“I have,” John nodded, reaching for the bacon. The plate in the center of the table was heavy with it—crisp strips piledbeside chopped potatoes and onions, still sizzling faintly, the grease popping once as his fingers closed around a piece.
“Eggs are just the way you like them,” Melody said as she set the plates down—scrambled in front of Titus and Viper, over easy for John, yolks trembling slightly as the dish met the wood.
“Thanks, Mel,” Titus said. She’d been with John and Shelly for years—long enough to feel permanent.
She glanced once toward the door, a quick, almost nervous check, then hurried out, her steps soft against the floor.
John smiled after her. “I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
Titus thought the same. John was aging—seventies, maybe mid or late. Older than his parents by a few years. The house carried it, too, the quiet weight of time settling into the walls.
“I’m sorry about Tatum and Tanis,” John said.
“They were bad seeds,” Titus replied simply.
John hesitated—barely there, just a hitch—before he nodded. Titus caught it anyway.
Reaching for another strip of bacon, John looked at him with something like sadness. “Sometimes people are born good, but turn bad.”
“Yeah?” Titus said flatly. “I think we make our own choices.”
“I agree,” John said. “They chose that path. I just remember them as little boys—not bad men.”
Titus nodded, throat tightening as he swallowed. Beneath the table, Viper’s hand closed around his, a steady squeeze—warm, grounding.
It was hard to reconcile the man he’d grown up calling Uncle with the shape of what was unfolding now. But if John was one of the bad seeds, Titus couldn’t afford doubt.
“I remember teaching you how to drive,” John chuckled.
“I was twelve,” Titus snorted, laughter slipping out as he finally took a bite of his eggs—the fork scraping softly against the plate.
“Twelve?” Viper’s mouth dropped.
“It was unauthorized training,” Titus said, laughing at the look on his face.
“Your mom just about killed me when she found out,” John agreed.
“The only thing that saved you was the car,” Titus said.
“What about the car?” Viper squinted, curiosity creasing his brow.
“It was at the bottom of the lake.”
“What?”
Titus smiled, the memory warming briefly. “I took the corner at the old junction too fast and skidded out.”
“I’m sure some of this gray is from you,” John said, pointing at his hair.
“Oh, come on, Dad,” a voice cut in from the doorway. “From what I hear, you’ve been gray since you were young.”
A man Titus didn’t know stepped into the room. Not young, not old—maybe in his fifties. Thinning hair combed straight back, hawkish features, a sharply cut face. Tall, bordering on thin.
John stiffened. It wasn’t subtle.
The man stopped behind John’s chair and set a hand on his shoulder. Not gently—Titus clocked the indentation of fingers through the sweater John wore.
“Miles,” John said, voice dulling. “I didn’t know you were home.”
