"Lightweight," Ezra says, taking a huge bite of the same dish and showing absolutely no reaction. He catches me looking and shrugs. "I grew up in New Mexico. My abuela put green chile in everything. This is mild."
"It's not mild," Vaughn wheezes.
"For you."
Silas hasn't said much—he never does—but he's on his second helping, which Jason told me earlier is the highest compliment Silas gives.
Jason himself is moving around the table, refilling bowls before people ask, adjusting toppings, making sure everyone has what they need. He's not eating yet—he never does, I've noticed, until everyone else is taken care of. It's automatic for him, this caretaking, as natural as breathing.
This is what he does. Feeds people. Makes them comfortable. Creates space where everyone belongs.
And now I'm part of it. Not just eating but helping create. Not just present but participating.
"Hey." Jason appears at my elbow with a bowl. "You haven't eaten yet."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine, you're hungry. I can hear your stomach from here." He guides me to the couch, one hand on my lower back, and puts the bowl in my hands. "Sit. Eat. That's an order."
The bowl is a mix of all three bases—classic on one side, truffle in the middle, spicy on the other—with extra bacon on top and a sprinkle of fresh chives. Exactly how I would have made it if I'd thought about it. Exactly what I wanted without knowing I wanted it.
"How did you know?"
"Know what?"
"That I'd want all three. Mixed together like this."
He shrugs, settling in next to me, his own bowl finally in his hands. "You like trying things. Comparing. You wouldn't want to pick just one when you could have all of them. And you'd want to see how they taste together, how the flavors interact." He takes a bite of his own—classic with extra breadcrumbs—and watches me with fond eyes. "Was I wrong?"
"No." I take a bite, and the flavors bloom across my tongue—rich and sharp and spicy all at once. "You weren't wrong."
He knows me. This man who I've known for just a few weeks has figured out how I work, what I want, who I am beneath the walls and the distance and the careful control. He pays attention in a way no one ever has.
"Thank you," I say.
"It's just mac and cheese."
"Not for the food." I lean over and kiss his temple, tasting salt and butter on his skin. "For everything."
---
After dinner, someone puts on a movie—some action thing with explosions and car chases that no one's reallywatching. The pack spreads out across the room, food comas setting in, the kind of comfortable silence that only comes after a good meal.
Knox and Toby take the big armchair, Toby curled in Knox's lap like a cat, already half-asleep. Knox's hand moves in slow circles on his back, absent and tender.
Robin's claimed the loveseat, sprawled out with his feet hanging over the arm, eyes closed but not sleeping—I can tell by the way he breathes, the slight tension that means he's listening.
Vaughn and Ezra are at the card table, playing some game I don't recognize, keeping score on a napkin.
Silas is in his usual corner with a book, occasionally glancing up at the screen when something explodes. He's always reading, always slightly separate, but he's here. That counts for something.
And Jason is tucked against my side on the couch, legs thrown over my lap, head on my shoulder. His weight is familiar now, his breathing slow and even. Not asleep, but close. Comfortable in a way that makes my throat tight.
"This is nice," he murmurs, barely louder than the movie.
"Yeah."
"You fit here, you know." He tilts his head to look up at me. "With everyone. It's like you've always been here."
