"Thanks dad," Mary said gratitude as much for the familiar, reassuring gesture as for the caffeine. She took the coffee and leaned in to give her father a one armed hug and kiss on the cheek then rocked back on her heels to take a deep drink from the mug. She was, after all, very grateful for the caffeine too. Hunts took more out of you in your thirties than at nineteen she'd learned quickly enough, both physically (a soreness in her muscles attested to that) and emotionally. It had been hard to get out of bed that morning when all she'd really wanted to do was sleep or just lie there secure in the knowledge that her husband was in bed next to her and her sons had both given in to her indulgence in hovering and texted her that they'd gotten home safely the night before. Nothing like helping the boys you still remember best as a toddler and baby blowing away the monsters that killed their half-brother's mother to make you realize life didn't exactly like you planned she thought wryly, taking another swig of coffee.
"I'd say John says hello," she said, bringing herself back to the conversation at hand, "but he was still snoring like a log when I left. You never told me," she adopted a mock-accusing tone and shook her finger at her father, "how much harder hunting was at thirty than nineteen. I think I pulled muscles I didn't even know I had. I don't know how you and mom did it," and there was that old, achingly familiar stab of pain when she mentioned her mother, that same quick thought, why not her too? But she had her father. She had her father and her family had come through this hunt and she'd focus on that. She took another sip from the mug for something to do with her hands. At this rate I'll have chugged down three cups before we eat.