Aunt Mara stood at the sink, drying her hands on a faded dish towel. The air smelled of roasted chicken, caramelized onions, and something citrusy warming in the oven. She didn't look at Maverick at first.
"You think she's broken, don't you?"
Her voice was steady — not accusing, just piercing.
Maverick paused halfway through wiping down the counter. "No," he said after a beat. "It's not that."
She turned then, one brow raised. "No?"
"She's not broken," he repeated. "But she's... healing. Grieving something she can't even remember. And I'm not trying to fix her, Mara. I'm just trying to be around when she decides to build again."
Aunt Mara studied him. "You speak like someone with a savior complex and a bleeding heart."
He let out a breathless laugh. "Maybe. But I've never pitied her, if that's what you're asking. I've seen her walk into rooms she didn't think she had the right to be in. I've seen her look fear in the face and stay anyway."
"And all this after just a few months?"
He leaned back against the counter. "No. All this after seeing her choose to stay present when disappearing would've been easier."
Mara was quiet.
Then — "You care about her."
It wasn't a question.
"I do."
"Good." She moved to the stove and stirred the sauce slowly. "Because if you didn't, I'd ask you to leave before the chicken hits the table."
Maverick smiled faintly. "Understood."
"Also—" she paused, then added with a side glance, "she doesn't need someone to keep walking behind her like a shadow. She needs someone who can walk beside her without making it about them."
"I know."
"I mean it, Maverick. She's been through enough men trying to hold her like glass. Be better than that."
He nodded solemnly. "I don't want to hold her. I want to stand with her."
A small, almost imperceptible curve of Aunt Mara's lips appeared. "Good answer."
Just then, the front door clicked open and closed.
"She's back," Mara said, reaching into a drawer for utensils. "And if she asks, we were talking about how much you over-season food."
Maverick blinked. "Wait, what?"
"Keep up, Mr. Fernández."
---
LIVING ROOM
The table was pulled out, dishes placed gently. Chicken, roasted vegetables, a salad with cranberries, walnuts, and feta, and warm bread from a bakery down the block. Home, in every sense.
Elizabeth returned to the room, dusting her hands. "She made me throw out a single tiny bag of trash. I feel used."
"You were," Mara said smoothly, setting down the final bowl. "You're welcome."
They sat around the table — the clink of silverware, the soft hum of night.
"I missed this," Elizabeth said after a few bites. "You. Here."
"You had better," Mara muttered, mouth half-full.
Maverick grinned. "You spoil her."
"You mean I feed her?"
"I mean she lets you boss her around. That's elite spoiling behavior."
Elizabeth chuckled. "It's fine. I'm the favorite."
Mara didn't deny it.
She just raised her glass. "To healing."
"To starting," Maverick added.
And Elizabeth?
She just smiled.
"To remembering who I'm becoming."