Page 37 of Rescued By the Alpha SEAL

But old habits form refractory coatings—the constant, frantic retreat into self-preservation at any hint of belonging.

So I deflect.

Rebuild my walls between swallows of the black sludge Caleb dares call coffee. Let the conversation flow around me, an ocean I can't quite bring myself to dive into.

"Not all operatives can be skilled in every domain," Logan rumbles, ever the strategist leveraging his teammates' critiques. "Efficiency sometimes requires sacrifice."

Elias snorts into his mug. "Since when does 'sacrifice' mean rubbery eggs?"

"Actually," Asa's voice cuts through from behind, eyes on his phone, "protein denaturation through extended heat exposure increases digestive efficiency by up to twenty-eight percent." Apause, fingers clicking across keys without breaking rhythm. "Though taste does suffer proportionally."

"You're seriously defending his cooking withscience?" I can't help the disbelief in my voice.

"Data doesn't lie." Asa doesn't look up, but I catch the ghost of a smirk. "Unlike certain individuals who claim their laptops 'just stopped working' when the search history proves otherwise."

"Hey, that wasonetime," Caleb protests, pointing his fork accusingly. "And that site was for research."

"Of course." Asa's tone could freeze hell. "Because tactical gear suppliers commonly advertise on pages titled 'Hot Singles in Your Area.'"

I bite back a laugh, watching the tech genius systematically dismantle Caleb's dignity without ever taking his eyes off his screens.

A low chuckle ripples through the group, loosening the knots between their shoulders until the banter flows easier.

Lighter.

They're settling into the comfortable cadence of brothers who've seen the world at its worst and decided to make their own microcosm better.

I should follow their lead.

Find solace in the way these ruthlessly skilled warriors pause their day to trade barbs over a shared meal.

Let myself sink into the warmth radiating from their makeshift clan and forget, for a handful of stolen moments, how cold the shadows have felt lately.

But as my fork carves idle paths through the wreckage on my plate, gathering crumbled eggshell and flecks of carbon instead of sustenance, a simpler scent cuts through the haze.

The sharp sting of burnt bread.

The kitchen smells like burnt toast and printer ink.

Dad sits at the table, elbows resting on a stack of newsprint, a manila envelope beside his untouched coffee.

He looks... calm. Not shaken. Not scared.

Just tired in a way that settles deep into the bones.

I perch on the edge of the counter, chewing the sleeve of my hoodie. Waiting for him to speak.

My legs swing nervously, bare feet catching the cool air.

I'm fourteen and full of questions he won't answer. Like why the lines around his eyes have deepened overnight, why his hands shake when he thinks I'm not looking.

When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, almost apologetic. "Sometimes the truth doesn't set you free," he says. "Sometimes it puts a target on your back."

I frown, picking at a loose thread on my sleeve. "Then why chase it?"

His eyes flick up—sharp, glassy, gentle. The eyes of someone who's seen too much and can't unsee it. "Because if we don't, someone else pays the price."

He taps the envelope.