EMMA

The dining table was already set when Jake and I stepped inside—plates stacked high with food, wine glasses filled, and warm laughter echoing through the room.

For a second, I just stood there, taking it in. I had never experienced this before. Not really.

Sure, I had shared meals with all kinds of people, sat at tables draped in silk, toasted with the finest wine. But those were performances—carefully orchestrated games played with marks, business associates, or criminals who shook your hand with one moment's charm and plotted to stab you in the back the next.

And Eric and I? Well, we had never been big on celebrating holidays, especially in recent years. They had become just another day—one where we clinked glasses, shared a meal, and reminded ourselves that at the end of it all, it was still just us against the world.

My chest ached. I wondered what Eric was doing now. Hopefully, he and Alycia were tangled up in conversation, lost in good food and expensive wine. And maybe, just maybe, thinking about me too.

A warm hand pressed against the small of my back. I turned to find Jake watching me, his expression soft. He didn't say anything—he didn't have to. I gave him a small smile, and together, we walked toward the table.

"There you two are!" Elizabeth called, stepping out of the kitchen with another dish in her hands. She arched a knowing brow. "Thought we were going to have to start without you."

"We had to settle on wedding colors first," Jake said casually, pulling out a chair for me before taking his own.

I kicked his ankle under the table.

"Wedding colors?" Derek raised a brow.

"Ignore him," I said, shooting Jake a glare. "He's being an idiot."

"Nothing new," Kaylee muttered, sipping her wine.

Jake sighed dramatically, shaking his head. "Remind me why I thought bringing my girlfriend home was a good idea? This is mutiny."

Elizabeth chuckled, setting down a dish. "Now, eat before everything gets cold."

The second I took my first bite, I nearly melted in my chair.

"El," I mumbled, covering my mouth as I chewed. "This is the best thing I've ever eaten."

"You hear that?" Elizabeth beamed, nudging Derek. "Someone appreciates my cooking."

"Oh, I appreciate it," Derek said. "I just prefer to eat in peace rather than sing its praises."

"Lies." Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "This man sneaks bites from the kitchen when he thinks no one's paying attention. If it weren't for years of working out for the job, we'd have a real problem."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Dad, we always saw you," Kaylee added.

I smiled behind my glass, a warmth settling in my chest. This wasn't just dinner—it was tradition. The kind of unspoken rhythm that only came from years of shared memories, inside jokes, and the comfort of knowing exactly where you belonged.

I felt like I was watching a play I had never been cast in, unsure if I was supposed to laugh, contribute, or just sit back and observe.

Then, somewhere between passing the mashed potatoes and refilling drinks, the conversation shifted.

"So, Emma," Derek said, leaning back in his chair. "How did you two meet?"

The question shouldn't have caught me off guard, but my brain still stuttered as an image flashed through my mind—Jake, standing on the Met rooftop, gun pointed at me.

"Oh, you know," I said, reaching for my wine to buy myself a second. "Nothing out of the ordinary. We met at a coffee shop."

Jake smirked, clearly remembering the so-called meet-cute.

"Oh, come on, there has to be more to it," Elizabeth said, resting her chin on her palm. "Do tell."

Jake leaned back in his chair, eyes twinkling with mischief. "She was having a bad day. Both of us were, actually. We kind of bonded over it—swapped quotes, made terrible jokes. And then she decided to tell me a story about a guy who named his son after himself before killing him."

I shot him a look. "Ivan the Terrible."

But I had to admit it wasn't my smoothest talk. Maybe the fact that I was sitting across from the FBI agent meant to catch me had me more on edge than I realized that day.

"Right." Jake grinned. "And I remember thinking, 'This is definitely the weirdest way someone's ever tried to flirt with me.'"

Elizabeth laughed. "Oh, I love this already."

"It wasn't flirting," I argued.

Jake smirked. "You were staring at me over the rim of your coffee cup while talking about a painting of a historical murderer, Em."

"Yeah, because I thought you were cute, but wasn't planning on doing anything about it. Yet."

The table went silent.

I blinked.

Oh, God. Had I really just said that?

Elizabeth gasped, her eyes practically gleaming. "Oh, she thought you were cute, Jake."

Jake leaned back, smug as hell. "That's the part you took from that?"

"Absolutely."

I groaned, covering my face with my hands. "You're never going to let me live this down, are you?"

"Not a chance," Jake said, clinking his glass against mine.

I sighed, but deep down, I wasn't mad about it.

Not even a little.

After dinner, I stood to help clear the table, gathering the plates with ease. Jake pushed back his chair and stood, too.

"I'll help," he offered, grabbing a few dishes.

"Thanks," I replied lightly, balancing the stack effortlessly. Across the table, Kaylee—now slightly tipsy—reached for her wine glass with unsteady hands.

I saw it tilt.

Without thinking, I caught it midair in one swift, fluid motion and placed it back on the table as if nothing had happened.

Jake paused, watching me with a flicker of amusement. "Impressive," he said, handing me another plate.

"Lucky catch," I replied with an easy smile.

But as I reached for the plate, my reflexes took over again before I could stop them. Without thinking, I adjusted the already towering stack, seamlessly grabbing the next one from him in a single, fluid motion—too smooth, too effortless. Too much like second nature.

It hit me a second too late—no normal girl should be able to do that.

I definitely wasn't thinking straight.

Jake's brow furrowed. "Wait a second..."

I froze for half a heartbeat.

"What?" I asked, feigning innocence.

He gestured at my hands. "That. How the hell are you doing that?"

I blinked. "Doing what?"

"That," he repeated, eyes narrowing as he pointed at the perfectly balanced plates in one hand. "You look like a damn professional."

I scoffed, smirking. "Please. You think I've never worked in a restaurant before?"

He frowned slightly, shaking his head. "Huh. Didn't see that coming," Jake said, but his eyes lingered a moment too long, like he was adding a piece to a puzzle he didn't know he was solving yet.

I shrugged and blurted out a quick lie. "Yeah. My aunt and uncle thought it'd be good for me to learn some responsibility when I was a teenager."

Jake hummed in response, his expression thoughtful. I knew he wasn't suspicious—there was nothing to be suspicious about. But he was curious, and I could practically see him filing that detail about me away, which unnerved me more than I cared to admit.

I forced myself to meet his gaze for a beat too long, daring him to question me further—silently telling him I had nothing to hide. When he didn't, I turned toward the kitchen, plates in hand.

Each step felt heavier than it should have, my heartbeat pounding louder than the clatter of dishes. It was nothing, I told myself. Just a moment that would be forgotten in no time.

But I knew better than anyone how one tiny mistake—something as small as the flick of a wrist—could bring an empire crumbling to the ground.

And I couldn't help but think that I had just made one.

By the time dessert rolled around, I was full, a little tipsy myself, and far too comfortable for my own good. I had shoved the incident after dinner to the back of my mind, letting the warmth of the evening take over.

Elizabeth had insisted I try three different types of pie, Kaylee had declared me an official member of her highly selective list of favorite people, and Derek had refilled my wine glass more times than I could count.

It was... nice. Too nice.

I had spent most of my life running—from attachments, from comfort, from anything that felt too safe. But here I was, sitting in a crowded living room, laughing at stories about Jake's childhood, and all I could think about was how much I wanted to stay. To hold on to this warmth like something fragile in trembling hands.

And that? That was dangerous.

Later, when the dishes were cleared, and the house settled into that post-holiday haze—low murmurs, the soft hum of the heater, Kaylee's victorious grin as she claimed the last slice of pie—I found myself lingering in the quiet. Derek stretched out on the couch with a beer, and Elizabeth hugged me twice before finally letting Jake and me head upstairs.

Now, standing in Jake's childhood room, something unfamiliar stirred inside me—warm and delicate, like a borrowed moment I wasn't sure I was allowed to keep.

I liked this too much. Wanted it too much.

And that terrified me. Because beneath the warmth, something else lingered—a quiet, restless unease coiled tight in my chest, refusing to fade. This stillness felt too perfect, too fragile, like the eerie calm before a storm. And I knew better than to trust calm.

"You're thinking too hard again," Jake said softly, pulling his sweater over his head before tossing it onto the chair by his desk.

I blinked, shaking off my thoughts. "I'm not thinking."

"Sure," he said, giving me that look—half amusement, half knowing. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

I hesitated, absently twisting the hem of my sweatshirt between my fingers as I sat on the bed. "I don't know," I admitted quietly. "Tonight... your family... it's just..." My voice trailed off, the words caught somewhere between my heart and my throat.

Jake watched me, hands tucked into his pockets, waiting. Patient as always.

"It's just nice," I finished, my voice barely above a whisper.

He smiled—a small, soft curve of his lips. "Yeah," he said. "It is."

Then I watched as he rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling slowly. "I guess I forget sometimes," he muttered. "That things can be... simple."

I knew exactly what he meant.

"You should come back more often," I said before I could stop myself. "You deserve this—to feel this happy, this at ease—more than just a few times a year."

Jake's eyes met mine, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

The silence stretched for a few more moments before Jake sat beside me, his eyes never leaving mine.

"But you've got it all wrong," he said quietly.

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

He leaned in slightly, voice softer now. "I'm just as happy back in the city... as long as you're there, too."

My chest tightened, my pulse stumbling over itself. But before I could respond—before the moment could unravel into something too raw—Jake smirked.

"Besides," he added with a teasing grin, "I'm pretty sure you just want more of my mom's cooking."

I scoffed, lightly smacking his arm. "You caught me."

He chuckled, catching my wrist before I could pull it away. Then, without warning, he leaned in and kissed me. My breath caught, my eyes fluttering shut as my fingers instinctively tangled in his hair, holding onto him like he was something steady in a world that never stopped shifting. And maybe, for just this moment, he was.

When he finally pulled away, a soft smile tugged at his lips. He didn't say anything, just let the moment settle between us before standing and reaching for the bedside lamp.

"Come on," he said, flicking off the light and plunging the room into soft darkness. "We'll figure out something to do tomorrow before heading back."

I nodded, pulling the blankets over me, heart still racing.

The only sound for a while was the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, the rustle of sheets as we both settled in. I closed my eyes, trying to calm the storm inside me.

Then Jake's voice cut through the quiet.

"Hey, Em?"

"Yeah?"

A beat of silence. Then, softly, "I'm glad you're here."

My fingers curled into the sheets, that ache in my chest spreading.

"Me too," I whispered.

And, for once, it wasn't a lie.