The question is genuine. Not demanding. Not calculating. Just asking.
"Coffee," I say. "And a shower. And maybe to see the lake in daylight?"
"Done." Dorian sits up, already moving. "I'll get the coffee started."
"I'll find you clean clothes," Oakley offers.
"I'll ensure the grounds are secure so you can explore freely," Corvus adds.
They're all scrambling. Eager. Trying so hard to give me what I want.
It's terrifying how much they care.
Anhourlater,I'mshowered, dressed in soft leggings and one of Oakley's hoodies that smells like cedar, standing in the kitchen doorway watching three Alphas who are supposed to be making breakfast.
Except they're not actually cooking. They're just... staring at me.
Dorian has a spatula in one hand, bacon sizzling in the pan behind him, completely forgotten. Oakley's holding an egg over a bowl, frozen mid-crack. Corvus has the coffee pot in his hand but he's not pouring, just watching me with those dark, calculating eyes that miss nothing.
"Are you going to cook," I ask, fighting a smile, "or just stand there?"
The spell breaks. Dorian swears and spins back to the stove where the bacon is definitely starting to burn. Oakley fumbles the egg and it splatters on the counter. Corvus finally pours the coffee but misses the cup slightly, dark liquid pooling on the granite.
I laugh. Really laugh, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep that hasn't felt light in months.
"You're terrible at this," I say, moving into the kitchen to rescue the bacon before it becomes charcoal.
"We're excellent at this," Dorian protests, but he's grinning as he hands me the spatula. "You're just distracting."
"I'm wearing a hoodie and leggings."
"You're wearingmyhoodie," Oakley points out, finally cleaning up the egg situation. "And you look—" He stops, shakes his head. "You're very distracting."
"Extremely," Corvus agrees, wiping up the spilled coffee. "We're not usually this incompetent in the kitchen."
"Usually?" I flip the bacon, saving it from certain death.
"We can cook quite well," Dorian says. "But having you here, watching us, smelling like—" He cuts himself off, throat working as he swallows. "It's difficult to concentrate."
Something warm unfurls in my chest. They're not pretending. Not playing it cool. Just admitting that I affect them as much as they affect me.
I finish the bacon, start fresh eggs while they hover around me like satellites—drawn close but trying not to crowd. Oakley sets the table. Corvus manages to successfully pour coffee this time. Dorian watches me cook with an expression I can't quite read—hungry, but not for food.
"You're good at this," Oakley observes.
"My dad taught me." I crack eggs into a bowl. "After my mom left, it was just us. We learned to take care of each other."
Silence falls. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
"I'm sorry," Dorian says quietly. "About your mom. About how we used that against you."
I pause, whisk in hand. He's apologizing. Actually apologizing.
"Thank you," I say finally. "That means something."
"We were cruel," Oakley adds. "I was cruel. I knew it was wrong and I did it anyway."
"Why?" I ask, because I need to understand. "Why target me specifically?"
