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Chapter forty-nine

Elliot

Mike and I stood before Mrs. H’s house as the sun was starting to set, the warm glow making her tiny front yard look almost idyllic. Almost. That illusion shattered the second we stepped onto her porch and heard what could only be described as a war zone coming from inside.

Clanging pots.

The distinct sound of a wooden spoon hitting a counter.

Mrs. H’s thick brogue, shouting something that might have been Gaelic, or possibly just aggressive swearing. It was hard to tell.

I glanced at Mike.

He exhaled. “We should turn back now.”

“Coward.”

He glared. “I value my life.”

“Remind me why we didn’t do this at my house,” I said.

“Why not mine?” He pooched out his lower lip in defiance.

“Because we want everyone to have an edible meal.”

His brows bunched, then he grinned. “Fuck you.”

“Later, if you’re a good boy.”

He growled, but before he could respond, the door flew open.

Mrs. H stood in the doorway, fully decked out in Scottish garb—a plaid skirt, knee-high socks, some kind of elaborate vest that looked like it belonged in a museum, and, of course, a massive apron already covered in flour and something green.

She squinted at us. “Finally!”

Mike opened his mouth, but she pointed a wooden spoon.

“No sass,” she barked. “Inside. Now.”

I chuckled, grabbing Mike’s arm and pulling him inside before she could escalate to more violent means.

The music that slammed into us as we entered the house was almost as chaotic as its owner. The song we entered to was a rousing, borderline incomprehensible Scottish ballad about some poor bastard named McGregor who fought the English and lost both his cattle and wife in the process. The moment that ended, Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now” blared, with Mrs. H singing along—off-key—throwing in random “AYE”s and “LADDIE”s that Freddie Mercury definitely never intended. The bagpipe-heavy funeral dirge that came next sounded like someone had left a wailing cat on top of an accordion.

Mrs. H headbanged along while stirring something that definitely looked suspiciously alive. Mike, watching all of this, leaned over to me and muttered, “This is a fever dream.”

I took a sip of beer she’d shoved into my hand the moment we entered the kitchen, exhaled, and nodded.

Mike sniffed the air, then hesitated. “Uh . . . what exactly are we eating tonight?”

Mrs. H swatted at him with a dish towel. “A proper meal, you ungrateful little shite.”

“That means she won’t tell us until it’s too late.” I leaned in, whispering, “She might not even know what it is herself.”

Mike groaned.

Mrs. H turned back to her disaster of a kitchen, muttering to herself as she stirred something that definitely shouldn’t have been whatever color it was. No food should ever be that shade of green.

I took a step forward, peering into one of the pots. “Is that meat . . . moving?”

Mrs. H smacked my arm without looking. “Out!”

I raised my hands. “All right, all right.”

At that moment, Homer barreled into the room, a whirlwind of energy, paws skidding across the floor.

Mike immediately stiffened. “No, no, no—”

Too late.

Homer launched at me, front paws hooking around my leg, his eyes burning with a singular purpose.

“HOMER, NO!” Mike shouted.

But the demon dog was already in full hump mode.

Mrs. H cackled.

I sighed. “I hate this dog.”

Mike pried him off, glaring. “This is why you don’t get treats.”

“He’d think they were mating offerings. We’d have to get married or something.”

Homer just panted happily, utterly unrepentant.

Before the situation could get worse, the front door squealed again.

“Are we interrupting something?” Matty asked, stepping in with Omar and Sisi right behind him. “Do you and Homer need a room?”

Omar arched a brow. “Because that definitely looked like something.”

Sisi’s grin turned downright wicked. “Was Homer making Elliot his bi—?”

“No!” I snapped a little too loudly then pointed at Homer. “This thing is a terror.”

“Terrier. How many times do I have to correct you?” Mike grinned.

Homer barked and lunged for Matty’s leg.

“NOPE, NOPE, NOPE!” Matty bolted. “I’m a proper virgin. There will be no soiling my loins!”

Sisi burst out laughing, falling into Mike, who was nearly doubled over. Omar howled. I just shook my head and watched the insanity escalate.

Mrs. H laughed so hard she wheezed. “I love that dog.”

Omar, meanwhile, took a deep sniff of the air and winced. “What . . . exactly are we eating?”

Mrs. H waved a hand. “ Haggis and stovies !”

Mike paled. “Oh God. Again?”

Omar’s eyes widened. “Did you say haggis ?”

Mrs. H beamed. “Authentic!”

Matty—who had managed to escape Homer with his honor still intact—plopped onto the couch. “We’re all gonna die.”

The door swung open with another dramatic creak, and Mateo stepped inside like he was bracing for battle. He paused and scanned the room—taking in the disaster that was Mrs. H’s kitchen, the smoke curling slightly from something on the stove, that Mike was already one drink deep, and the unmistakable sound of bagpipes wailing in the background like a dying animal in a wind tunnel.

His expression was that of immediate regret, like how those who were surrendering their homeland tucked tail following said retreat.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “What fresh hell have I walked into?”

Before anyone could answer, Homer launched himself at Mateo’s leg, latching on with a single-minded determination.

Mateo barely had time to react before the humping commenced.

“OH MY GOD!” he yelled, stumbling backward. “GET IT OFF!”

“I’m pretty sure ‘getting off’ is what’s on his mind,” Sisi quipped.

Mrs. H, completely unfazed, stirred her mystery pot. “It’s how he shows affection, laddie . . . he loves you!”

Mateo flailed. “I DO NOT CONSENT TO THIS AFFECTION.”

A string of Italian curses followed. None of us had a clue what Mateo said, but the horror-stricken look on his face spoke louder than his words.

Mike, utterly useless, was wheezing laughter. He threw himself onto the couch where he joined Matty and Sisi in egging each other on. Omar, only slightly more help, took the bottle of Scotch Mateo had brought, pecked him on the cheek, and fled to the relative safety of the kitchen.

I sighed, stepping forward to pry Homer off, knowing my leg was the only one that might lure the beast away. “Mateo, I think he sees you as a challenge.”

“He sees me as a damn conquest.” Mateo scowled, smoothing out his shirt. “I am no man’s bitch!”

Matty, downing one drink after the next, grinned. “Well, he does have good taste.”

“Shut up.” Mateo pointed at him. “We’re way past empty compliments.”

Mrs. H finally turned and beamed at Mateo. “Ah, coachy boy! Come in, come in! Are you hungry?”

“I need a tall glass of that Scotch first.” Mateo eyed the definitely suspicious dish bubbling on the stove and exhaled. “I’m not sure about hungry yet.”

Mrs. H grinned. “I’ll make sure ye leave with a full belly. Omar, pour the boy a drink, will ya?”

Mateo glanced at me, looking vaguely horrified. “You let me come here. I thought we were friends.”

I clapped him on the shoulder. “You walked in on your own.”

He groaned, running a hand through his hair. “I hate all of you.”

Omar, grinning like an idiot, handed him a tall glass normally used for iced tea. It was filled to the brim with Scotch.

“Now that’s a pour. Good man, Omar.” Mateo sighed, took it, and muttered, “I’m gonna need a lot of this.”

Just as we were coming to terms with our fate, the door opened again, and Rodriguez walked in. He still walked with a slight limp, which the docs said he might never lose, and his arm still carried a cast, but otherwise, he was fully recovered.

And grinning like a man who had seen death and come back stronger.

“It smells . . . interesting in here,” he said, sniffing the air.

“Said the token straight,” Matty quipped.

Mike pointed at him. “If you run now, you can escape.”

“Oh, hell no.” Rodriguez laughed. “I survived a fucking storm. I can handle a gaggle of gays and Mrs. H’s cooking.”

Mrs. H cackled and slapped his back. “That’s the spirit!”

Rodriguez winced. “Ow.”

She ignored him.

Matty grinned. “Look at you, walking and everything.”

Rodriguez smirked. “I know, right? Still got that sexy limp, though.”

Omar shook Rodriguez’s hand. “Chicks dig battle scars.”

“Hell, yeah, we do. Whip ‘em out . . . or whip it out . . . we like both!” Sisi chirped.

Rodriguez snorted. “Who said anything about chicks?”

The room went dead silent.

Then—

Mateo spit out his drink.

Mike choked on air.

Matty squealed.

Omar laughed so hard he had to sit down.

Mrs. H?

Mrs. H cheered.

I just shook my head.

“God help us all,” I muttered.

Dinner was exactly what we expected—a mix of questionable food, obnoxious banter, and Mrs. H making wildly inappropriate, unexpected comments. At some point, Mateo and Matty got into a heated argument about whether or not haggis was actually food.

Rodriguez stole half of Omar’s plate when he wasn’t looking.

Homer somehow ended up in my lap. Sitting—or lying—but not humping.

And through it all, Mrs. H watched us, grinning like she had assembled her own personal circus.

I leaned back in my chair, watching the chaos unfold, feeling something settle deep in my chest.

This.

This was what mattered.

Family.

The weird, loud, inappropriate kind.

And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

I took a slow breath, steadying myself, then tapped my beer bottle against the table. “All right, everyone, shut up for a second.”

That got their attention.

Even Matty’s perpetually open mouth slammed shut as his brows nearly met his hairline.

Mrs. H, who had been aggressively wiping her eyes after eating whatever the hell that dessert had been, perked up. “Oh? Are ye givin’ a toast, boyo?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I smiled. “Something like that.”

Mike, seated beside me, narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Zip it, Professor.”

I glanced around the room, at the people who had somehow become my family, and felt something tighten in my chest.

It was time.

I exhaled. “So, I’ve known Mike for a while now, and in that time, I have learned some very important things about him.”

Mike groaned. “Oh, Jesus.”

Mateo grinned. “This is already good.”

“So good,” Sisi agreed.

I pointed at Mike. “First, he is alarmingly bad at cooking. He’s not just a little bad; he’s truly horrific. I mean, he is a danger to himself, to others, and potentially to national security whenever he steps within five feet of a stove.”

Matty cackled. “Damn, bro. This isn’t a toast; it’s a roast!”

Mike muttered, “I have a defective oven.”

I ignored him. “Second, he talks to himself when he thinks no one’s listening—and not just like normal muttering. Full conversations. Debates. Sometimes he argues with himself and loses—and that’s really hard to do.”

Omar howled.

Mrs. H wiped her eyes. “Aye, he gets that from me.”

I smirked, then sobered a little. “But the most important thing I learned about Mike Albert is that he’s the best damn man I’ve ever met.”

The room quieted.

Mike stiffened slightly beside me.

Even Homer’s ears laid back.

“He’s relentless. Stubborn as hell. Passionate. And maybe the most annoyingly selfless person I know.”

“Babe—”

“Not . . . one . . . word,” I snapped.

Mike swallowed, his fingers twitching on his knee.

I smiled, but my throat was already tight. “I knew, when we drove into the mountains, that I was in trouble. I was still fighting it, but I knew that I had already fallen for him so hard I was scared to breathe. I’d spent my whole life keeping people at arm’s length because I thought love meant losing myself. I thought if I gave myself away, I might never find myself again.”

Mike blinked rapidly, his lips parting.

I inhaled deeply. “But Mike showed me I didn’t have to lose anything to give myself away. He taught me what it means to let go—and to still be whole.”

Mrs. H was already sobbing into a napkin.

Matty looked like he was on the verge of a very ugly cry. Sisi clutched his arm. I was fairly certain, by the bluish tint in her cheeks, she’d been holding her breath.

Rodriguez muttered, “If you make me lose it, I swear to God—”

Mike’s chest was rising and falling fast now, like he was trying to hold himself together. His hands had found his face where they were cupped over his mouth. His struggled to dam emotions desperate to slip free.

I let out a small, unsteady laugh. “And then, when I was hurt—when I was at my lowest—Mike was there. Every single second. The fucker wouldn’t leave me alone.”

Mateo barked an unsteady laugh—something between humor and heartache.

“He didn’t let me push him away. He didn’t let me bury it. He just . . . stayed.”

Mike sniffed, shaking his head. “El—”

I swallowed hard, because my vision was blurring now, too.

God help me, I was actually going to cry.

I cleared my throat. “And then I watched him build something beautiful for the kids at his school, something I wish I had when I was younger, something that will change lives. That first meeting, when we sat there waiting, I saw it all over Mike’s face—the fear, the self-doubt, the worry that it would just be him with Mateo, Jamie, and me in an empty classroom.

“And for a while, I thought he might be right, but then, one kid showed up. And then another. And then more, plus a handful of parents.”

Tears tickled my cheeks. Damn it, I couldn’t stop them.

Mike was a mess.

Mrs. H was blowing snot into her napkin.

“And I watched it happen. I watched kids who walked in terrified, guarded, unsure of themselves . . . start to breathe in that space. I watched Jamie, the kid who started it all, light up like he was finally home . Those kids looked at Mike the same way I once did—like they couldn’t believe someone like him existed in their corner.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Matty muttered through sniffles. Omar reached over and gripped his hand, then wrapped an arm around him.

“And most of all? In the midst of the kids and teachers and parents, I watched Mike. I watched him lead, not just as a teacher, not just as some safe adult who cared, but as someone who had been in their shoes.”

I reached into my pocket, my hands only slightly shaking.

“And watching him, really seeing him, I realized I never wanted it to end. I knew then, with every ounce of strength in my body, that I wanted to spend the rest of my life watching him do amazing things.”

The room sucked in a collective breath.

Mike stilled completely.

And then, before I could stop myself—

I dropped to one knee.

Mike choked on air.

Matty shrieked.

Mrs. H wailed so loudly the neighbors probably thought someone had died.

And me?

I held up the small, simple platinum band I had been carrying around all night—waiting for the right moment.

And I knew.

This was it.

I exhaled, voice thick. “Mike Albert, I love you more than I ever believed possible. Completely. Ridiculously. Irrevocably. I want to spend the rest of my life waking up next to you, watching you burn food, and making sure you never get another dog, because God help me, one is enough.”

A strangled laugh-sob escaped him.

I let out a small, shaking breath. “Will you marry me?”

For a single unbearable second, Mike was just staring at me—like his brain had completely short-circuited.

Then—

Then he let out a sound that was half laugh, half wrecked, and tackled me.

Literally leaped out of his chair and tackled me.

We hit the floor, me grunting as his arms locked so tightly around my neck I thought he might actually choke me out.

His breath was hot against my ear, his voice breaking—

“Yes,” he whispered.

I froze.

He pulled back, cupped my face in shaking hands, his eyes red, raw, overflowing—

“Yes,” he repeated. “Yes, yes, yes.”

I let out a shuddering breath—then pulled him down and kissed him like my life depended on it.

Mrs. H screamed.

Mateo banged on the table like we had just won the Super Bowl.

Rodriguez wiped at his face, muttering, “I can’t take this much emotion.”

“Me the fuck either,” Sisi whimpered, as she dabbed her eyes.

Matty blubbered, “MY BOYS ARE GETTING MARRIED.”

And me?

I just held on to the love of my life.

The man who had changed everything.

The man who always would.