As Pierce stepped back, his eyes caught something on the stove that hadn’t been there earlier.
A huge stainless-steel pot.
It gleamed under the overhead lights like a beacon of normalcy in a night that had none. Next to it sat bags of grocerieson the counter—bread, a package of cheese slices, butter, and a couple of cans of tomato soup.
Pierce pinched his eyebrows and glanced at Ray like maybe he had missed something.
Ray’s brows lifted in hisnot-meexpression.
Pierce looked back at Bea, puzzled. “Uh… when did that show up?”
Bea’s mouth curved, the first real hint of a smile since they had arrived. “About ten minutes ago,” she said lightly. “I wasn’t sure if anyone had eaten. And I figured…” She gestured toward the pot. “Tomato soup and grilled cheese. Something simple. Something warm. Comfort food.”
For a second, Pierce didn’t know what to say.
It was such a small thing. A pot of soup and grilled cheese.
And yet it hit him hard, because it was Bea’s way of taking control of the only thing she could in a situation where she couldn’t control anything else.
Jessica immediately stepped in, eyes soft. “Bea, that’s perfect,” she said. “Thank you.”
Ray grinned. “Yeah. I was about to eat cereal out of a mixing bowl.”
Bea let out a shaky laugh. “Well, we can’t have that.”
Jessica moved toward the counter. “Come on,” she said to Bea, rolling up her sleeves. “I’ll help with the grilled cheese.”
Bea hesitated, then nodded, grateful for something to do. The two women stepped deeper into the kitchen, the sound of a butter wrapper crinkling and a pan clinking onto the stove adding a normal rhythm to the room.
Glen, however, didn’t move toward the food.
He walked over and sat at the table with Pierce and the guys, his posture rigid, hands folded in front of him. His face was blank, controlled, but his eyes kept darting toward the hallway every few seconds.
Pierce recognized it instantly. That same vigilance.
That helplessness when someone you love is hurt, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
Glen cleared his throat quietly. “How is she… really?” he asked, voice low enough that Bea couldn’t hear over the cooking sounds. “Not what you tell people who don’t want the truth. I mean really.”
Pierce’s jaw tightened. He stared at the table for a second, choosing his words carefully.
“She’s in shock,” he admitted. “She’s trying to hold it together. She’s quiet. Like her mind keeps replaying it.”
Glen’s eyes closed briefly. When he opened them again, they were glassy but controlled. “That girl can’t take much more,” he said, voice rough. “It’s not fair. Everything she’s already endured—her dad, her brother…” He swallowed hard, as if the words scraped his throat on the way out. “She tried to carry all of it on her own. She always does.”
Pierce nodded, understanding Glen’s words very well.
He leaned forward slightly, forearms braced on his knees. “I meant what I said earlier. She doesn’t have to carry shit alone anymore.”
Glen looked at him, the blankness in his expression cracking just enough to reveal the worry underneath.
Pierce continued, “She’s got you and Bea. She’s got Alyvia. She’s got Jessica. And she’s got us.” He nodded toward the guys around the table. “Every person sitting in this kitchen has her back. And I’m not going anywhere.”
A long moment passed.
Then Glen’s mouth shifted, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner. It wasn’t happiness. It was a mix of gratitude and respect.
“She picked a good one,” Glen said quietly, almost grudgingly.
