The small kitchen felt even smaller with him in it, but not uncomfortably so. Luz sat at the table, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee, while Chantal distributed mismatched plates with the precision of a drill sergeant.
"Sit," Luz commanded, pointing to an empty chair. "You're too tall. You're making my kitchen nervous."
He sat, watching the easy choreography of their morning routine. Izzy flipped pancakes while Chantal narrated each step of proper table setting. Luz corrected her granddaughter's placement of forks with gentle touches. The warmth of it, the normalcy, made something in his chest tighten unexpectedly.
When had he stopped wanting this? A family, noise in the morning, someone to worry about besides himself? Or had he ever started wanting it in the first place? His apartment waited for him across town—pristine, silent, everything in its place. No small hands rearranging his fork. No one making pancakes because they were worried.
"What are you thinking about?"
Izzy's question cut through his reverie. She was looking at him with those dark eyes that probably saw too much.
He scrambled for something to say. "Security protocols for the?—"
"Pancakes are up." She spun back to the stove, but not before he caught her knowing look. She'd seen him staring at their family like a kid outside a candy store window.
Professional distance. Right. That ship had already sailed.
"Chief Cory, you need sprinkles." Chantal pushed a container across the table with the seriousness of someone handling nuclear materials. "The special ones."
He examined the container. Multicolored star shapes mixed with what appeared to be edible glitter. "Special?"
"For the unicorns," she explained patiently, like he was a bit slow. "They won't see your pancakes if they're not sparkly."
"Ah. Of course." He shook a few onto his pancakes.
"No, you need MORE." Her small hand covered his, guiding the shake of the container. "Like this."
The trust in that gesture—her complete faith that he'd get it right with proper instruction—hit him hard. When was the last time anyone had trusted him with something precious to them? Not their safety, their procedures, their investigations. Something that mattered just because it mattered.
He caught Izzy hiding a smile behind her coffee mug, and their eyes met over Chantal's head. The same thought passed between them—bombs and breakfast, death threats and unicorn sprinkles. The surreal contrast of it all.
She mouthed "I know."
"Comes with the territory, though, right?" she said aloud, casual as discussing the weather.
He nodded, but the ease of her compartmentalization impressed him. She'd done this before—lived normal life with danger breathing down her neck. His two tours in Iraq seemedalmost quaint compared to whatever "top secret ops" had taught her to flip pancakes while someone hunted her.
The morning moved too quickly after that. Izzy helped her mother pack with efficient movements, explaining to Chantal about a "special adventure" with carefully vague promises about fun activities.
"Are there ponies?" Chantal wanted to know.
"Maybe. There'll be lots of fun things to do with Abuela."
"And swimming?"
"We'll see, mija."
Then Chantal stopped dead, her face crumpling. "What about the pageant? My angel wings."
The stricken look that flashed across Izzy's face made Cory want to punch something. Preferably whoever had put that fear there.
"You'll be back in time, mija." The words came out fierce, more prayer than promise. "I promise."
Izzy's phone buzzed. She glanced at it, and her shoulders shifted into something more military. "He's here."
Cory moved to the window, peering through the blinds. A vehicle sat outside that looked like a Humvee had mated with a tank and their offspring had taken steroids.
"Nice ride," he said. "Does it come with a tinfoil hat?"
