I laugh, the tension finally broken. "That I can definitely provide. Chocolate chip or caramel cashew?" I start to rise, but she pulls me back.
"Julian," she says, her voice soft but steady. "Thank you. For always knowing what to say, what I need to hear."
I cup her face in my hands, suddenly overcome with how much I love this woman. "Sweet thing, that's the easy part. Loving you is the easiest thing I've ever done."
She kisses me then, a slow, tender press of lips that communicates everything words can't. When we part, the wounded look is gone from her eyes, replaced by something more resolute.
"Chocolate chip," she says, a genuine smile playing at her lips. "Two spoons. And maybe call Tristan and Alex? I could use all of your company tonight."
"Coming right up." I stand, watching as she settles back against the cushions. The letter is forgotten for now, its toxic message neutralized by our certainty in what we've built together.
Chapter 36
Camille
Iwake to the sound of hushed voices and the smell of butter browning in a pan. For a moment, I'm disoriented, my body heavy with sleep, my mind struggling to place the mix of scents—coffee and something savory.
The clock on the bedside table reads 8:17. I stretch, my hand automatically moving to my growing belly. Twenty weeks now, and I swear I get bigger every day. My T-shirt—Julian's, actually—has ridden up during the night, exposing the curve of my stomach.
The voices from the kitchen grow louder, more animated. I catch fragments of what sounds suspiciously like an argument.
"—needs to be folded, not stirred," Alex's authoritative tone carries down the hallway.
"Are you serious right now? That's not even a thing people say about omelets," Julian counters.
"Actually, both methods have merits," Tristan's measured voice interjects. "The French technique requires?—"
I slide out of bed, curiosity pulling me toward the kitchen. I slip on a pair of Julian's sweatpants, rolling the waistband several times to keep them from falling off my hips.
When I reach the kitchen doorway, I freeze, taking in the scene before me. All three of them—Alex in what might be the most casual outfit I've ever seen him wear, dark jeans and a gray henley with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows; Julian in sweatpants and nothing else, his chest bare; and Tristan in jeans and a soft blue t-shirt that brings out his eyes—are crowded around the stove. The kitchen island is cluttered with bowls, a carton of eggs, various cheeses, and what looks like ten different vegetables.
"You're both overthinking this," Julian is saying, trying to take a whisk from Alex's hand. "It's an omelet, not nuclear physics."
"It's Camille's favorite," Alex replies, holding the whisk out of Julian's reach. "And you're about to ruin it."
"I'm not ruining anything," Julian protests. "I'm trying to save it from your obsessive folding technique that's going to make it too dry."
"If you'd let me finish explaining," Tristan begins, "the key is in the temperature control and timing, not just the folding versus stirring debate."
I can't help it. A laugh bubbles up from my chest, giving me away. All three heads snap toward me.
"Morning, sunshine," Julian greets me first, abandoning the stove to cross the kitchen and plant a kiss on my lips. "Sleep okay?"
I nod, still taking in the domestic chaos before me. "What's all this?"
"Breakfast," Tristan says simply. "We thought you could use something special after yesterday."
"We've been discussing the optimal technique for your spinach and goat cheese omelet," Alex explains, his tone suggesting this was a serious culinary debate rather than threegrown men squabbling over eggs. "Julian seems to think his method is superior, despite clear evidence to the contrary."
"Because it is," Julian stage-whispers, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and guiding me to the kitchen island. "Alex thinks cooking is like one of his business acquisitions where he gets to take over and push everyone around."
"I just want it done correctly," Alex retorts, but there's no real heat in his words. His eyes soften when they land on me. "How are you feeling this morning?"
The simple question, layered with genuine concern, coupled with the scene before me—these three men, so different yet somehow fitting together, making breakfast just to cheer me up—sends a wave of emotion crashing through me. My eyes suddenly burn with unshed tears.
"Oh shit," Alex says, the whisk clattering to the counter as he steps toward me. "Did we do something wrong? Is it the smell? Morning sickness again?" His usual composure fractures with worry.
I shake my head quickly, fighting through the tightness in my throat. "No, you did everything right." A tear escapes despite my efforts, tracing a warm path down my cheek. "So right that it’s making me cry."
