Maya's thigh under my head, warm through denim, while I lay resting on the sofa. Her sketchpad balanced on her knee, pencil moving in quick, precise strokes, and the sound of graphite on paper is the only thing in the room competing with the fire.
The fingers of her other hand are in my hair. Absent, rhythmic, tracing the line behind my ear and down my neck while she draws.
The fire pops. Owen is in the armchair to my left, book open, reading with that particular stillness he has. Every few minutes his eyes lift from the page. To her.
He's been doing that all week. Since whatever happened between them. The boundary he maintained for weeks has been replaced by something quieter and more certain.
If someone had told me six months ago that this would be my life, I'd have checked them for a concussion.
But here it is.
It's not smooth. I won't pretend it is.
Tuesday, Jace came up behind her while she was cooking and put his mouth on her neck and she tipped her head back into him and laughed, and I watched from the doorway and something in my gut tightened. Not anger. Not even jealousy, exactly. Just the awareness that the version of Maya who laughs like that with Jace is a version of her I haven't unlocked yet.
I'm not built for sharing. Years of holding the line alone. Every decision running through me. The Marines trained it. Guardianship confirmed it. And now I'm learning to stand beside two men who care about the same woman I care about, and some days it works and some days I catch myself noticing threats that aren't threats at all, just Jace's hand on her hip or Owen's voice going soft in the other room.
Good-hearted jealousy. That's what Jace called it.
The front door opens. Cold air. Boot steps.
Jace comes in pulling his jacket off, cheeks red from the cold. Late March, and the valley is starting to thaw. The days are longer. The snow line has retreated up the ridge. The air today had that particular edge to it, still cold but with something underneath, something alive and turning.
"It's Friday," Jace announces. "And we are sitting in this cabin like monks and I'm calling it. We're going out."
Owen closes his book. His index finger marks the page. He looks at Jace with the expression he uses when he's evaluating whether something deserves engagement. Apparently it does, because he doesn't open the book again.
I lift my head from Maya's lap. Look at her. "What do you think, sweetheart? Want to go out?"
She hesitates. I see it, the quick calculation behind her eyes, the risk assessment she runs on every interaction with the outside world. Then something settles and she nods.
"Yeah," she says. "I think I'd like that."
"The Rusty Nail," I say. "There’s a karaoke night. It’s supposed to be a fundraiser of some sorts.”
"Karaoke." Jace grins. "Reid, are you going to sing?"
"No."
"You should sing."
"I should not."
"Owen, tell him he should sing."
"He should not sing," Owen says, without looking up.
Maya laughs and it fills the room.
"Go get ready," I say to all of them.
She slides out from under me, taking the warmth of her lap with her, and disappears down the hall. Jace drops into the spot she vacated, and I give him a look that moves him to the other end of the sofa.
The three of us. The living room. The fire settling into coals.
I don't build up to it. That's not how I work. I just state it plainly.
"How are we doing with this?" I say.
