But he hadn’t just walked away. He’d told Aric he was leaving and offered a token to show he’d be back. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“He said it was a secret.” Aric patted the beret. “Our secret.”

She really felt like stomping her foot and having her own version of a tantrum. But the secret wasn’t one a mother had to know, so Hawk hadn’t overstepped the mom-rules.

“Well.” Her emotions felt like someone had whisked them into a froth. “I’m glad he made it back safe.”

“He got an ouchy.” Aric scowled. “He and Gabe fighted, and Hawk got hurt. There was blood.”

“He was hurt?” She’d thought Aric had just run back there for another hug.

It took a while, but he told her the story of the fight. Except for why the brothers had been brawling.

She’d probably never figure it out. Male reasoning didn’t follow logical patterns.

“All right, honey bear, pick out your bedtime story.”

An hour later, Hawk walked into Mako’s place and was oddly reassured the place didn’t look different from in the past aside from small changes.

A children’s book lay on the sectional, a box of crayons and coloring book on the dining room table. Two small socks had been abandoned near the door.

A juice box on the kitchen counter sat next to an open storage container of cookies. Someone had gotten a bedtime snack.

Wanting his sons to hang out here when at the Hermitage, Mako had furnished his house accordingly. The apartment upstairs had been his private quarters—and he’d decreed the downstairs to be public space.

Since anything in the kitchen was considered communal, Hawk helped himself. Damn, he did love peanut butter cookies.

The pocket door to the apartment upstairs was closed, but he could hear Kit singing a lullaby.

A funny feeling brewed in his gut—like nostalgia for something he’d never had. No one had ever sung to him at night.

After pouring himself a glass of lemonade, he took a seat at the island and waited. The kitchen was spotless, except for the cookies and juice box, which meant Kit would undoubtedly come to tidy up.

Before he could indulge in a third cookie, she walked downstairs and was halfway across the room before noticing him.

There, she froze, obviously unsure of what to say.

Jesus, the two of them were too much alike.

He gestured to her—keep coming.

Silently, she approached.

He studied her, pleased with how healthy she looked. Back to a good weight. Skin tanned with a light sunburn on her arms. Shoulder-length, brown hair now glossy with golden streaks.

She moved like nothing hurt any longer. The splint was gone, and she had new muscles in her arms. The slice on her cheek had healed to a pale pink line.

He nodded. “You look better.”

“You don’t.”