He shifted. “My mom’s name is Crystal. Never met my dad. She is an addict and did a lot of fucked up shit for drugs. I was just one of a dozen of her kids in the system. Her boyfriends came and went, beat us … she looked the other way.”

“That sucks,” I said, remembering what he said to me about Matt.

He smiled. “Yeah. It does suck. But Brad and Jenn were awesome, and I spent eighth grade through my senior year there, the longest I’d been anywhere. Jenn is an amazing cook, and they were patient with all of us kids. The house was clean, our clothes were clean, they were clean … couldn’t really ask for better. Brad’s the reason I decided to become a firefighter and then a hotshot. I always thought he was cool as shit.”

“Do they still call?”

He grinned. “Almost every day.”

“I’m glad they found you. How lucky for them.”

He made a face.

“What?” I asked.

“People usually say they’re glad I found them.”

I shook my head. “No, they’re the lucky ones.”

We stared at each other for a moment, and tension formed in the once empty space between us. I felt at any moment he was going to lean in, but he didn’t.

“Are you close with your family?” he asked.

“I am. My dad is Victor Marcel. He’s sort of a big deal in Arizona. I think he’s just a big deal in general.”

“You said he basically created modern US militia? That’s intense.”

“Then he combined his outfit with the Arizona Recon Border Patrol. It’s quadruple the size of our original unit, and I learned everything I know to protect myself from my father and growing up there. I’ve been in a lot of situations that would make a grown man shit himself, but I’ve never really felt afraid. I don’t think I’m invincible or anything.”

“You’re just confident you can handle it. I see it.”

“Thank you.” I nodded.

“Your mom?”

I laughed. “Christine. She’s more ruthless than my dad. She ran her own unit back in the day. She was a better shot than me until I was nineteen. No one fucks with Christine.”

“I know a woman like that,” he said.

The sun was beginning to set, and a twinge began in my stomach. I stood. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m always hungry.”

“I wasn’t looking forward to my cousins leaving. It’s harder than you’d think to cook for one.”

He chuckled. “I’m aware.”

“You cook?” I asked.

“Do I cook…” he said, standing. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to the kitchen.

When I gave him permission, he began looking through my cabinets and fridge, collecting ingredients and within twenty minutes the house was filled with amazing smells from whatever he had put in the oven.