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“No,” I whisper. The denial is immediate. “They don’t even know me.”

Mrs. Murphy’s smile softens. “Oh, sweetheart.” Her voice cracks just enough to make my chest ache. “They know everything they need to.” The room blurs as my tears continue to spill over.

I feel the sofa move and then the feel of Conor’s hand rubbing circles on my back. I shake my head again.

“You are part of this family now, as crazy as it is.” Mrs. Murphy smiles. “That is something you’re going to have to get used to, because it’s true.”

The words settle somewhere deep inside me. Somewhere I’ve spent a lifetime trying to convince myself that it didn’t exist. Before I can find a response, she turns toward Conor.

“Now,” she says with an exaggerated sigh, “I’m going to explain some truths about my bullheaded oldest child.”

The endearment is accompanied by a roll of her eyes. But it does nothing to hide the affection behind it. If anything, it makes it more obvious. I glance at Conor. He’s already looking at me. He hasn’t looked away since this conversation started.

His large, warm hand is still rubbing the center of my back. The same place it settles when a nightmare drags me awake. The same quiet reassurance that tells me I’m not alone. I don’t pull away. I should. Every instinct born from years of surviving on my own tells me that depending on someone else is dangerous. That comfort can be taken away. That people leave. Instead, I find myself leaning into the touch almost imperceptibly. My body is making a choice my mind hasn’t caught up to yet. The realization is both terrifying and strangely comforting.

“The men of the Murphy clan are,” she says, smiling over at Conor, “different.”

Conor lets out a quiet sigh. One I’ve come to recognize as the sound of someone who knows exactly where this conversation is headed.

“They’re possessive. Obsessive. And fiercely protective of anything or anyone they decide belongs to them.” She holds up a finger before I can misunderstand. “Not ownership.” Her gaze softens.

“That’s not what I mean.” She leans back slightly. “Think of it more like imprinting.” The word hangs in the air. “When they care for someone, they weave that person into every part of their lives. They stop thinking in terms of me and start thinking in terms of you.”

I glance toward Conor. His hand is still resting against my back. Mrs. Murphy notices. She always notices.

“So when you threw yourself in front of those bullets…” She looks directly at me. “You weren’t just risking your own life. You were asking him to imagine a future without you in it.”

The room falls silent. I feel Conor’s hand tense against my back.

“And to a Murphy man,” she says quietly, “that’s a thought almost impossible to survive.”

The words settle heavily in my chest. Because for the first time since leaving the warehouse, I begin to understand why he was so angry. But that does not stop the denial still sitting inside of me.

“Your entire life has been filled with pain, rejection, and violence,” she continues softly. “No child should grow up believing those things are normal.”

Her words aren’t filled with pity. Only certainty.

“To Conor, those are problems he can fix. He’ll remove the danger. He’ll pay the debt. He’ll build walls high enough that nothing can reach you.” She smiles sadly.

“But when it comes to emotions…” Her eyes drift to her oldest son. “He wasn’t built for speeches. He’ll never instinctively know the perfect thing to say. He loves differently.”

The words settle over the room.

“He shows up. He stays. He puts a hand on your back when you’re hurting. He sits awake through your nightmares. He notices when you stop eating. He remembers the little things that make your day easier.” Her gaze returns to me. “Those are his love languages.”

Without thinking, I become aware of the hand still resting against the middle of my back. The same hand that steadies me after nightmares. The same hand that guides me through crowded rooms. The same hand that found mine in the back of the SUV. I’d noticed all of it. I just never understood what it meant.

I want to tell her she’s wrong. That no one could possibly care that much about me. The words never leave my mouth. Instead, I sit there in silence. Listening. Feeling the quiet weight of Conor’s hand against my back. And wondering if, all this time, he’s been telling me exactly how he feels in the only language he knows.

“I know this isn’t something you’re going to accept after one conversation.” Mrs. Murphy’s voice is quiet. “You’ve had years of people telling you—and showing you—that you don’t matter.”

The words land with uncomfortable accuracy. The years of foster homes, years of being forgotten. Passed over. Left behind. She doesn’t wait for me to answer. She knows there isn’t one.

Slowly, she stands. Leaning down, she presses a gentle kiss to the top of my head. The gesture is so unexpected my breath catches. Something inside me cracks.

“You may not be a Murphy by blood, Jaxon.” Her hand briefly cups the side of my face. “But you’re part of this family now.”

Not if. Not one day. Not when you believe it. Now. The certainty in her voice is terrifying because a part of me wants to believe her. She turns to Conor. Presses the same familiar kiss to the top of his head. Then she walks toward the door, stopping only long enough to look back at us.