The siege was done. The biological imperative that had driven us had receded. Now we had to figure out what was left.
"Food," Alfie said suddenly. The void in my stomach woke up and roared. "I need food. I need grease. I need carbohydrates in massive, irresponsible quantities."
"Cal," Kit said. "Cal will have food."
"I can't move," Zia said. "Leave me here. Save yourselves."
"Negative," Euan said. He stood up. He was naked, unashamed, and moved with the stiff dignity of a man whose joints had fused. He offered a hand to Zia. "We move as a unit. To the shower. Then to the kitchen."
"Shower?" Zia eyed him. "Together?"
"Efficiency," Euan said, though his ears turned pink. "And safety. I don't trust you not to slip."
"He just wants to look at you," I teased, rolling out of bed and nearly face-planting as my legs remembered gravity. "We all do."
We stumbled to the ensuite. It was a massive walk-in thing, thankfully, because coordination was at an all-time low.
The shower was less erotic and more logistical. We washed each other with silent, tender efficiency. Washing the sweat and the slick and the scent of the heat off our skin felt like a ritual. I soaped Zia’s back, careful of the bruises, murmuring nonsense praise when she flinched. Kit washed her hair, his large hands impossibly gentle. Euan managed the water temperature like he was mixing a track.
When we finally emerged, wrapped in towels and robes, we felt human again. Or at least, like highly evolved mammals.
We walked down the hallway to the main living area. The house was quiet.
Cal was in the kitchen.
Of course he was.
He was standing at the stove, wearing a soft jumper and pajama pants, flipping pancakes with a rhythm that was soothing to watch. The table was set. Juice. Coffee. Tea. A mountain of bacon.
He looked up as we shuffled in. His eyes scanned us, the bruises on our necks, the way we were huddled together like a single organism, the exhaustion etched into our faces.
He didn't smile. He just nodded.
"Welcome back," Cal said. "Sit. Eat."
We sat. We ate like starving wolves. For ten minutes, the only sound was cutlery scraping plates and the aggressive chewing of bacon.
I watched Zia. She was sitting between Kit and Euan, wearing one of my hoodies that reached her knees. She was attacking a stack of pancakes with a ferocity that made me want to write a sonnet about maple syrup.
She caught me staring. She paused, a forkful of eggs halfway to her mouth.
"What?" she asked, mouth full.
"Nothing," I said, propping my chin on my hand. "Just... checking the mix."
"Mix is good," she said, swallowing. "Mix is solid."
She put the fork down. The silence at the table shifted. It went from hungry to heavy.
"So," Zia said. She looked at her hands. "That happened."
"It did," Kit said, putting down his mug. "Option B."
"Option B," she repeated. She traced the grain of the wood table. "I didn't run."
"You didn't run," I confirmed gently. "You stayed. You opened the door. You let us in."
"I know." She looked up. Her eyes were clear, the neon citrus haze of the heat gone, replaced by the sharp, analytical intelligence of the producer. "And I remember everything. Every minute. I remember begging. I remember you stopping when I asked. I remember... I remember you didn't bite."
