That lands harder than I want it to. Because I know exactly what scared looks like on men who think anger is the only acceptable way to show it. Jon wears it the same way.
We sit at the kitchen table like we used to after school. She makes tea. Real tea. With honey. The kettle whistles. Spoons clink. It should feel ordinary. Instead it feels ceremonial, like she’s trying to welcome me back into a life I can’t fully step into anymore.
My hands shake when I wrap them around the mug. The heat stings a little, and I let it.
She watches me like I’m fascinating. Not broken. Not ruined. Just… new. Like I’ve come back from somewhere impossible and she can’t decide whether to cry or ask for details.
“So,” she starts carefully. “You fight bad guys?”
I blink. “What?”
She grins, eyes shining. “I mean. Obviously. But… really? Like… undercover and stuff?”
“…Yes.”
Her hand flies to her mouth. “That is so cool.”
I laugh weakly. “Mom, I almost died.”
“I know.” She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “But still. Wow.”
I stare at her. “That’s your first reaction?”
“Well, no,” she says honestly. “My first reaction wasmy baby has a gun and apparently a body count.But my second reaction was definitely wow.”
A startled laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. It hurts my ribs, but not enough to matter.
And then she starts firing questions.
What countries?
How long?
Do you jump out of planes?
Have you ever worn disguises?
Do you really speak Russian?
Did you ever have to use poison?
Is King actually as scary as he looks?
Does Jon always look that grumpy or is that just his face?
It’s like talking to a kid who just found out superheroes are real.
And for a while… it helps.
For a little while, I’m not dissecting the fight or Mikhail or what my father has been saying to Jon since the moment he stepped in the living room a few hours ago. I’m just answering my mother’s increasingly horrified and delighted questions while she stares at me like I’ve stepped out of one of the spy thrillers she secretly loves and pretends are “too unrealistic.”
Then she tilts her head.
“And Jon,” she says gently.
My stomach drops.
“He’s… important to you,” she continues. “Isn’t he?”
