"You gave me five days. It's been two."
"Overachiever."
"Learned from the best." He grins, and for a second he looks exactly like he did at twelve, all bravado and desperateneed for approval. Then the moment passes and he's just Robin again—twenty-eight and still trying to figure out who he is.
Toby appears next, more restrained but still wrapping around me for a long hug. He smells like Knox now—that wild cat scent mixed with his own familiar softness. Claimed. Mated. The marks on his neck have faded to pale bruises, almost healed before Knox gives him some new ones.
"Glad you're here," he murmurs.
"Wouldn't miss it."
I keep my arm around Robin's shoulders as we move toward the bar proper. Old habit, from when he was small enough to tuck under my arm and I was the only thing standing between him and our parents' chaos. He's too tall for it now, has to hunch slightly to make it work, but neither of us mentions it.
Knox is watching from the office doorway, protective but not interfering. We've reached some kind of understanding, I think. He knows I'm not a threat to his mate. I know he'll take care of Toby. There's respect there, grudging but real.
The other lions are scattered around—Vaughn at the bar polishing glasses, Silas in his corner with a book, Ezra doing something on his phone. They all glance up when I enter, sizing me up. Then they go back to what they were doing. Not hostile. Just watchful.
Good. Watchful is appropriate. They don't know me yet.
And Jason.
Jason's in the kitchen, visible through the pass-through window, and he's—
Fuck.
He's in his element. Moving between stove and counter with easy confidence, stirring pots, adjusting heat levels, tasting from a wooden spoon with focused concentration. No hesitation, no uncertainty—just smooth competence, the kind that comes from years of practice.
His hair's pushed back from his face, slightly damp at the temples from the steam. There's a smudge of something yellow on his cheek—turmeric, probably—and a streak of something red on his forearm that might be chili paste. He's wearing a simple black t-shirt that's somehow gotten splattered with various cooking stains, and he looks more relaxed than I've ever seen him.
Until he notices me watching.
Then the flush starts, creeping up his neck like sunrise, and he nearly drops the spoon. His hand fumbles, catches it, and he turns quickly back to the stove like he can pretend I didn't see.
Too late. I saw everything.
"Smells good," I tell him.
He beams like I just handed him a medal. The flush is still there, but now it's competing with genuine pleasure. "It's almost ready. Five minutes."
"Take your time."
But he's already moving faster, plating things, arranging dishes with the kind of care that speaks to pride in the work. I watch him and think about what Robin said.He's domestic as fuck.Yeah. He is. Makes four batches of vindaloo to impress someone he barely knows. Lights up when that someone notices.
And somehow that's not a turnoff—it's the opposite.
"Beer?" Robin offers, steering me toward the table Toby's setting.
"Water's fine."
Robin rolls his eyes but gets me water without comment. He knows better than to push. I take the seat that lets me watch the kitchen, watch Jason, and try not to be too obvious about it.
I'm probably being obvious. I don't care.
Jason brings out the food, and fuck, it's beautiful.
Vindaloo in a deep red sauce that smells properly spicy, steam rising from the bowl in fragrant waves. Perfect naan,golden-brown and slightly charred in spots the way it should be. Fluffy basmati rice, each grain separate and distinct. Raita with cucumber and mint, cool and creamy. Mango chutney that catches the light like amber. Lime pickle, sharp and bright. A little dish of fresh cilantro for garnish.
Everything arranged on the table with careful attention, dishes positioned for easy sharing. He's thought about this. Planned how it would look, how it would flow. This isn't just food—it's a presentation.
