"There's salt."
"Gabriel, that salt expired in 2021."
The corner of his mouth twitches. The almost-smile I first saw over cranberry sauce at the food pantry. I want to make himactually smile. Full, real, unguarded. I want it more than I want edible eggs.
I eat the terrible eggs. He eats standing.
"Sit down," I say.
He looks at me. I look at him. Something passes between us, not a battle exactly, but a negotiation. He sits. Across from me. At the table. Like a person eating breakfast with another person.
The simplicity of it is almost unbearable. Not because it's uncomfortable, because it's easy.
Julian's mornings were choreographed. The right coffee, the right breakfast, the performance of a perfect marriage that was hollow at its center. This kitchen has nothing in it and somehow feels fuller than anywhere I've been in years.
A knock at the door. Not even eight in the morning.
Gabriel rises to answer, and my hand goes instinctively to where the ring hangs under my shirt. Too early for social calls. My body knows the rhythm of threat, the wrong time, the professional knock. But Gabriel is calm as he crosses to the door, and I trust his threat assessment more than my own panic.
I hear voices. Male, professional, the tone of a service interaction. Then movement. Heavy movement. Something being carried.
I go to the hallway. Two delivery men are maneuvering a mattress through the front door. Not just any mattress. It’s a fucking Hästens. Julian would be salivating right now.
Behind the mattress: a bed frame. Simple, dark wood, quality without ostentation. The kind chosen by someone with money who doesn't need you to know about it.
Gabriel directs them to the bedroom with calm authority. No fuss, no explanation. Signs something. They leave.
"You had a bed delivered. Overnight."
"The old one was inadequate." Said like it's obvious. Like replacing furniture between midnight and dawn is something priests do.
"Gabriel. That's an expensive mattress."
He doesn't deny it. Doesn't explain. Just looks at me with an expression that says: you mentioned the bed was bad, so I fixed it.
Something shifts in my reading of him. I've known he's a Delgado, known his family has money. But watching him deploy it, casually, efficiently, without hesitation, is different. One phone call between our conversation and dawn. An overnight delivery that would've cost extra. No deliberation, no performance. The reflex of someone for whom money is a tool, not a consideration. The ease with which he accesses things ordinary people can't. This isn't just wealth, it's connections, infrastructure, the kind of power that operates outside normal channels.
Julian spent money to control. Every gift came with invisible strings.
Gabriel bought a bed because I said his was bad. The simplicity of it, the absence of agenda, is what gets me. He didn't buy it to impress me or create an obligation. He bought it because I was sleeping in it and it wasn't good enough.
I don't know what to do with a man who fixes things without wanting credit.
Later that morning, he hands me a small box across the kitchen table. Inside: a watch. Elegant on the surface, brushed gold, slim face. Underneath: military-grade GPS, panic button activated by pressing the crown three times, impact detection that alerts a preset contact if I fall or am hit.
I know what this costs. Not just the price, the access. These aren't available in stores. Julian's security sourced them through private channels. The fact that Gabriel had one delivered to arectory in Homestead overnight means he called someone with connections that have nothing to do with the Catholic Church. Someone who answers when a Delgado calls, even a Delgado who's supposedly left that world behind.
"This is…"
"Non-negotiable." His voice is quiet but inflexible. The same tone from the parking lot. Not aggressive. Not controlling. Just certain. The voice of a man who's decided something about my safety and isn't offering discussion.
The word should trigger every alarm Julian installed in my nervous system. I should bristle at a man making decisions without asking. But I look at his face and see what's underneath the certainty: fear. He's afraid for me. The watch isn't a chain. It's a tether. And the difference between those two things is everything.
I put it on. It fits perfectly.
"Thank you," I say. “This will make me feel more comfortable back at the cottage.”
Gabriel looks at me. The look lasts too long, and when he speaks, his voice has that quality. Not the priest. The other man.
