I pull on a pair of sweatpants and follow the smell downstairs to the kitchen.
And stop dead in the doorway.
Josie is standing at the stove in one of my t-shirts, her hair piled in a messy bun, singing along to a song playing softly from her phone. She’s swaying slightly as she flips pancakes, completely absorbed in the moment, clearly unaware that she has an audience.
She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“You’re staring.”
I jolt. She hasn’t turned around.
“How did you know?”
“I can feel you.” She glances over her shoulder with a smile. “Also, you’re not exactly subtle. I could hear you breathing from across the room.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I like it.” She gestures to the table with her spatula. “Sit. Coffee’s ready.”
I pour myself a cup and settle into a chair, watching her move around the kitchen with easy confidence. She’s clearly done this before—there’s a rhythm to it, a practiced efficiency that speaks to years of early mornings and solo breakfasts.
“I didn’t know you could cook,” I say.
“I’m a woman of many talents.” She slides a plate in front of me—pancakes, bacon, eggs over easy. “My grandmother taught me. She believed everyone should know how to feed themselves and the people they love.”
“Smart woman.”
“The smartest.” Josie settles into the chair across from me with her own plate. “She raised me, mostly. My parents were... not great at the whole parenting thing.”
“You don’t talk about them much.”
“Not much to talk about.” She shrugs, but I can see the old hurt beneath the casual gesture. “They had me because it was expected, but it wasn’t what they wanted. Some people just aren’t meant to have kids. By the time I was twelve, I was basically living with my grandmother full-time.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Grandma was the best thing that ever happened to me.” Her expression softens. “She’s the one who encouraged me to go to law school. Told me I had a mouth made for arguing and I might as well get paid for it.”
I laugh. “She sounds like a firecracker.”
“She was. Died my second year of law school.” Josie’s smile turns sad. “Stroke. Quick, at least. She would have hated a long, drawn-out decline.”
“Is that why you became a prosecutor? To make her proud?”
“Partly.” She takes a bite of pancake, chewing thoughtfully. “But also because I believe in justice. Or I used to, anyway. Before Atlanta.”
“And now?”
“Now I believe in a different kind of justice.” Her eyes meet mine. “The kind that protects people who can’t protect themselves. The kind that takes down the bad guys when the system fails.”
“That’s why you work with us.”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “The club does what the courts can’t. Or won’t.” She reaches across the table, taking my hand. “I know it’s not always pretty. I know there are things you do that would make a judge blanch. But I’ve seen enough of the system to know that sometimes, pretty doesn’t get the job done.”
“And you’re okay with that? Really?”
“I’m okay with you.” She squeezes my hand. “All of you. The president, the protector, the man who wanted to be a history teacher.” A small smile. “Even the part that snores.”
“I do not snore.”
