“What do I do, then?”
“You can help Cooper finish setting the table.” Mrs. Mel points toward the dining room. “Along with Kyle, since he wants to do nothing but hover.”
Both boys open their mouths to respond but slam them shut quickly.
“Rule number one in the Hendrix family: Momma says it once, and everyone listens,” I whisper, causing Alise and Ramona to giggle.
“She is gonna fit in just fine,” Beau says as both boys turn and slink toward the dining room to join their older brother.
After that, we fall into a natural rhythm that feels unnaturally easy. I chop while Ramona seasons. Alise assembles bread on a tray. And Beau stirs while Darius pretends he’s not sneaking pieces of bread off the tray almost as quickly as Alise puts them there. All of this happens while Mrs. Mel watches us move around the kitchen like the seasoned general she is.
The noise settles around me, not overwhelming but warm. It’s alive, like I’m standing next to a bonfire: too much if you get too close, but intoxicating if you find the right distance.
“They’re a lot,” Kyle murmurs near my ear as he slides beside me at the island.
My hand trembles on the knife. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“But you were thinking it.”
A startled laugh slips out. “I don’t think I have the emotional stamina to manage all of you without a crisis budget.”
“You’re not managing us, just surviving.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“It’s the truth.”
Before I can respond, Cooper bellows from the next room. “If y’all don’t get in here in thirty seconds, I’m eating everything myself!”
“He’s been pacing like he’s hosting the president.” Ramona rolls her eyes.
“Lord have mercy,” Ms. Mel mutters.
We gather dishes in a chaotic but shockingly functional line, and Kyle catches my eye as we step toward the dining room.
“You’re doing better than you think,” he murmurs, and somehow, I believe him.
The dining room feels less chaotic than the kitchen, but it’s loud in a way that feels… lived in. A long wooden table stretches across the room, big enough to fit a small army, which I guess is what the Hendrix family is. Every one of the chairs is different. Some chairs have cushions, some are wooden, and it seems someone dragged one from a desk upstairs. A bouquet of wildflowers sits in a mason jar, slightly lopsided but clearly placed with care.
Cooper is standing at the head of the table like he’s presenting a five-course tasting menu at a Michelin-star restaurant. “Please be respectful of the serving order, and—Mona, stop laughing.”
Ramona kisses his cheek loudly. “You’re adorable.”
“I am organized.”
“You’re adorableandorganized,” she teases as his ears turn a soft shade of pink.
I blink at the sight. This is not the Cooper Hendrix I know. Not the drill-sergeant hockey coach whose posture alone straightens entire conference rooms. Not the man who can shut down a full-media panic with one clipped sentence. This Cooper—bickering with his wife about table settings, looking almost shy about it—isso startlingly human it knocks something loose in my chest.
Kyle leans in, pretending to inspect a stack of napkins while his voice dips for me alone. “He’s not usually this… theatrical. But give him a dinner to host, and he goes full Broadway.”
I laugh under my breath, too quick to catch. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him… like this.”
“Most people don’t,” Kyle says, grabbing plates before Cooper can snatch them away. “Home coach is a rare Pokémon.”
It should be comforting, seeing Cooper relaxed. Instead, it makes the room tilt just slightly, because ifheis different here… my gaze drifts to Kyle because he’s different, too. It’s not as obvious as it is with Cooper. It’s subtler. I see it in the faint tension in his shoulders and the carefulness hiding beneath every easy line he throws across the room. With me, he is teasing and loose around the edges, but here with his family, he’s on guard in ways I didn’t recognize until I actually looked.
I notice it in the way he deflects Cole’s chirping with a sharp quip that lands just a hair too fast and how he hovers on the outside of everything like he’s bracing for impact. I watch how he glances toward Cooper before speaking, like checking wind direction before a shot on goal. Sarcasm becomes his armor, and his silence a strategy. That’s when it hits me, because outside of the office, I’m the opposite. When I’m at the office, I shrink and try to calculate my nextmove, but not here. In the middle of allthischaos—his family—he’s the one who starts folding inward.
