“Ash and Cill,” he bit out. “’Cause, she does, I don’t get it. She didn’t love me. Told her to get sober or get out. We fought. She swore she didn’t have a problem, told me I had a problem. Comin’ back to me and our family smellin’ like stale booze and lookin’ like shit, and I had the problem. Then she got out. That meant she chose the bottle over me. That’s not love. That the same thing with my kids?”

“I don’t know anything about addiction, Mickey, but I would guess she does, and she loved you too. But she’s not in control. The addiction is.”

“That’s weak,” he clipped.

“You’re angry,” I said softly, moving to him, getting close, but not touching him. “I know you know better. Sickness isn’t weak, and alcoholism is an illness.”

He clenched his jaw, looked away and I watched a muscle dance in his cheek.

He knew.

I took a chance and invaded his space. When he didn’t pull away, I burrowed closer, wrapping my arms tight around him and resting my cheek against his chest.

It took him a few moments, but he finally curled an arm around me, cupped the back of my head with his other hand and held my cheek against his warm skin.

“Hunting cabin is out ’cause I’m thinkin’, she doesn’t sort her shit, I’m not givin’ the kids back to her,” he said over my head.

I nodded, my cheek sliding against his chest, wondering but not asking why he’d given them back after her last escapade on Cillian’s birthday.

“And that fuckin’ sucks,” he went on.

It did but I didn’t agree verbally, I just held him tighter.

“She’s still fuckin’ me over. She can’t hold her shit together means I can’t have time with you.”

“We’ll find our times.”

He gave a noncommittal grunt before he stated, “Maybe shit’ll settle, the kids’ll be good in a coupla months and Josie and Jake’ll take ’em while we go up for a coupla days.”

I held on and replied, “That’d be good.”

I felt Mickey’s chest expand with the deep breath he took and then felt his sigh when he let it out.

His hand slid to my jaw and he tipped my head back.

When he got my gaze, he said, “Gotta have my tee so I can go get my boy.”

I nodded, rolled up on my toes and Mickey met me halfway for a lip brush.

I rolled back and he let me go. I went to get my robe, pulled off Mickey’s tee, pulled on the robe and took it back to him.

He had his boots on by the time I returned. Straightening from the daybed, he reached out as I handed him his shirt.