15
The Primes
THORNE
In the small kitchen,Mom slices oranges for Lily's breakfast.
Not slowly. Not tired.
Efficiently.
The knife moves in steady strokes across the cutting board, the orange peel curling away in neat spirals. The kitchen behind her looks less like a temporary safe house and more like a command center she's claimed by force of personality. A pot simmers on the stove, filling the air with the scent of rosemary and garlic: a sharp contrast to the sterile smell of the tech in the other room. A handwritten list is taped to the fridge, KP rotation in Mom's unmistakable, no-nonsense handwriting.
Ghost, Halo, Brass, and the rest of the team have already been lectured about it. Fuse tried to sneak out of the kitchen earlier, only for Mom to hook him by the elbow and point him toward a stray coffee mug.
Fuse washed dishes last night, with Mom standing over him, arms crossed and a finger waggling under his nose until the counter met her standards.
"Cerberus may run the world, but in this kitchen, you run the sponge. And you run it until that granite shines."
Now she wipes her hands on a towel and glances over her shoulder, her eyes sharp and assessing.
"Colt, honey." My mother slides the plate of oranges onto the counter, gesturing toward the rug. "Lily hasn't eaten her fruit yet. She's too busy with her blocks."
Her tone is light, but her eyes flick briefly toward Stratton as I guide her through the room. Mom sees everything. She sees the way my jaw is set too tight, the way I'm holding Stratton's arm like she's a lifeline and a curse wrapped into one.
I look over at Lily.
She's sitting cross-legged on the rug, surrounded by magnetic tiles in bright colors. A crooked tower leans beside her, a testament to a six-year-old's architectural ambition. A stuffed purple stegosaurus sits at the base like a sentry. She's clutching him, her tongue poked out in concentration.
She rang the bell in the oncology ward.
The fact that she's here at all feels like a miracle. My grip on Stratton's arm tightens before I realize I'm doing it. My thumb presses into the soft skin above her elbow, and for a split second, I want to feel her bone snap, just to see if it matches the sound of my heart breaking over the last year.
Pop notices.
He's sitting in the armchair, a stack of magazines under one hand. He isn't reading them. His eyes follow us as we cross the room, landing on my hand where it holds Stratton in place.
There's a flicker there.
Disappointment. It burns worse than Ghost's suspicion, worse than the raw friction still stinging between my legs. I stop beside the couch and hand Stratton off to Brass. My skin feels cold the moment I let go.
"Watch her."
Brass nods once, his expression unreadable.
I move across the room toward the rug. Lily looks up immediately, her face lighting up with a brilliance that makes my chest ache.
"Daddy."
I crouch down beside her, the dark weight in my gut easing just a fraction. The tiles scatter as she launches forward, and I catch her around the middle, lifting her onto my knee.
"What've we got here?" I trace the base of the half-built tower, matching her focus.
"Castle." Lily taps a blue tile, her brows furrowed in absolute seriousness.
Her purple dinosaur thumps against my chest, its tail poking into my tactical vest.
"And these two?" I gesture to the prehistoric guards.
