“Why do you care so much?” he asked. “And don't give me the 'that's what pack does' line again. I'm not pack. I'm human. I'm the guy whose wife died because she got caught in the crossfire of your supernatural war. By all rights, you should want nothing to do with me.”
“By all rights, you should hate us,” I countered. “Hate me. For what happened to Anna, for dragging your family into aworld you never asked to be part of. But you're still here. Still in Hollow Pines. Still rebuilding this house instead of running as far and fast as you could.”
“This is my home.”
“And maybe that's why I care.” I took another step closer, close enough now that I could see the individual flecks of gold in his brown eyes. “Because you stayed. Because you fought. That's not nothing, Michael. That's everything.”
“I couldn't save her.”
“No. But you tried. And when it was over, you didn't break. You held your son while he fell apart, you made arrangements, you buried your wife and then you got up the next morning and you kept going.” I held his gaze. “That's strength, Michael. The kind most people never have to find out if they have. You found it. You're still finding it.”
Michael's eyes went bright. Not tears, not quite, but close.
“I don't feel strong,” he said. “I feel like I'm holding myself together with duct tape and spite.”
“That's what strength is. Holding on when everything in you wants to let go.”
The air between us felt thick. Heavy with things neither of us was saying.
I should step back. Should give him space, give us both breathing room. This was too close, too much, too dangerous.
Instead, I heard myself say: “When did you last eat?”
Michael blinked at the subject change. “What?”
“Food. When did you last put something in your body that wasn't beer or coffee?”
“I had toast.”
“When?”
“...Yesterday?”
“Yesterday.”
“It might have been the day before.”
“Michael.”
“I know, I know.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I keep meaning to go to the store, but then I look at the lists Anna used to make and I can't... I don't...”
“Okay.” I pulled out my phone. “What kind of soup do you like?”
“What?”
“Soup. Martha's has tomato, chicken noodle, loaded potato, and whatever the special is. What kind?”
“You don't have to...”
“What kind, Michael.”
He stared at me for a moment. Then something in his shoulders loosened, and he looked almost amused.
“You're really going to stand there and order me food.”
“I'm going to stand here and make sure you eat something before you collapse. The method is negotiable.”
“Tomato,” Michael said finally. “I like tomato soup.”
