Page 44 of Until the Storm Breaks (The Midnight Men #1)

I leave them to whatever’s developing there and scan the room for Theo.

That’s when I spot Dominic standing alone near the door, nursing a beer, arms crossed, watching everyone else connect while he keeps his distance.

He looks exhausted. Not just from today, but something deeper.

Months of being the one making all the calls.

The confrontation at the bluff is still sitting in my chest, heavy and unresolved.

I could walk away, find Theo, and avoid this conversation entirely.

That would be easier. But Mom would’ve hated seeing Dominic isolated like this.

And honestly, I’m tired of carrying this weight. The resentment, the anger, all of it.

Dammit.

I walk over before I can change my mind. “Hey,” I say.

He glances at me. “Hey.”

We stand there awkwardly, the bar noise filling the silence between us. People sharing stories about Mom, laughter tinged with grief.

“That was rough,” I say finally. “Earlier. At the house.”

“Yeah.” His jaw works. He takes a drink.

I wait. He doesn’t elaborate. This is going to be like pulling teeth.

“Look,” I start, then stop. I don’t even know what I want to say. That I’m angry? He already knows that. That he fucked up? He knows that, too. “You’ve been dealing with a lot.”

He looks at me then, suspicious. Like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“The estate, Mom getting worse, all of it,” I continue. “While I was in Seattle.”

“You couldn’t be here.” He says it flat, matter of fact. “She thought you were Dad. That messed you up.”

“Still,” I say. “I left and you handled most of it yourself.”

Dominic’s quiet. He’s staring at his drink now, not at me.

“I’m sorry,” I say. The words feel awkward, rusty. Dominic and I don’t apologize to each other. We just carry grudges and pretend everything’s fine. “For not being here. For the stuff about the sale. You were just trying to keep everything from falling apart.”

He’s silent for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is rough. “I should’ve told you. About the demolition. Should’ve told Jack too.”

“Yeah. You should have.”

“I thought if I just handled it myself, made it clean, nobody would have to feel like shit about it.” He finally looks at me. “Obviously that didn’t work out.”

There’s something in his face I don’t usually see. Vulnerability, maybe. Or just exhaustion.

“No,” I agree. “It didn’t. But we both fucked up in how we handled things.”

A half-laugh escapes him, and he raises his beer slightly. “That’s putting it mildly.”

We stand there. The silence is still uncomfortable but it feels different now. Less hostile. More like two people who don’t know how to fix something but are trying anyway.

He clears his throat. “I should check on the others. Make sure Jack’s not promising Lark a ride on his bike or something equally stupid.”

I watch him walk away, feeling like maybe, eventually, we might actually figure out how to be brothers again. Then I find Theo in a corner booth, nursing a beer. When I slide in across from him, he studies my face for a moment.

“You talk to Dom?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I take a drink, not sure how much I want to get into it.

“How’d that go?”

“Better than expected,” I admit. “Still a lot to work through, but it’s a start.”

Theo nods slowly, and there’s something pleased in his expression. “Good. That’s really good, Cal.”

I shrug, uncomfortable with the approval. “We’ll see.”

“Still counts.” A small smile crosses his face. “You actually talking to each other instead of just being pissed off in silence. That’s progress.”

“Yeah, well.” I shake my head, but I’m smiling a little too. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“Too late.” He takes a drink, clearly satisfied.

We sit in comfortable silence after that, watching the bar fill with noise and warmth.

All these people who loved Mom, who showed up today to remember her.

At the bar, Alex is fussing over platters of food, laughing with Maren as she plates up dishes, both of them making sure everyone eats.

Someone’s put on “My Girl” and there’s terrible singing near the jukebox.

Maren makes her way over to our table with plates in hand. “You two need to eat. Alex’s orders.”

“Thanks, Maren,” Theo says, standing to hug her briefly. “For everything today. Mom would have been grateful.”

“She was family to me too,” Maren says simply.

Theo smiles, picking up the plate of food Maren brought. “I should go check that Chloe hasn’t talked Alex into letting her eat all the brownies.”

“Oh, Theo,” Maren says, fishing in her pocket. “Here’s my spare key for the cabins. For when you guys head out later to get Laila for the night.”

“Thanks,” Theo says, pocketing it. “Chloe hasn’t stopped talking about their sleepover.”

“I’ll probably be here late helping clean up anyway,” Maren adds, glancing around at the packed bar.

After Theo leaves, Maren slides into the booth beside me. The vinyl squeaks under her weight, and she presses against my side, her warmth welcome after the long day.

“You okay?” she asks quietly, her hand finding mine under the table.

“Getting there,” I say, putting my arm around her shoulders. The bar noise continues around us, Eddie’s voice carrying over the crowd, glasses clinking. “This is good. All these people who loved her.”

She leans into me, tracing patterns on the wooden table with her free hand. We sit like that for a moment, just breathing.

“Maren,” I say, the words coming before I can stop them. “I don’t think I want to go back to Seattle.”

She lifts her head to look at me, and I can see she’s not surprised. “Calvin...”

“I know it’s fast. But being here with you, it’s the first time I’ve felt like myself in years.” I turn to face her more fully, taking both her hands. “I love you.”

She inhales sharply, her eyes widening.

“I know that’s crazy to say already,” I continue, needing her to understand. “But I do. I love you, Maren.”

Her eyes fill with tears. “Calvin...”

“You don’t have to say it back. I just needed you to know.”

“No, that’s not...” She squeezes my hands tight, a tear escaping down her cheek.

“I love you too. God, I’ve been trying not to, trying to be sensible about this, but I love you too.

I mean of course I do.” She’s half laughing, half crying and she kisses me then, soft and sweet, tasting of tears and whiskey.

When she pulls back, I keep her close, our foreheads almost touching. The bar continues around us, someone drops a glass in the kitchen, conversations ebb and flow, but we’re in our own bubble here in this corner booth.

“Maren,” I say, decision already made, knowing exactly what I want. “I meant what I said. Being here with you has shown me what I’ve been missing. My life in Seattle is empty. The apartment, the job, none of it means anything compared to this.”

She goes still against me, and I can feel her breathing change.

“I’m not going back,” I continue, voice firm. “Not to that life. I’ll figure out the logistics, but I know what I want.”

She pulls back slightly to look at me properly. There’s so much in her expression: hope and fear and worry. “Calvin, you can’t make decisions like this at your mother’s memorial. Not when everything’s raw and turned upside down.”

“This isn’t grief talking. This is the clearest I’ve been in years.”

“Calvin...” Her voice breaks slightly.

“I know what I want,” I say. “I’m not some kid making rash decisions. I’m thirty-five years old and I know when something’s worth changing everything for.”

“I want you to stay,” she admits, and her voice cracks on the words. “God, Calvin, I want you to stay so badly I can’t breathe when I think about you leaving. But I need you to think about this when you’re not surrounded by all of this. When it’s just you and reality.”

I take her hands more firmly in mine. “You are my reality. The rest is just details to figure out.”

Before she can respond, Alex appears on the small stage area with his guitar. The conversations quiet as he starts to play one of Mom’s favorites, something slow and sweet from the seventies. People begin swaying, some singing along, and the whole bar becomes one moment of shared remembering.

Maren and I look at each other, her hand still in mine under the table. There’s a whole conversation in that look, promises I’m ready to make but she’s too careful to let us make tonight.

“Tomorrow,” she says softly, barely audible over the music. “We’ll talk about everything tomorrow. When it’s just us.”

“Tomorrow,” I agree. Tonight is for Mom, for family, for goodbye. Tomorrow we can figure out the rest. I pull her closer, and for now, that’s enough.