Then his arm came around me.
Hard.
Protective.
Home.
“Merry Christmas, Dad,” I whispered.
His hand tightened against my shoulder.
“Merry Christmas, baby girl.”
When we went back inside, Regan noticed my face immediately and burst into tears.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“No, you’re not,” she said, wiping under her eyes. “You look healed. It’s upsetting.”
Skye handed her a napkin. “That’s beautiful.”
“It’s rude,” Regan said. “These children keep growing.”
“I’m twenty-four,” I said.
“Rude,” Regan repeated.
Lily appeared beside me, eyes narrowed. “Did Edge make you cry?”
“Yes.”
“Emotionally or threateningly?”
“Emotionally.”
She considered that. “Acceptable.”
Then Cupcake shot out from under Cal’s chair wearing the Christmas sweater Nate had apparently succeeded in applying, streaked across the room like a furry missile, and knocked over a basket of ribbon.
Lily gasped. “My baby.”
Nate pointed. “Festive terrorist.”
Cal stared at the chaos on his floor. “That cat is never coming back.”
Cupcake attacked the ribbon.
Lily crouched. “She’s expressing holiday joy.”
“She’s expressing felony,” Nate said.
For a while, the whole house dissolved into laughter, threats, and Cupcake-related negotiations. It was ridiculous. Loud. Warm. Mine.
Later, after dinner, after presents, after Nate gave a toast that started inappropriate and somehow ended with everyone misty-eyed over survival, love, and “not letting bullets or emotional constipation win,” Dylan took my hand and led me outside.
No one stopped us.
That should have warned me.
