Then, he blinks. The spell breaks. He lets out a slow, controlled breath, the kind a man takes before doing something difficult.
He finally moves, heading to the pantry and grabbing the broom without a word, but there’s something simmering under his calm expression. The kind of tension that feels like a lit fuse. I watch as he crouches to sweep up the scattered coffee beans, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he grips the broom handle.
I force myself to look away before my brain starts spiraling again. My gaze lands on the others, and I realize they’re not doing much better.
Diego is leaning heavily against the refrigerator, his eyes closed, his hand pressed flat against his chest. He looks like he just ran a marathon.
Dane is standing perfectly still, but his hands are clenched into massive fists at his sides. He’s not looking at me or Rett; he’s staring at the scattered beans on the floor.
And Tristan... Tristan looks completely wrecked. The usual easy charm has been wiped from his face, leaving him looking strained. He’s gripping the edge of the counter like it’s a life raft, and his dark, intense eyes are fixed directly on me.
That look yanks me back to the gallery bathroom. To the feeling of his body caging mine against the wall, his scent fillingthe small space. I remember how he’d hinted at the static, and then the heat, the dizzying pleasure of his fingers inside me, his thumb circling, pressing, until I came apart with a muffled scream against his mouth. I remember the look on his face afterward. That same raw, unguarded, possessive look that’s on all their faces right now.
My cheeks burn with the memory, and I have to force myself to look away from him, back to the relative safety of the mess on the floor.
My god.
Rett finishes sweeping the last of the beans into the dustpan with a sharp, final scrape. He dumps them in the trash and then stands there for a moment, his back to us, just breathing. Finally, he turns, his expression once again under a semblance of control.
That’s when Tristan seems to force himself back to life. He pushes off the counter with a heavy breath and a low “fuck”.
“Should we be concerned that the coffee bag exploded?” he asks. “Was that, like, an omen or something? Because I’m not cleaning up whatever happens next.”
Diego releases a breath and snorts from the fridge. “If coffee beans are starting to sense vibes, we’ve officially got a problem.”
“I think it’s because Rett was trying to assert dominance over the coffee,” I say, my cheeks still warm.
Rett’s eyes slide to me, his eyes still eating me up. “Coffee knows who’s in charge,” he says simply, brushing his hands off.
Tristan groans, dragging a hand down his face. “God, you’re so alpha sometimes I think I’m going to break out in hives.”
“You’re just jealous,” Rett fires back, heading to the sink to wash his hands.
“Jealous? Of your coffee-based power complex? Absolutely not,” Tristan says, grabbing a box of crackers from the counter. He holds it up, inspecting it. “Where does one put... artisanal gluten-free crackers? Do they go with the regular, gluten-full crackers, or do they need their own, emotionally separate shelf?”
“Next to the other crackers is fine,” I say, happy for thedistraction. I take the box from him before he can drop it, and slide it onto a pantry shelf. “It’s called integration. They’ll learn to get along.”
“Bold of you to assume crackers can overcome their differences,” Tristan says with a mock-serious nod.
Diego opens the freezer, his head popping up with a worried frown. “The ice cream should have its own shelf,” he says, glancing at me, and I catch a sliver of heat in his eyes before he focuses on the freezer again. Are they all pretending right now?
“Why?”
“It’s a treat,” he says. “It shouldn’t have to associate with the everyday vegetables.”
Rett glances over his shoulder at me, the smallest flicker of amusement breaking through. “Resilient ice cream. Good to know.”
Dane rolls his shoulders and begins wiping down an already spotless counter. “The real question is why there’s frozen kale in this house in the first place.”
“Because I bought it,” Diego says, crossing his arms. “Some of us like to eat things that didn’t come out of a box labeled Fun Size.”
Tristan leans over me, his broad chest brushing against my back, and a skitter of sensation rolls through me. “Do not slander the magically delicious.”
Diego shakes his head, muttering something in Spanish that sounds suspiciously like an insult about Tristan’s parentage, and opens the fridge again to start rearranging shelves.
Tristan, completely unbothered, starts a debate with Dane about which cereals were the best when they were kids. Their easy, chaotic bickering fills the kitchen, and for a moment, I feel my shoulders relax. It’s almost... normal.
I’m so focused on watching them that I don’t notice Rett has moved until he’s standing right beside me, our arms almost brushing. I glance up to find he’s looking at the spice rack we just bought.
