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“Incorrect.” His eyes return to the screen. “It’s responsible.”
Across the table, Dad snorts, and Mom pinches the bridge of her nose. Colton just shakes his head.
“It’s been an hour,” Liam points out.
“One hour and seven minutes.” The answer comes entirely too fast. Apparently, fatherhood has broken Ronan.
“You have a problem with Xavier watching Ollie?” Declan asks with a tone in his voice that no one could mistake for humor.
Ronan glances up from his laptop.
“Has Xavier ever raised a baby, or Jess, for that matter? No, they have not. What if something happens and they don’t know what to do?”
“Babe, they could probably figure it out because it’s on the three-page list of instructions you had them read and sign.” The amusement in Colton’s voice is obvious. Ronan ignores it. Most people would be embarrassed. Ronan appears immune to embarrassment when it comes to Ollie.
I shift my attention to Jaxon. He’s smiling. Not the polite smile he gives strangers, a real one. His eyes move between Ronan and Colton as they continue their argument. I’ve noticed he does that around the family. Like he’s studying something, trying to understand it.
The tablet dings. Ronan immediately checks it. Declan groans. Liam mutters something about needing an intervention. Jaxon’s smile widens. The expression from earlier appears again, only for a second. Then it’s gone. I still don’t know what it means. I don’t like not knowing things.
Dinner is over, and a blueprint of the meeting location is laid out across the table. The shift in atmosphere is immediate. The joking stops, the laughter disappears. Even Ronan finally closes the tablet.
Duncan stands at the head of the table explaining positions, routes, and contingencies. Everyone listens. Jaxon more than most. His eyes stay locked on the papers spread out before him. Most civilians would be overwhelmed. Jaxon studies the layout the same way I imagine he studied mission briefings in the Marines. Looking for weaknesses. Looking for things that don’t fit.
His gaze flicks to Duncan. Then back to the blueprint. His brow furrows. His teeth catch his bottom lip. I’ve spent enough time watching him to recognize the behavior. He’s done it several times, usually right before asking a question.
“What is it, Jaxon?” I ask.
“Huh? What?” His head snaps up. Surprised.
A small smile threatens to pull at the corner of my mouth. For a man who notices everything, he can be remarkably unaware when people are watching him.
“I can tell you want to say something.” I tap the blueprint.
“What is it?”
His eyes move to Duncan. Then to me. Then back to the table. He’s still debating whether he should speak. He hasn’t realized yet that no one at this table cares where an idea comes from, only whether it’s useful. He hesitates for another beat.
“You are splitting the manpower here and here.” He points to two spots on the map. “But see this?” His finger taps an outbuilding near the rear of the property. “That’s a reinforced outbuilding. Even if you use a heat scan, it won’t pick up through those walls.”
The room goes quiet. Not because anyone disagrees, but because everyone is listening. Jaxon stops and looks up at Duncan, then back down at the blueprint. As though he’s still deciding whether he should continue.
“If I were Manny, I would have extra manpower in there just in case. The man door is less than three feet from the access point to the main floor.”
His finger traces the route. I watch the transformation happen in real time. The uncertainty disappears. The hesitation vanishes. This is familiar territory for him. It’s strategy, risk assessment, and threat analysis. For the first time since he arrived here, Jaxon looks completely comfortable.
Duncan leans over the blueprint. Ronan abandons his laptop entirely. Nobody interrupts. Nobody dismisses him.
Because the moment Jaxon started talking, he stopped sounding like a man caught in the middle of a problem. He started sounding like someone trained to solve them. Duncan studies the building for several seconds. Then nods once.
“Good catch.”
Jaxon immediately looks uncomfortable again. As though being complimented is somehow worse than discussing a potential ambush.
“Finn, make sure that door is blocked. Call Taylor. He’s getting the gear from the compound. See if he has something that will work.”
“On it.”
“Is there anything else you see?” Duncan asks.
