anything.
Judah had finished his water. He was eating now, too quickly at first, then slower after Patience rested her hand lightly over his wrist. No words. Just pressure. He looked at her, made a face like he was being terribly oppressed, and then took a smaller bite.
Michelle hid her smile in her bowl.
It was strange, sometimes, how much quieter love got after the first impossible part. Not less strong. Never that. Just quieter. Less like a thing happening to her and more like something built into the room.
Micah’s shoulder against hers. Patience’s hand at Judah’s wrist. The old recipe simmering in the air. The kind of peace that only existed because everyone in the room knew how much effort it took to earn it.
Then the doors opened again, and peace, as usual, filed an official complaint.
Elijah came in first, hair still slightly damp from rain or whatever the nearest Raelo had decided counted as weather that day. Lila followed at his side with a covered container tucked against her hip, her expression brightening the moment she stepped into the kitchen.
“Oh,” Lila said, looking toward the stove. “Someone cooked.”
Michelle lifted her spoon. “Careful. If that sounded surprised, I’ll take offense.”
Elijah’s gaze moved from the bowls to Michelle, then to Micah, then to the way Micah was leaning into her like gravity had personally chosen a side. Something warm flickered through his face before he smoothed it out. “Smells good.”
“It is,” Micah said immediately.
Michelle turned toward him. “You’ve had five bites. Don’t overcommit.”
“I’m committing the correct amount.”
“Dangerous sentence.”
Lila stepped closer, peeking toward the pot with open curiosity but enough manners not to crowd. That was one of the reasons Michelle tolerated her more easily than most people. Lila had a way of entering a space like she belonged there without trying to take it over.
It reminded Michelle of how Elijah moved around a kitchen now, comfortable but deferential when the recipe wasn’t his. Like he had learned that skill from somewhere. Or someone.
Judah brightened the moment he saw them. “Elijah. Perfect. Please tell these two that public affection near dinner is morally unstable.”
Elijah looked at Micah and Michelle again. Micah had not moved away. If anything, his shoulder had settled more fully against hers, which Michelle suspected was not deliberate and therefore devastating.
“...I’m not getting involved.” Elijah said, rather diplomatically.
“Coward.”
“Alive coward.”
Lila smiled sweetly. “I think it’s cute.”
Judah pointed at her. “Betrayal from the fairy delegation.”
Lila frowned slightly in confusion, “There is no delegation.”
“That’s what they want us to think.”
Elijah set the container Lila had brought onto the counter and glanced at Michelle. “Dessert. We had extra.”
“We made extra.” Lila corrected.
He smiled at her, and there was a softness in it that Michelle almost missed because it was so quick. Not the big obvious kind. Not Judah and Patience’s visible rhythm or Micah’s unconscious orbit around her. Elijah and Lila had a quieter thing, built out of respect and patience and the particular intimacy of two people who had learned not to rush the space between them.
Michelle respected that.
She would never say it out loud. That sounded like an invitation for emotional conversation, and she had already exceeded her quota for the evening.
Before anyone could settle, Josiah appeared in the doorway with Gala beside him, speaking animatedly with both hands as though the hallway had personally failed to understand his point.
“I’m just saying,” Josiah said, “if the stabilizer is already calibrated for thermal variance, then technically it should be fine if someone maybe slightly overheated the left relay.”
Gala looked entirely unimpressed. “Someone?”
“A hypothetical someone.”
“Josiah.”
“A handsome hypothetical someone?”
Gala’s expression did not change, but her eyes did, which was how Michelle knew Josiah was not in immediate danger. Yet.
Micah leaned closer to Michelle and murmured, “He overheated the relay.”
Michelle murmured back, “I gathered.”
“He’s going to pretend it was research.”
“Is it ever?”
“No.”
Micah’s breath brushed her ear when he answered, and Michelle had to tighten her jaw like she was bracing against a physical attack.
He was too close. He was not close enough. He was eating her mother’s food and leaning into her and smelling faintly like cologne and field dust, and she was supposed to function while he did all of that in front of witnesses.
Impossible man.
Gala’s attention shifted to the kitchen, then the bowls, then Michelle. “Did you make dinner?”
Michelle braced herself, but Gala’s voice held no surprise that irritated her, only interest.
“My mom’s recipe,” she said, a little less defensively this time.
Josiah’s expression softened in a way that made him look less like a walking lab incident and more like the man Gala kept choosing to stand beside. “That’s really cool.”
Michelle blinked once. Then she pointed her spoon at him. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not.”
“You sounded sincere. That’s suspicious.”
Gala looked at Josiah. “She has a point.”
“Wow. My own girlfriend.”
“Your own girlfriend who watched you nearly melt Agency property twelve minutes ago.”
“It was warm. Not melted.”
“Josiah.”
He took the bowl Patience handed him with both hands. “Thank you. I will stop talking now.”
“You won’t,” Judah said.
“No, probably not,” Josiah agreed, sitting down anyway.
Gala accepted her own bowl and settled beside him. Josiah immediately shifted his chair a few inches, giving her more room without appearing to think about it. Gala noticed. She always noticed. Her shoulder brushed his in quiet thanks, and his entire face lit for half a second before he visibly tried to be normal about it.
Michelle watched him fail and felt an unexpected flicker of affection.
Unfortunately, that was when Micah’s hand found hers under the counter. His fingers simply brushed hers, then settled, warm and sure, around the back of her hand.
Michelle’s thoughts went blank in a way that would have gotten her killed in the field.
She looked down, though there was nothing to see beneath the island, then sideways at him. Micah was still listening to Josiah and Judah bicker about whether “warm” and “melted” were legally distinct categories. His face was tired, his mouth faintly amused, and he had no idea he had just dismantled her entire internal structure with one hand.
Again. Criminal.
She should have pulled away on principle.
Instead, her fingers turned into his.
He noticed then. His thumb moved over her knuckles once, slow and absent and intimate enough that Michelle had to look away before her face did something unforgivable.
Of course Judah saw.
His eyes dropped to the counter. Then his expression changed, bright with evil possibility.
Patience said, “Judah.”
He hadn’t spoken. He hadn’t even moved. He had only inhaled.
Still, he deflated. “I live under surveillance.”
“You require supervision.”
“I require artistic freedom.”
“You require sleep.”
Judah’s face did something too fast for most people to catch. A flicker. A crack under the joke before he patched it with a grin.
Michelle caught it.
Patience caught it first.
She didn’t call him out, not with everyone gathering and the room growing loud. She only slid his bowl a little closer and leaned her shoulder against his arm, gentle enough to look casual. Judah glanced at her, and for once, the joke stayed behind his teeth. He just leaned back, barely enough to return the pressure.
Michelle looked away, giving them that much.
Then Shiloh arrived.
She came in with a stack of files against her chest and Phineas behind her carrying another stack because apparently no one in this Agency understood the concept of ending a workday.
Her hair was pulled back messily, a few loose strands slipping free, and there was a faint crease between her brows that made Michelle want to start confiscating paperwork from teenage leaders on principle.
Phineas already looked prepared to do exactly that.
“You said one more folder,” he said.
Shiloh didn’t look at him. “This is one more stack.”
“That is not how numbers work.”
“It is if you group them emotionally.”
Judah pointed his spoon at her. “That’s leadership.”
Elijah’s eyes narrowed immediately at Phineas, because some instincts were eternal. “Why are you carrying her files?”
Phineas stopped just inside the kitchen, clearly assessing whether this was a trap. “...because she had too many?”
Daniel appeared behind them at exactly the wrong time, because of course he did. “Or because he wanted an excuse to follow her.”
Phineas sighed. “Good evening, Daniel.”
“Is it?”
Shiloh dropped her files onto the far counter and turned around, exasperated. “He helped me carry paperwork.”
Daniel crossed his arms. “That’s how it starts.”
Judah nodded solemnly. “First paperwork. Then emotional vulnerability. Then hand-holding. Slippery path.”
Michelle looked pointedly at his hand, which had somehow found Patience’s on the surface of the island.
Judah followed her gaze, “Unrelated,” he said.
Patience smiled into her bowl.
Shiloh’s attention shifted to the food, and some of the tension in her face eased. “Is there dinner?”
“There was,” Michelle said. “Then everyone smelled weakness.”
Shiloh smiled at Michelle. Not teasing. Not surprised. Just grateful, and that was somehow harder to deflect. “Thanks, Michelle.”
Michelle shrugged. “Don’t thank me yet. Josiah hasn’t exploded.”
“I haven’t exploded in days,” Josiah said.
Gala calmly said, “One day.”
“Still plural if you count emotionally.”
“Not how numbers work,” Phineas said.
Shiloh glanced at him. “See? Useful.”
Daniel stared at him. “Don’t get comfortable.”
Phineas looked at Shiloh.
Shiloh closed her eyes briefly. “Daniel.”
“What? I didn’t threaten eyelashes this time.”
“See? Growth.” Judah added.
The kitchen filled from there, the way it always did when the day had been too long and everyone pretended they had only come in because they were hungry. Bowls passed from hand to hand.
Lila took over warming the dessert, Elijah automatically moving beside her. Gala corrected Josiah’s latest explanation with two quiet words and one devastating look—devastating to him, anyway. Shiloh tried to stand while eating until Phineas nudged a stool toward her with his foot, and after a brief glare, she sat.
Michelle watched it all from her place beside Micah, his hand still closed around hers under the counter, his shoulder still touching hers like it belonged there.
A few years ago, this much closeness would have made her restless. Too many people. Too much noise. Too many ways for someone to see something she hadn’t meant to show.
Now, it felt different.
Still loud. Still annoying. Still full of people who needed to learn how to sit down before their spouses, partners, siblings, and assorted emotional support menaces forced them to.
But different.
Lived in.
Micah’s thumb moved across her knuckles again, and Michelle’s irritation softened into something so warm it almost embarrassed her. She glanced at him, meaning to tell him to stop doing that in public, or to eat before his food got cold, or to stop looking like he’d barely survived the day and somehow still found room to smile at her.
He was already looking back.
Tired, yes. Worn thin around the edges, absolutely. But... here. Fed. Safe. Leaning into her like the day had finally ended because she was beside him.
Michelle swallowed.
His brows furrowed slightly, face softening further in concern, “You okay?” he asked quietly.
The room kept moving around them. Judah was arguing with Daniel about whether paperwork counted as flirting, which had Elijah threatening to leave the kitchen. Shiloh had buried her face in one hand. Patience looked like she was reconsidering every life choice that had put her at this table. Lila was laughing softly near the stove.
Michelle looked at her husband and hated, with deep sincerity, how easily he could still ask that question and make her want to answer honestly.
“Yeah,” she said, squeezing his hand once beneath the counter. “I am.”
His smile was small.
Private.
Hers.
And then Judah, because he had survival instincts only when Patience manually installed them, said, “Aww. They’re making eye contact again.”
Michelle turned slowly.
Judah’s grin faltered.
Patience sighed. “I warned you.”
Micah, without releasing Michelle’s hand, reached for his spoon. “He did this to himself.”
“Thank you,” Michelle said.
Judah looked between them. “I would like it recorded that I regret nothing.”
Michelle smiled.
Judah stopped smiling.
“Patience,” he said carefully, “my love, my light, my legally recognized emergency contact—”
“No,” Patience said.
Michelle stood.
The room erupted before she even took a step. Judah scrambled off the stool, laughing as he ducked behind Patience.
Josiah nearly dropped his bowl. Daniel cheered. Shiloh protested something about not in the kitchen. Elijah grabbed the dessert out of the danger zone with the reflexes of a man who had priorities. Micah stayed seated, watching Michelle with open fondness and absolutely no intention of helping Judah survive.
That did her in more than anything.
Not the kiss. Not the hand-holding. Not the soft questions or the way he came home to her like she was the only place he wanted to land.
The look.
That ridiculous, tired, adoring look.
Michelle pointed at him as she rounded the island. “You’re next.”
Micah’s smile widened. “Worth it.”
She hated him.
She loved him.
Both could be true.