Page 5 of Love for Thea

The dogs weaved through the legs of family members and SEALs alike, adding to the joyous din. One particularly boisterous Border Collie, sensing an unfamiliar but friendly presence, nipped at Hurricane’s heels as he tried to herd him towards the house.

“Easy there, fella,” Hurricane chuckled, reaching down to scratch the dog behind the ears. “Not a sheep, boy.”

Falcon, a smirk playing on his lips, nudged Reef. “Never thought you’d be herded, period, until that little terrier latched onto you during the Caracas extraction. Still got that chew toy?”

Picasso, ever observant, took it all in. “This is lively,” he deadpanned, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. He’d faced down armed insurgents, but the sheer volume of familial love and chaos was something else entirely.

“Lively is an understatement,” Reef mumbled, his faded board shorts and sun-streaked hair a clear testament to the coastal lifestyle that had earned him his call sign. He narrowly avoided a collision with a runaway wheelbarrow carrying party streamers.

Grizzly’s smirk grew a bit softer as he led the way. “Alright, boys, try not to break anything,” he said, glancing back. “And y’all don’t worry about the dogs because they’ve already been fed. Now, the women, well, they mostly just bite if you don’t appreciate the cookin’ or try to get around their personal intel gathering.” He let out a low chuckle as the quiet sounds of the countryside settled in around them while they made their way to the house.

He clapped Falcon on the shoulder, who already looked like he was bracing for a tactical engagement rather than a family reunion.

As they stepped into the warm, bustling house, the decibel level managed to climb even higher. The kitchen was overflowing with siblings, cousins, and neighbors. The aroma of spices, roasting meat, and baking pies mingled in a delicious, overwhelming cloud.

“Maybe we should have worn our battle uniforms,” Falcon muttered under his breath to Reef, eyeing the vibrant chaos. “At least then we’d have body armor.”

At the center of the organized chaos was Marjorie Adams. She had the lean, capable stance of a fierce rancher’s wife who had worked the land just as hard as her husband. With her commanding height of nearly 5’9”, she carried herself with an undeniable presence. Yet, her sun-weathered face was a beautiful map of deep laugh lines, a clear testament to a woman who loved fiercely, laughed loudly, and lived life to the absolute maximum. She immediately took charge, wiping her hands on a dish towel as she parted the sea of relatives.

“Oh, my goodness, you’re all here! And look at this, one of you actually had the good sense to bring a lovely girl!” Her eyes twinkled as she spotted Gabriella trailing behind the team. She threw her arms around her son’s substantial frame in another fierce hug before turning her formidable, joyous attention to the newcomers.

“Ben, honey, introduce us properly,” she urged.

“Mom, Dad, everyone, these are my teammates,” Grizzly began, gesturing to the men beside him. “This is Falcon, Reef, and Hurricane.”

Then Grizzly turned to the last pair. “And my boss, Senior Chief⁠—”

“Picasso Waverly, ma’am,” Picasso interjected smoothly, cutting Grizzly off. He offered Marjorie his most charming, professional smile.

Marjorie waved a hand dismissively, though her eyes danced with warmth. “Oh, stop that right now, Ben. We aren’t in the military here, and we certainly don’t use call signs in my kitchen. I want to know your given names, boys.”

Before Picasso could attempt to deflect, Gabriella stepped forward. She wrapped an arm around Picasso’s waist, looking at Marjorie with a sweet, mischievous smile. “Oh, he’d probably never tell you, Mrs. Adams. His real name is Orion. Orion Waverly.”

A sudden, stunned silence descended upon the SEAL team, quickly replaced by a collective gasp from Grizzly, Falcon, Reef, and Hurricane. Picasso froze, his charming smile shattering instantly.

“Orion?” Falcon squawked, his voice cracking with disbelief. “Your real name is Orion? As in, the constellation?”

Reef clapped a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking. “Senior Chief Orion Waverly. We’ve known you for years, and you let us call you Picasso because you thought Orion wasn’t tough enough?”

Hurricane leaned in closer, his eyes gleaming. “No wonder you’re so good at planning, Orion. You’re literally named after the heavens!”

Picasso’s face flushed a deep, magnificent red. “Gabriella!” he muttered through gritted teeth.

The commotion drew the attention of Grizzly’s brothers, who exchanged knowing glances.

“Well, well, well,” Mace drawled. “And here I thought our intel on the SEALs was always top-notch.”

Logan shared a quick, knowing smirk with Mace, a silent exchange that spoke of years of their own shared embarrassments. He then clapped Picasso on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Orion. We’ve had a few awkward names ourselves. Believe me, yours is actually dignified compared to what Mace used to be called in Denver.”

Mace’s laughter vanished, replaced by a warning glare. “Don’t you dare, Logan.”

From across the room, Wyatt, the Air Force PJ, let out a loud whoop. “Orion! Man, next time you’re on a hot extraction, your team can call for ‘Orion’ to clear the LZ!”

Gabriella had initially savored the moment, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. But as Falcon, Reef, Hurricane, Mace, Logan, and Wyatt dissolved into raucous laughter, and Picasso’s flush deepened past embarrassment into genuine humiliation, a flicker of concern crossed her face. The fun had gone too far. Gabriella’s Irish temper, usually reserved for truly egregious offenses, flared. Her small frame stiffened.

“Alright, that’s enough, you lot!” she snapped, her voice, though tiny, cutting through the sudden din with surprising force. Her red hair seemed to bristle, and her green eyes, previously sparkling with mischief, now held a steely glint. “It was supposed to be a little joke, not a lynching! He’s Orion, yes, and it’s a perfectly good name. Now, if you want to keep your kneecaps, I suggest you stop tormenting him.”

She squeezed Picasso’s arm again, this time more reassuringly than teasingly. “Honestly, you’d think grown men would have better things to do than pick on their Senior Chief.”