Chapter 263: Madeline
The sun does that Northhaven miracle where it goes from gold to molten—sky painted with the kind of pinks and oranges you could eat with a spoon—and for a second I’m back on that little coastal street where I first told Reid I loved him, the horizon exactly this soft and ridiculous. The Vigil drifts to a hush, the anchor drops with a clean, satisfying chain-rush, and then the twins go feral with blankets and pillows like they’re staging a music video up on the bow.
“We’re lucky,” Reid says, tossing a pillow down and crouching to smooth a blanket with his palm. “Usually dinner’s in the break room. Today, we’re spoiling our crew. And welcoming back our biologist.”
Spoiling is an understatement. They brought everything. Diner sandwiches wrapped in deli paper still warm at the edges; a mountain of pastries like the bakery case got raided (glazed twists, sugar-dusted knots, a croissant that might make me cry); poutine in steaming cartons—classic, Italian, and some unholy dill-pickle situation that Finn defends with his whole chest; a jeweled tray of fruit; enough cheese to qualify as a diplomatic mission; salads (a Caesar with grilled chicken clearly earmarked for me, lemony and perfect); and—how—actual burgers that are somehow still hot.
Jake sets a lineup of soft drinks like a tasting flight and points at Finn and Liam without even looking. “Rule stands. No alcohol on the boat.”
“Don’t need it,” Liam says, already reaching for a poutine box. “I’m drunk on those fries.”
I take a burger, bite in, and do the little chair wiggle that happens when something hits every single taste bud in a row. It’s involuntary. It’s embarrassing. Both Andersons look at me like I just read them a love poem.
We spread out on the foredeck—Charlie stretched on her stomach, ankles crossed; Finn and Liam mirroring each other without meaning to; the twins bracketing me like bookends—and the talk meanders exactly the way the boat doesn’t. I bring up the Instagram like it’s a normal sentence to say out loud and not a low-grade panic response that turned into a dare to myself.
“You… made one?” Jake props his chin in his hand, grinning. “Look at you, citizen of the world.”
“New life,” I say, popping a fry in my mouth. “New handle. And now I need the elders to settle a matter of grave importance. The cheese debate these guys have had since... I'm guessing before I even arrived in Northhaven?”
Liam points at his own chest. “Mozzarella supremacy.”
Finn claps once. “Cheddar or we riot.”
I look to the twins for arbitration, and they're still watching me with raised eyebrows at calling them elders. Which is adorable of them.
Jake lifts his soda. “We have tried. We have failed.”
Reid nods, solemn as a judge. “The court recognizes the following arguments have already been shouted across this deck: melt versus pull—”
“Stretch is a lifestyle,” Liam says.
“Flavor density,” Finn counters. “Sharp cheddar is a thesis statement.”
“Versatility,” Jake goes on, counting on his fingers. “Mozzarella on a Margherita versus cheddar in a smash burger versus either in mac and cheese.”
“Historical merit,” Charlie adds, deadpan. “Liam brought up some monk from the twelfth century at one point.”
“Texture,” Reid says. “Stringable versus crumble versus ‘squeaky if fresh.’”
“Respect for the cow,” Finn says gravely.
“Budget,” Jake says. “Because somebody—” he looks at Liam “—once bought artisanal buffalo mozz for grilled cheese and then couldn’t pay rent until Friday.”
“Worth it,” Liam mutters.
“Applications in emergencies,” Charlie says. “Which one can you eat cold straight out of the bag while hiding behind the fridge door so your roommates don’t see you.”
“Cheddar wins that,” Finn says immediately.
“Pizza wins life,” Liam fires back.
“Charlie’s lasagna,” Reid says, pointing at her. “Which always collapses into beautiful lava unless she blends cheeses and we all know it.”
“Science,” Charlie says, preening.
I’m laughing so hard I have to set my soda down before I wear it. “You people have bullet points. Like… actual PowerPoint slides in your heads.”
“We’re prepared,” Jake says primly.
“Prepared to admit you’re wrong,” Finn mutters.
“Prepared to watch you two say the exact same sentences for the next thirty years,” Charlie sings, then nudges my knee. “For the record, I abstain. I love all my cheese children equally.”
I lean back against a pillow and watch the light thin into that fleeting band where the horizon turns violet and the water glasses out. Reid is stretched long on one elbow, forearm a study in sinew and sun, listening to all of us with that grave little half-smile that means he’s happy; Jake keeps reaching to refill my drink without asking, grazing my wrist like a secret each time; Finn and Liam are still arguing over whether mozzarella’s ‘moon-soft neutrality’ (Liam’s phrase) is superior to cheddar’s ‘hero arc’ (Finn’s), and Charlie is filming it all for her stories, adding captions like BREAKING: LOCAL MEN DISCOVER DAIRY.
I’m full, and I’m warm, and I’m held in this easy, ridiculous net of people who learned the hard way that we’re not guaranteed another evening like this. The anchor hums against the chain. The sea swings the boat a little, like a lullaby. I wipe a smear of Caesar dressing off the corner of my mouth, and both twins track the motion with identical, helpless looks that make something soft and ferocious unfurl in my chest.
“By the way,” I say, pretending to be casual. “If anyone needs me to weigh in officially—”
“Don’t do it,” Jake warns, smiling.
“—I’m Switzerland,” I finish, and pop a curd in my mouth just to watch Finn and Liam groan in tandem.
The sunset drops another inch, the sky going apricot, and for the first time since the world tilted, I feel perfectly, stupidly right where I belong: salt on my tongue, friends at my elbows, two men looking at me like I’m the reason they set the anchor here and not anywhere else.