The rain had stopped by the time they returned home. The driveway glistened under the soft yellow lights as Wes carried the last of Mina's shopping bags inside. The air smelled faintly of wet earth and jasmine.
"Go ahead and freshen up," he said, locking the door behind them. "I'll make some refreshments."
Mina nodded, still half dazed from the evening. Her mind replayed everything, the easy way he'd joked with her at the mall, how he'd quietly paid for everything without making her feel like a burden, the way people had turned to glance at them as they walked side by side. She had noticed those looks; a few strangers had probably mistaken them for a couple, not relatives.
And for a confusing moment, she hadn't minded the thought.
By the time she exited the shared bathroom in a loose shirt and shorts, her hair still damp from the shower, Wes had changed into a dark cotton T-shirt and was setting two tall glasses of halo-halo on the table.
"I owed you a halo-halo," he said, a faint grin tugging at his lips.
Mina laughed softly and sat down across from him. The cool air from the house mixed with the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of crickets outside. For the first time in months, she felt like she could breathe.
"This is really good," she said after a spoonful. "You even got the leche flan right. I'm impressed."
"I had to live alone for years," Wes replied, leaning back. "You either learn to make decent food or live off takeout."
"Then you must've mastered both," she teased.
He smiled. "Fair point."
For a while, they ate in companionable silence. The television in the next room was muted, its screen reflecting the faint shimmer of lights from the kitchen. Mina studied him when he wasn't looking, the sharp but gentle lines of his face, the way his eyes softened when he smiled.
He was kind in a quiet, effortless way. Not the performative kind of kindness she'd grown used to from people who wanted something in return. Wes simply was.
And that… was dangerous.
She lowered her gaze, suddenly self-conscious. He's just being nice, she told herself. Don't overthink it. But part of her couldn't help wondering, how could someone be so distant by blood, yet feel so familiar?
Wes broke the silence first. "You handled today well. Not many people could uproot their life, move halfway across the world on short notice and still smile through it."
"I've had practice," she said lightly.
He tilted his head. "Practice?"
She stirred the ice in her glass. "At pretending everything's okay."
Wes didn't respond right away. When he finally did, his voice was quiet. "You don't have to pretend here."
The words sank deep, more comforting than he probably meant them to be. Mina felt a lump in her throat she didn't expect.
"Thanks," she murmured. "That means more than you think."
He gave a small, reassuring nod and began gathering the empty glasses. "Get some rest. You've had a long day. Tomorrow we'll get you settled in properly and I'll have that water heater fixed."
Mina stood as he turned toward the sink. "Uncle?"
He looked over his shoulder.
"I… just wanted to say thank you. For everything. You didn't have to do any of this."
"You're family, Mina." His tone was gentle, matter-of-fact. "It's what family does."
She smiled faintly. "Not all families."
Something flickered in his eyes, understanding maybe, or quiet sadness but he didn't press the point.
"Good night," he said simply.
"Good night," she replied, her voice soft.
As she walked down the hallway toward her room, Mina glanced back once. Wes was still in the kitchen, rinsing the glasses under warm light, his profile calm, unreadable.
When she closed her bedroom door, she leaned against it, her heart beating faster than she wanted to admit.
He's just being kind, she told herself again.
But the warmth of his voice, the small things he did without being asked, they replayed in her mind like scenes from a film.
Lying in bed, she stared at the ceiling, exhaustion fighting the quiet rush of her thoughts. Somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, she began to imagine a future where maybe, just maybe, his kindness meant something more.
And even though she knew it was foolish, it made her feel less alone.
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Wes stepped back from the stainless steel island, wiping the last bead of moisture from the granite. He surveyed the gleaming, sterile kitchen. Not bad for a CEO, he thought, suppressing a grim smile.
Until a month ago, this sprawling, meticulously modern house, which was officially listed as his place of residence in the country, had been the covert local data analysis hub for UMBRA, his shadow organization.
Upwards of fifteen to twenty covert operatives and analysts usually filtered through these rooms on a daily basis. Handling everything from cybersecurity and grey hat hacking to geopolitical data analysis. Wes, despite being the organization's leader and chief strategist, preferred to be immersed in the local rhythm of the cogs that keeps the wheels of UMBRA turning.
Now, it was just him.
The change was the direct result of receiving confirmed intelligence reports that an unknown party had put him under daily observation. The unanimous decision from the Department Chiefs was swift, Wes had to fully embrace his civilian persona, the outgoing, charismatic celebrity CEO of their legitimate front, Transnational Logistics Group (TLG), until the identity and purpose of the watchers were determined.
He sighed, the adjustment still chafing. He was accustomed to the deep dive, the constant, intricate flow of UMBRA's day-to-day operations. Now, he was restricted only to TLG matters, and the enforced normalcy was making him stir-crazy.
The arrival of his niece had been a tactical necessity. A bachelor living alone in a house this size was a siren call for unwanted curiosity. When news arrived that a distant relative, a niece, had been left homeless by a hostile divorce, Wes saw an opportunity to cement his public image as a kind-hearted family man. He just hadn't anticipated that the bright and innocent little girl from his memories would have already blossomed into a lovely young woman.
Thank God I stopped myself from decorating her room with teddy bears, he thought wryly. That would have been awkward.
He pulled out his secure phone. A missed call from Richard, his chief analyst and the architect of UMBRA's digital defenses, flickered on the screen. Wes hit redial. Richard answered instantly, the secure connection stable despite the distance from Singapore.
"Wes! Good you finally called. We've got trouble. Another shipment was hit near the Strait of Malacca."
"Was it the same group from before?" Wes asked, his voice instantly losing the smooth CEO cadence.
"Yes, likely the same Indonesian pirate group that hit the last one," Richard confirmed, sounding baffled. "But it's strange. These small groups don't usually target well-armed transports. And unlike before, they weren't scared off by firing a couple of warning shots either."
"How bad was it? Any casualties?"
"Cargo is intact, a few light injuries; body armor took the worst of it. But Wes, our ship was swarmed. Eight small, fast-attack craft came in from all sides, and the pirates were armed with military-grade automatic rifles. Our security only managed to fend them off by using part of the ship's fuel reserves and turning the water cannon into a makeshift flamethrower."
"That must have been quite the sight," Wes murmured, already running scenarios in his head.
"I'll say. Five of the pirate crafts instantly turned into floating briquettes. So, what's the move for the next shipments? Do we reroute? Willis wants to take them head-on."
"I'm with Willis," Wes decided instantly. "They'll just keep chasing us if we reroute. We need to put the fear of God into them. Have Willis issue RPG-7s to our teams for every shipment passing through that hotspot."
A brief pause from Singapore. "Um... Willis is specifically asking for the M134 Miniguns."
Wes shook his head, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "If he's willing to pay the seven hundred dollars per twelve seconds cost of using it, then tell him to go right ahead. Otherwise, we stick with the ever cost-effective RPGs."
He ended the call. Shock and awe was always tempting, but they were running a business, after all. Willis would have to make do with the RPG-7s. The problem wasn't the pirates; the problem was who was bankrolling them and where they got the military-grade hardware. The pirates were just the noise.