“No, son, I don’t.” He narrows his eyes. “It took me six years to get Clover to agree to self-defense lessons with me. I’m not about to muck up that trust with the flavor of the month.”
“Flavor of the—” Seriously, who is this man?
Rip, who’s sitting in the chair next to him, lifts his gaze to mine, perfectly showcasing a smirk that irritates me. This fucking RV is too small for all of us.
“He’s watching the monitors,” I grind out, pointing at Rip. “It’s literally his job.”
Rip slouches in the copilot seat with an energy drink and a bag of chips before tossing me a thumbs-up. The kid’s twenty-three and treats overnight shifts like they’re Netflix binges.
“He’s good,” Chief admits, although begrudgingly. “But I’m better.”
Rip snorts, then chokes on his chips, but says nothing.
“You’re also supposed to be home. Sleeping. Like a normal person,” I say.
“Sleep’s overrated.” Chief finally glances in my direction. There’s a sadness in his expression that instantly makes me feel like a prick for trying to kick him out. “Besides, I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since Abbie passed away five years ago. Clover’s been like a daughter to me. Bein’ here…” He lowers his gaze. “Itgives me a way to protect her even when my body’s fighting me to act my age.”
Ah. There it is.
Chief’s lonely.
His house is empty, and I know how that kind of emptiness can fester. He’d rather sit in a cramped RV, watching security feeds where he at least feels useful, than go home to the silence.
I can relate, but as I take in his form, hunched over in that chair, I already know I’ll be replacing the gaming chair with a recliner, so when he eventually nods off, at least he won’t wake up with a crick in his neck.
“You want coffee?” I offer because I’m out of my element here.
“Already had three cups. Any more and I’ll be up till dawn.”
I huff. “Pretty sure that’s the plan anyway.”
He grins. “You know me too well, son.”
I don’t point out that I’ve only known him for a few weeks. Somehow, Chief has the ability to make you feel like family in the span of a single conversation.
“I’m going to bed,” I announce, climbing into the Murphy bed that Roman insisted was “premium comfort.” It’s like sleeping on a slightly padded board. “Try not to wake me up unless the house is on fire.”
“What about intruders?” Chief teases.
“Rip will handle it.”
“And if we see suspicious vehicles?”
“Rip.”
“What about?—”
“Chief.” I pull the blanket up to my chest and close my eyes. “Unless Clover is in immediate danger, let me sleep.”
“Fine. Fine.”
Cracking one eye, I find him waving a dismissive hand in my direction.
“Kids these days. No appreciation for proper vigilance.”
I’m thirty years old, but I don’t bother correcting him. I don’t remember what childhood felt like, but if this is it? It’s not so bad.
The RV settles into a comfortable quiet—the hum of electronics, Rip’s occasional crunching, the distant sound of Chief’s chair creaking as he shifts. It’s oddly peaceful. Like having roommates who don’t respect your space but probably won’t suffocate you in your sleep.
