Chapter 13: Pancakes and Perimeters
1117 Words
POV: Julian
I woke up reaching for a gun that wasn't there.
My hand hit the empty pillow beside me. Cold sheets.
Panic spiked in my chest for a fraction of a second—a reflex honed by years of sleeping with one eye open. Then, the smell hit me.
Coffee. Rich, dark roast. And... caramelized sugar?
I sat up, rubbing a hand over my face. The events of the night before came rushing back. The gala. The ambush in the garage. The elevator. The absolute destruction of my bespoke silk sheets.
I looked around. My bedroom looked like a crime scene of passion. My tuxedo shirt was shredded on the floor. My shoes were kicked into separate corners. The holster for my Sig Sauer was hanging off the lampshade.
I smiled.
I climbed out of bed, pulling on a pair of grey sweatpants. I didn't bother with a shirt. I walked down the hall, following the scent of burnt sugar.
The kitchen was bright, bathed in the morning sun that streamed through the (bulletproof) glass.
Ezra was at the stove.
He was wearing my spare dress shirt. It was comical—the sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, the hem hit his mid-thigh, and the collar hung loose around his neck, exposing the bruising I had left there last night. He was barefoot.
He was flipping crêpes with a terrifyingly casual flick of his wrist.
"You're wearing my shirt," I noted, leaning against the doorframe.
Ezra didn't turn around. "Mine was covered in garage grease and hydraulic fluid. And you ripped the buttons off mine. Consider this a requisition of company property."
"It looks better on you," I admitted.
Ezra paused. He turned his head slightly, a smirk playing on his lips. "Careful, Julian. Compliments before coffee? You'll spoil me."
He pointed a spatula at the island.
"Sit. Leo is already on his second one. He says the structural integrity is sound."
I looked at the kitchen island.
Leo was sitting on his stool, swinging his legs. He was covered in powdered sugar. He looked up at me. His eyes darted to the scratches on my chest, then to Ezra, then back to me.
He gave me a slow, deliberate thumbs-up.
I felt my face heat. My six-year-old knows I got laid.
"Good morning, Leo," I said, clearing my throat and sitting down next to him.
Ezra slid a plate in front of me. Crêpes with lemon curd and raspberries. It looked like art.
"Eat," Ezra commanded. "You burned a lot of calories last night. Your glucose levels are low."
He walked around the island to pour me coffee. As he leaned over to fill my mug, his shirt gaped open. I saw the bandage on his ribs. I saw the new marks I had left on his collarbone.
I reached out, resting my hand on his hip.
"How are you feeling?" I asked quietly, pitching my voice low so Leo wouldn't hear the subtext. "The ribs?"
"Manageable," Ezra murmured. He placed his hand over mine, his thumb rubbing my knuckles. "The patient made a remarkable recovery thanks to... vigorous physical therapy."
I choked on my coffee.
Leo giggled.
It was a rusty, creaky sound—like a door that hadn't been opened in years—but it was a giggle.
I froze. Ezra froze.
We both looked at Leo. The boy slammed his hand over his mouth, his eyes wide, looking like he’d been caught stealing a cookie.
Ezra slowly lowered the coffee pot.
"Leo," Ezra said, his voice deadly serious. "Did you just engage in audible laughter?"
Leo nodded slowly.
Ezra adjusted his glasses. "Acceptable. Laughter releases endorphins. It aids digestion. Carry on."
Leo grinned behind his hand.
I looked at them. The assassin in my shirt. The traumatized boy covered in sugar. The sun on the marble counter.
My chest ached with a feeling so foreign I almost didn't recognize it. Happiness.
"So," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "What is the agenda for today? More tactical sandbox drills?"
"Negative," Ezra said, hopping up to sit on the counter. He grabbed a raspberry and popped it into his mouth. "Today is Sunday. Sunday is Rest Day. We are going to build a pillow fort in the living room. We are going to watch movies where things explode. And we are not leaving the perimeter."
"I have work," I started automatically, reaching for my phone on the counter.
"No," Ezra cut me off. He picked up my phone before I could touch it. He dropped it into a pitcher of ice water.
SPLASH.
I stared at the pitcher. "Ezra. That was a secure satellite phone. It cost two thousand pounds."
"Now it’s a submarine," Ezra shrugged. "You're off the clock, Julian. Thorne is licking his wounds. The police are confused about the unconscious men in your garage. You have a twenty-four-hour window before the world starts burning again."
He leaned forward, bracing his hands on my knees.
"Take the day off," he ordered softly. "Be a dad. Be my... partner. Let the rest of the world rot for a few hours."
I looked at my drowning phone. I looked at Leo, who was watching me with hopeful eyes.
I looked at Ezra.
"Fine," I sighed, though I was smiling. "But you're buying me a new phone."
"Put it on my tab," Ezra winked. "Now, come on. Leo wants to watch Home Alone. He thinks Kevin McCallister is a tactical genius."
"He is," Leo whispered.
I whipped my head around.
Leo grabbed his plate and ran toward the living room before I could say a word.
"Two words," I breathed, looking at Ezra. "He said two words."
"He said 'locks' the other night," Ezra reminded me, sliding off the counter. He walked over and kissed me—soft, sweet, and tasting of raspberries. "He's healing, Julian. Because he feels safe."
Ezra pulled back, his grey eyes shining.
"We make a good team, Mr. Vane."
"The best," I agreed, pulling him in for another kiss.
We spent the day in a fortress made of sofa cushions. We ate popcorn. We watched Joe Pesci get hit in the head with paint cans.
It was perfect.
It was the best day of my life.
And because I was a Fixer, and because I knew how the universe worked... I knew it was the calm before the hurricane.
Thorne wouldn't stop. He couldn't stop.
But as I watched Ezra teaching Leo how to set a tripwire using dental floss and a bell, I realized something.
I pitied Thorne.
He was coming for a businessman. He didn't know he was walking into a war with a family.
- Writer
