Dan raised his iced coffee. “You’re welcome.”
I exhaled slowly. “Nothing happened.”
Dan groaned. “Youleftwith her.”
“We walked to the marina. I took her aboard Artemis. We talked. Watched the sun come up.” I shrugged like it was no big deal.
Beth’s fork froze halfway to her mouth.
Chris leaned back. “Damn. He’s whipped already.”
“I don’t kiss and tell,” I added. “And it wasn’t like that.”
Dan squinted. “So it was worse. She got hooks into you.”
“Can you blame me? You saw her.”
Beth studied me — not prying, not teasing.
Just curious.
“Did it feel different?” she asked.
The table went quiet.
I took a second.
“Yeah,” I said finally. “It did.”
Chris nodded like he’d expected that answer.
Dan grinned. “I knew it.”
Beth’s smile softened. “I’m glad.”
The conversation drifted then — work gossip, weekend plans, Dan’s dating disasters — but I could feel it under everything.
They weren’t just curious.
They were protective.
Because that’s what we were now.
Not just coworkers.
Family you choose in adulthood — forged in deadlines and late nights and shared beers when the week tried to eat you alive.
I’d built this team on purpose.
Beth — sharp, observant, always thinking three steps ahead.
Dan — loud, loyal, impossible to miss.
Chris — steady, thoughtful, the glue.
I looked out for them.
They looked out for me.
