It starts the second I step into the kitchen. The familiarity, the rightness of the moment.
We move around the space as though we’ve done it a million times, even though this rhythm is new for us. Milton sets out ingredients, his lips moving, and I catch that he’s singing a song I know. Korbin gets my attention and tells me it’s off key, and some of the words are made up since he doesn’t remember all of them. Lincoln stands at the stove, stirring the contents of a simmering pot. Korbin moves aimlessly around setting the table, expression unreadable, but his presence unmistakable.
I’m at the counter beside Lincoln chopping vegetables. He steps behind me, reaching around my hip for the wooden spoon. His hand brushes against my arm lightly, but I feel the tingles running all the way up my spine.
Sorry,he signs, except I don’t think he’s sorry at all.
I try to keep my voice steady as I speak. “You did,” I clear my scratchy throat, swallow, then mouth the rest, “that on purpose.”
His smirk tells me I’m right as he signs.
Maybe.
Milton swipes the container of cauliflower, carrots, and broccoli I just chopped.
“Milton,” I mouth, fighting to hold back my laughter. “Give those back.”
“Nope. You want them, you gotta come get them.” He winks, picks up a piece of carrot and pops it into his mouth like a gremlin.
I smirk back at him. He thinks he’s won, but he’s wrong. I step away from Lincoln toward Milton. He realizes I’m coming after him. He winks, moves the container, lifting it over his head, and starts backing away as he laughs.
“This is harassment,” I say while signing. I know they’ve been learning and they’ve been trying to work it into our conversations so they can practice.
“This is teamwork,” Milton corrects, speaking slowly. “Motivational teamwork. Plus, if it gets you to chase me, then I’m not going to complain.”
Lincoln taps me on the shoulder. “He’s lucky he’s cute,” his lips say, but what he signs isn’t exactly the same, so I quickly show him the correct way, and he nods in appreciation while repeating it.
Milton steps in front of me, leaning in and kissing me softly on the lips, then hands the bowl back to me before speaking. “I heard that!”
“You were supposed to,” Lincoln fires back, causing the three of us to laugh.
Korbin doesn’t say much, but he’s there, watching our interactions with thoughtful eyes. Steady, solid. Steam billowsup from the stove, and Korbin angles himself between me and the heat, protecting me from any potential danger. His scent rolls low and grounding—peach and honeydew—something that settles in my chest.
Baby steps. With each passing day, the more time we spend together, he’s letting his guard down. I think speaking with my brother really changed things between us.
Every time one of them comes close to me, their alpha pheromones brush against me—sandalwood, peach, grapefruit. It slides over my skin, under it, curling down my spine.
And worst of all… or best of all… my own omega scent rises in response.
Sweet. Warm. Embarrassing.
They notice.
I know they do.
Because instead of running, they move closer to me.
We need to get dinner done, or we’re going to starve.I step away from them and back to the counter, picking up the knife to finish chopping the last of the vegetables.
I can feel their eyes on me, and my body heats with excitement. For the first time in my life, I truly feel wanted. That a pack sees me as the perfect omega for them. Slowly, all the doubt of my past starts to slip away. All the names I’ve been called, the abuse I was forced to endure, the heartbreak, has helped mold me into the woman I am today.
We all get back to cooking dinner. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t flushed and lightheaded from more than the steam of the pots. The air is thick with us, our scents overlapping until it’s hard to tell where one of them ends and the others begin.
Milton keeps brushing his fingers against mine whenever he hands me a dish. Lincoln keeps guiding me with soft touches to my waist, barely there, but enough to make my knees wobble. And Korbin… well, he watches me like he’s memorizing everymicro–reaction—every breath, every shift, every tiny shiver that escapes me.
The tension between us winds tighter with every shared look, every brush of skin, every warm exhale of breath.
I’m starving, but not for food. For them.
