Page 37 of Boomer (SEAL Team Tier 1, #7)

The clink of dishes and the hush of clearing silverware filled the room like the last act of a symphony, all winding down in the soft hush that came after a heavy meal.

Boomer stood to help but Taylor shook her head gently, her touch brushing his wrist. “Go breathe,” she murmured, her lips curved in something soft and knowing. “I’ll meet you outside.”

So he went looking for the kid.

He found Ansel in the hallway, lingering near the bottom stair like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to disappear.

Boomer crouched beside him, voice low. “Hey, I’ve been thinking…you mentioned you sculpt. Would you show me some of your work?”

Ansel blinked, startled. “You want to see?”

“Sure do.”

He hesitated, then turned, gesturing for Boomer to follow. They padded up the stairs together, the house creaking beneath their steps like it was bearing witness. Ansel led him to a room at the end of the hall and pushed open the door.

It was small, neat, with a single bed tucked against the wall and art supplies stacked in deliberate piles. But there was a feeling in the space, concentration, maybe. That tight hum of a creative soul barely holding it all in.

Boomer crossed to the desk where several sketchbooks lay open. Charcoal, graphite, ink. Hazy outlines and precise angles, the bones of ideas still finding their form. He exhaled.

“These are really good, Ansel.” The boy didn’t say anything. He just moved toward the corner of the room, fingers brushing over the edge of a storage crate. Boomer stepped closer, watching the tension in his shoulders. “I understand you want to enter an art contest at school,” Boomer said quietly.

Ansel froze.

Then his voice went small. “Yes. Very much. But my grandparents don’t approve.” He looked away. “I don’t like the arguing. I’ve stayed in my room.”

Boomer didn’t respond right away. He stepped forward and gently clasped the back of the boy’s neck, a gesture quiet and grounding.

“How about I talk to them?” Ansel’s head tilted, uncertain. Boomer’s voice dropped, soft and steady. “What would you make for the contest? Something inspired by Michelangelo? Another artist?”

The boy swallowed hard. “I’d do a sculpture of my dad at work.” Boomer stilled. Ansel’s voice was barely a whisper. “That’s my best memory. The contest instructions say we have to do something meaningful to us.”

Boomer’s hand tightened slightly, his throat going tight.

“Ansel,” he said, his voice rough, “that’s…amazing. What a way to honor your dad.”

He knelt so they were eye-level. “Can I come by to see your progress? Or I’ll give you my cell number, you can text me updates?”

Ansel didn’t answer.

Instead, he rose and quietly closed the bedroom door.

He turned back, a little breathless. “I already started. You want to see?”

Boomer nodded, heart pounding.

The boy crossed to his bed and bent down, reaching underneath. He dragged out a large plastic box with locking clips and set it on the floor. He unlatched it, hands steady, like he’d been waiting for someone to ask.

Boomer knelt beside him.

Inside was a world.

Three small models sat nestled in foam. One in clay, one in wax, and the third in wood, each capturing the same scene from a different angle of texture and material.

A man at an easel, paintbrush in hand, head slightly tilted in rapture.

The details were startling, creases in the shirt, the curve of a cheek, the light tension in the hand holding the brush.

Boomer let out a slow breath.

“Ansel,” he said, stunned, “these are… spectacular.”

The boy beamed. “They’re maquettes. That means little models artists make before the real thing. Famous people like Rodin and those old-time sculptors did it too!” His voice lit up, excited now. “It helps me see what it’s gonna look like when it’s finished.”

Boomer sat back on his heels, staring at the wax model like it might blink.

“You didn’t just get talent,” he said softly. “You got soul.”

Ansel looked down, almost shy again. “Thanks.”

Boomer glanced toward the door, toward the weight in the hallway beyond.

He could already feel the pressure building inside this boy. The tension between truth and silence. Between who he was and what others were afraid of.

He’d seen that weight before, and he was damn well not going to let this one be crushed by it.

“Why don’t you stay here and work on this. I’ll be back to say goodbye.”

Ansel clutched at Boomer’s forearm, fingers small but tight. “You promise?”

Boomer nodded, slow and steady. “I promise.”

The boy searched his face, and then, finally, smiled. The first one Boomer had seen since he stepped onto that porch.

“I want to hear about explosions,” Ansel said, voice tentative. “Will you come back?”

Boomer grinned, the kind that cracked wide without armor. “Explosions? That’s my very favorite topic. You can bet your…ah… butt , I’ll be back.”

Ansel nodded solemnly, like a promise had just been made and sealed, and then pulled a soft piece of stone from the box along with a fine-toothed tool. Within seconds, he was lost in the motion, fingers working with the quiet joy of someone returning home.

Boomer left him there, a boy in his world, and went to the kitchen.

Gretchen and Alaric were drying dishes, elegant, quiet choreography between two people who had learned how not to clash. They both looked up when he entered.

“Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman,” he said, his voice even. “I’ve just seen what your grandson is capable of. Let him enter the contest. What does it hurt?”

Gretchen set down a wine glass and turned slowly. “It’s nonsense,” she said curtly. “A waste of time that could be spent on more important studies.”

Boomer stepped closer, not aggressively, just with purpose.

His accent thickened, words heavier now, soaked in something he couldn’t quite smooth out.

“You’re dead wrong,” he said, quiet but firm.

“It’s who he is. More than that…” His voice cracked just a little.

“…it’s what he needs. To feed his soul. To… assuage his grief.”

Gretchen’s mouth opened, but Boomer lifted his hand, not forceful.

Just…steady. “I know I just met you. Just met him. But I know what that grief feels like. I know how it eats you up from the inside and makes the world go small, and I know what it’s like when people try to shove your pain into the wrong shape just to make themselves comfortable.

” His tone softened. “I think…you know that grief, too.” He let the silence stretch, then said gently, “Don’t punish him for how you feel about your son.

Don’t let that loss erase what Ansel still has.

What he is. He’s not trying to rebel. He’s trying to breathe. ”

Gretchen’s eyes snapped. Her chin lifted in reflex. But Alaric placed a hand on her arm, grounding. “He’s just being honest again, sweetheart. Let him have this. He’s a straight-A student. Smart as a whip. He needs this.”

She looked between them, jaw tight. Her eyes shone, but she didn’t blink. She closed them instead, the weight of it all pressing hard. After a long breath, she exhaled. “All right,” she said. “But if it interferes, he’s done . ”

Boomer nodded, chest thick, something deep and low burning behind his ribs. “Thank you.”

Taylor stepped into the kitchen just as Boomer’s voice dropped into something raw and intimate. She froze in the doorway, unseen.

She’d only meant to use the restroom. Splash cold water on her face.

Maybe gather herself before she came apart at the seams. Boomer with Ansel, his quiet, beautiful interaction with her nephew was still echoing in her, then the double whammy at the table with his compliment to her mama, and the way he handled talking about her… Gott, if that wasn’t enough, now this.

She stood there losing her damn mind, her heart, and anything else Carter Finley wanted to take. This man…going to bat for her nephew wasn’t what was killing her softly, seducing her into goo. It was the sound of his voice, and the pain in it.

That low, gorgeous Southern drawl laced with unspoken grief. The kind of grief that had shape and color and silence all its own. He was pleading , not with them, with the world, to give a little boy space to express his grief, and to heal in his own way.

All she could think was Gott, she wanted to take that loss and hold it for him, cup it in her hands so he could finally let it go.

She was a fucking hot, aching mess of daughter, aunt, and woman, exquisite, adult woman who wanted this man beneath her hands, under her mouth, inside her, immediately.

Her voice came out a whisper. “We have to go…now.” She hadn’t meant it to sound like that, like breath caught mid-kiss. But it did.

Boomer turned, and when their eyes met, the room blurred.

For one electric, suspended second, something ancient and unfinished in her reached out and locked onto something deep and elemental in him.

A connection that was like a detonating explosive mix of need, surrender, recognition, and understanding. A kind of closeness, a kind of harmony she’d never felt with anyone else. Not even Bash, who had known her body but never understood her spirit. Not even Emil, who she’d tried so hard to save.

This was different .

The effect was staggering.

Boomer drew a ragged breath, his gaze dropping to her mouth, and his voice, Gott , his voice came rough and quiet.

“Yeah. Go…now.” He turned to her parents, and the looks on their faces would almost be comical if this wasn’t so charged.

“Thank you for your hospitality. Maybe there will be a time when I can cook for you.”

He stepped toward her, and when his hand came to rest on her shoulder, it wasn’t possessive. It was directive, urgent, full of heat and restraint. He nudged, guiding her like she was part of his team, part of his breath, part of him .

“Meet me outside,” he murmured. “I need to say goodbye to the kid.”

She didn’t move at first. Couldn’t.