Chapter 49: Madeline
The next day, no one’s going out on the water.
The twins booked a section of Dock Square Coffee House for everyone to work from instead—data review, reports, mapping out future routes. It’s practical. Smart. Still, part of me can’t help but think they just don’t trust the sea today. Or maybe they don’t trust us.
After they left last night, I sat at the kitchen table for a while, still in shock. It’s one thing to see them at work, barking orders or muttering about engine noise and coordinates. It’s another to have them standing in my doorway. In my space. To see them not framed by the sea but by my coat rack, my chipped blue mugs, the flickering kitchen light.
And for them to see me like that.
In a tank top and joggers, barefoot on the hardwood, hair dripping down my back. Vulnerable in a way I didn’t mean to be. I couldn’t get over how big they looked in the tiny hallway, how the room seemed to shrink around them—the air shifting, thickening, charged.
They’d looked… furious. Not yelling, not even speaking, just full of that quiet, controlled anger that says a lot more than shouting ever could. And even now, thinking about it makes my stomach twist.
I tried to work after that, but all I did was stare at my half-written notes, rereading the same lines until the words stopped meaning anything.
That’s when Finn and Liam came back.
The door slammed, the cold wind followed them in, and suddenly the house was loud again—safe again.
“Hey, Quinn!” Finn called out, kicking his boots off by the door. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
“Close,” I muttered. “Two of them.”
They both froze. “Wait. The twins?” Liam asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “They showed up here.”
Finn whistled low. “Well, that explains why Jake was ready to fight Reid in the middle of the dock.”
“Fight?” I blinked. “Why was he mad?”
They exchanged one of their looks—silent, full of that half-amused, half-oh-we’re-not-getting-involved energy they always have.
Liam scratched the back of his neck. “We left before the yelling started. Didn’t seem like a good place to be.”
I frowned. “They came looking for Sloane.”
At that, both of them went quiet. Like I’d said something important without realizing it. Then Finn sighed and dropped onto the couch, patting the cushion beside him.
“Okay, enough twin talk,” he said. “Movie night. You pick. But if it’s anything with singing animals, I’m walking out.”
“Yeah, no musicals,” Liam added, smirking. “She looks like a horror movie girl to me anyway.”
“I’m not,” I said. But I sat down between them anyway.
It was impossible not to relax around them. They filled every silence with easy jokes, dumb stories, and friendly arguments about who’d win in a fight—a dolphin or a seal. (Liam said dolphin, Finn said seal, I said why are you like this.)
At some point, Finn tossed popcorn at me just to see if I’d notice, and when I didn’t, he laughed so hard he snorted. Liam made fun of him for it. I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.
By the time the credits rolled, I was half-asleep on the couch, head resting on Finn’s shoulder, Liam stretched out on the other end. The storm outside had quieted to a hum, and for the first time all day, the world didn’t feel so sharp.
It felt… safe.
Until I remembered who’d been at my door just hours before—tall and unreadable and commanding—and how different the air felt when they were the ones standing in front of me.
And I wondered, not for the first time, why two men like that could make the whole world feel too small.
And now, well we're all here, together. The Dock Square Coffee House hums with the sound of keyboards, espresso shots, and conversation too low to catch. Our corner is the only one that feels like it’s holding its breath.
Charlie, Reid and Jake sit on one side of the long table. Me, Finn, and Liam on the other.
It’s almost symmetrical. Almost comfortable.
I’m supposed to be working on the porpoise report, but every few seconds, the quiet shifts—Jake getting up to take a call, the scrape of Reid’s pen, Charlie’s voice low and calm beside him.
She leans toward him to point at something on her screen. He listens. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t even scowl.
Just watches her, brow furrowed, expression softer than I’ve ever seen.
Warm, almost.
It shouldn’t surprise me—people can be different outside of work—but it does.
Reid, who once nearly set me on fire with a single glare, is now looking at Charlie like she’s the only person worth hearing.
Charlie smiles at something he says, and my stomach does this weird, fluttery drop.
I stare back at my screen, pretending to type while Finn and Liam flip through the stack of new safety regulations for the insurance renewal. Finn groans like he’s reading his own obituary.
“Do we really have to memorize this?” he mutters.
“Yes,” Liam says without looking up. “Unless you want to get yelled at by Captain Ice Veins over there.”
I bite my lip to hide a laugh.
Finn sighs dramatically and slouches lower in his chair. “You mean Reid or Jake?”
“Both.”
That earns a quiet snort from me, which turns into a full grin when Finn glances over with a mock-wounded look.
My laptop wheezes—loud, pathetic, dying.
Finn leans sideways, whispering, “It’s begging for mercy.”
“Shut up,” I hiss, elbowing him in the ribs.
He clutches his chest. “Abuse. Actual abuse.”
“Keep it down,” Liam mutters, trying not to smile and failing.
Across the table, Jake glances at us briefly from his phone call, one brow raised. Reid doesn’t even lift his head, but I can tell—he’s listening. I can feel it in that sharp, invisible way he occupies space.
Charlie murmurs something else to him, close enough that her shoulder brushes his.
He says something back, quiet and short.
She laughs.
I shouldn’t care. I don’t care. But the sound feels like static in my chest.
I take a deep breath, push the thought away, and refocus on the data.
The porpoises. The calves. The cove.
Something incredible happened out there yesterday, something worth every second of cold and wind and confusion. I just have to get it right.
Finn taps his pen against the table, restless. “You think the twins ever relax?” he whispers.
“No,” Liam answers. “I think they just switch which one’s glaring.”
That earns another laugh from me—too quick, too loud. Reid’s head lifts slightly at the sound, his eyes meeting mine from across the table.
I go perfectly still.
He doesn’t frown this time. Doesn’t smirk, either. Just studies me. Long enough that my skin warms under my collar.
Then he looks away.
And somehow, that feels worse.