Chapter 186: Jake
We fell asleep fast after the last whispered words—nothing on but boxers, but she was a furnace between us, her heat stitched to mine, to Reid’s. There isn’t a word for last night that doesn’t feel small. Beautiful. Bold. She took the breath out of me with every look, every sound, every deliberate touch like she knew exactly where to put me.
Gray light has shouldered in past the blackout curtains by the time I blink awake. She’s still draped half over me, cheek against my chest, one knee slid high over my thigh; our hands threaded where she left them. It’s work not to wake her and start the world burning again.
I don’t. I ease my hand free, tuck the blanket higher over her shoulder, and slide out from under her slow enough not to shift the mattress. She sighs, turns her face into the pillow like she’s chasing warmth and—God help me—smiles in her sleep.
The bathroom door clicks soft behind me. Reid’s already there at the sink, toothbrush in his mouth, hair a mess, jaw dark with a morning shadow. He glances up in the mirror; the only thing he gives me is a low, murderous groan and a look that says: do not remind me of last night unless you want me to lose every shred of control I have left.
I laugh under my breath and reach for my own brush.
We eventually leave the sink and head for the stairs. Voices float up from the hall—Charlie and Sloane. I put a hand to Reid’s arm and he stops dead, breath held.
“…I understand that,” Charlie’s saying, calm but tight, “and I know it can be frustrating, but you need to stop taking it out on her.”
Sloane scoffs. “Why does everyone protect her so much?”
“It’s not even about that,” Charlie says. “It’s about you not participating. You don’t feel like part of this team because you let your anger run the show.”
A beat. Then Sloane: “You’d be angry too if you knew who Madeline really is.”
Reid goes wire-still under my palm. The same words she gave him on the boat flick across his face like a flare. I squeeze once—warning, anchor.
“What do you mean?” Charlie asks, voice flattening—her corporate voice.
“I did some digging,” Sloane says. “During my days off, back in the city. Your girl isn’t an angel. She’s got a fucked-up past.”
Silence. Charlie’s next sentence lands like a door shutting softly. “Not one bit of what happened was Madeline’s fault.”
“How the fuck can you think that?” Sloane’s voice spikes. “It’s all her fault.”
“We’re not doing this,” Charlie says, colder now. “Bottom line is, you need to be a better part of this team. I'm telling you now, before the twins lose it and say it in a less respectful way.”
Another scoff. A chair leg scrapes.
I take my hand off Reid and nod toward the stairs. Neutral faces. We come down like we just woke.
“Morning,” I say, easy.
“Morning,” Reid echoes, smooth as steel.
Charlie looks composed the way cliffs are composed. Sloane’s jaw is a hard line, one earbud dangling. The living room’s a mess of blankets; the candles are nothing but wax craters.
“Finn and Liam?” I ask, scanning the room out of habit.
“Up at dawn,” Sloane says. “Fidgeting like little boys. Went to help in town.” She lifts her chin at the window. “Storm cleanup.”
“Good,” Reid says, like it’s a weather report.
“Coffee?” Charlie asks, already moving toward the propane stove.
“Please,” I answer, and feel Reid’s shoulder brush mine—a quiet vow buried in the casual. We’ll get the story later. We’ll keep her out of the blast radius now.
Sloane breaks the quiet first after a few minutes. “I’ll head to the Vigil. Start prep for inspection.” She’s already halfway into her jacket. “If the harbor’s a mess and we can’t do it today, I’ll text.”
Reid nods once. “Thanks.”
She’s gone in a gust of cold air and wet rope smell.
Charlie doesn’t look at us right away. She pours coffee off the propane flame like she’s measuring patience, then finally lifts her eyes. She knows we heard. Of course she does.
“Don’t,” she says, calm as a blade. “Don’t even ask.”
We breathe out together. I tip my chin. “If we ask her directly… will she tell us?”
Charlie thinks. The corporate steel softens at the edges. “Maybe.” A beat. “There are things that are hard to say out loud. Saying them makes them too real.” She sets a mug down. “I don’t think Madeline’s avoidant approach is healthy. But it keeps her breathing and feeling safe. She hasn’t opened up about it to anyone until—recently. Don’t push. Don’t make her relive it.”
Reid’s jaw works. “Is she in danger?” He asked two days ago. He needs it again.
“No,” Charlie says, steady. “Not in Northhaven.”
We both nod. The answer lands like a line we can hold. Reid glances toward the window, at the gulls riding the gray chop. “We’ll sweep town once. Check on folks. Then meet Sloane at the docks.”
“You good here?” I ask.
Charlie lifts a shoulder. “I’ve got this place. And I’ll have soup when you’re back.”
“Deal.”
We gear up—cold shirts, field jackets, boots with damp laces. Reid shoulders the door; I pull it shut behind us. The day hits—salt, wet wood, the aftertaste of storm—and we head down the steps like we’ve got a town to sew back together before we circle back to the only thing that actually matters.