That alone could keep me standing here all day.
"I'll be back before your shift," I murmur against her mouth. "If I can."
She nods, and when I kiss her cheek, she lets me. The smallest lean of her body gives her away. I hold on to it all the way to the clubhouse.
James is parked at the long table in the kitchen area with a massive mug in one hand, reading glasses perched low on his nose, as he scrolls on his phone.
"Morning, old man," I say, grabbing a mug and filling it with the tar he calls coffee.
He grunts. "Who you calling old, Vice? I can still take your ass."
"Please don't. My back hurts just thinking about it."
He snorts, then looks up properly. The humor doesn't quite hide the way his eyes sharpen on my face.
"You look like shit."
"Love you too."
He jerks his chin toward the empty chair. "Sit. Before Malachi gets you in the war room and you pretend you're a robot for three hours." I drop into the chair and wrap my hands around the mug. Stare into the black for a second too long.
"She walked out last night," I say.
James goes still beside me. "She come home?"
"Yeah." I swallow. "But she might as well have been on the other side of the house. I pushed. She shut down. I backed off. Now we're… here." I wave a hand at the empty air between my chest and the table.
He blows out a long breath. "You know who Donovan is to her?"
My jaw tightens. "I've had Castiel's name since Chicago. Pulled it out of Whitcomb's files myself. Sent the intel to Malachi two years ago. I know what he is. What I don't know is how my wife recognized his name before Rider finished the sentence."
"Think it's time you started figuring it out?"
"I'm trying," I snap, harsher than I mean to. "I'm trying not to scare the woman I married by interrogating her like a suspect. To not break her by demanding something she's not ready to give. And I'm trying not to tear the world apart because I can't stand the idea of some motherfucker out there who made her flinch at a name."
James just watches me, still as stone. Then his expression shifts, something settling behind his eyes, like he's been waiting for the mask to crack. "There he is," he says quietly. "That's the truth."
I scrub a hand over my beard. "You ever feel like one wrong conversation could cost you everything?"
He looks at me, eyes kind. "Yeah, son. I have."
My throat tightens at the son. "Maggie ever walk out?" I ask, half-joking, half not.
"Once. For thirty-four minutes. Went to the grocery store and wouldn't answer my calls." He smiles faintly. "I sat on the floor in our kitchen and thought about what a dumb bastard I'd been."
"What'd you do?"
"Told her the truth. All the ugly parts I thought would make her leave. Then let her decide."
"How'd that work out?"
He holds up his left hand, and wiggles his ring finger. "Thirty years and change. Still like having her naked in my bed. Still want to strangle her at least twice a month. Wouldn't trade her for anything."
A reluctant laugh escapes me.
He nudges my shoulder. "You and Sloane are going to keep choosing each other."
"You don't know that."
