"What if we beg?" Tank adds, and there's something dark and promising in his voice that makes heat pool in my stomach despite myself.
These two are going to be the death of me. Literally. I'm going to die of embarrassment right here in this kitchen, and they're going to stand over my corpse making jokes about keeping me.
I huff, trying to regain some semblance of composure. "Sit down and eat before your food gets cold," I order, pointing at the breakfast bar where the plates have been sitting neglectedduring this entire chaotic exchange. "Give me a second to warm things up properly."
The authority in my voice seems to surprise them both—or maybe it just amuses them, because they exchange a look that I can't quite interpret before obediently moving toward the breakfast bar. Tank grabs Elias's plate and transfers it to the actual dining table instead, settling into one of the chairs with the kind of sprawling comfort that suggests he doesn't often have company for meals.
Elias follows, but he detours on the way—rummaging through a drawer near the refrigerator until he emerges with a bundle of fabric.
"Here," he says, holding it out to me. "This should help make sure you don't get dirty."
It's an apron. A surprisingly cute one—black with white trim and a pattern of tiny coffee cups scattered across the fabric. Nothing like the industrial-kitchen aprons I'm used to, but functional enough.
Where did he even find this? Does Tank own a cute coffee-themed apron? Why does Tank own a cute coffee-themed apron?
Maybe it was his grandmother's. The thought surfaces unexpectedly, and suddenly the apron feels more precious. More meaningful. A piece of someone they both loved, kept in a drawer in Tank's kitchen, waiting to be used again.
I don't ask. I just take the apron and tie it around my waist, grateful for the extra layer between me and the scrutiny of two Alphas who seem to find everything about me endlessly entertaining.
The apron smells faintly of lavender and something older—memories, maybe. History. The lingering presence of someone who used to wear it while making Sunday morning breakfast for the people she loved.
The food doesn't take long to warm up—a few minutes in the pan for the eggs, a quick re-crisp of the bacon in the oven, fresh pancakes from the batter I'd set aside. I work efficiently, falling into the familiar rhythm of kitchen tasks, letting the routine calm my racing heart and flushed cheeks.
Sasha has wandered in from wherever he was sleeping, drawn by the smell of food. He settles near my feet, watching me work with those intelligent amber eyes. His tail thumps against the floor when I set aside his portion—plain eggs and bacon, no seasoning.
"You're going to spoil him," Tank calls from the table.
"He deserves to be spoiled," I shoot back without thinking. "Look at this face. This is a face that deserves all the bacon."
Sasha's tail wags harder, like he understood the compliment. Maybe he did. He seems smarter than most people I've met, and certainly more emotionally intelligent than any Alpha I dated before coming to this town.
Elias laughs. "Oh, she's definitely a keeper."
Behind me, Tank and Elias are bickering about something—I catch fragments about a poker game, someone named Julian who apparently cheated, and whether or not Sasha has been getting enough exercise. It's domestic in a way that makes my chest ache. The easy back-and-forth of people who know each other well, who've built something together, who have history and inside jokes and shared memories.
Julian. That name again. They've mentioned him twice now—once in the context of bodyguard work, and now about a poker game. How many people are in this pack? How many more Alphas am I going to encounter before this morning is over?
I've never had that. Not really. My ex-pack was all performance and control—nothing genuine, nothing warm.And before them, my family was too busy treating me like a commodity to be traded rather than a person to be loved.
This is what a real pack looks like, isn't it? This easy comfort. This affection buried beneath teasing and banter. This sense that everyone belongs exactly where they are.
What would it be like to belong somewhere like this? To have people who tease you and protect you and share their grandmother's memory with you over coffee?
I finish plating the food—generous portions for both of them, because I still have no idea how much Alphas of their size actually eat—and turn to bring the plates to the table.
That's when the front door opens.
I freeze, plates in hand, as footsteps sound in the entryway. Heavy. Deliberate. The stride of someone who knows this house as well as Tank does, who doesn't feel the need to announce themselves because they belong here.
Tank and Elias both look up, but neither seems alarmed. If anything, Tank just rolls his eyes and mutters something about "timing" under his breath while Elias grins like he's expecting entertainment.
But before I see him, Ismellhim.
Patchouli. Rich and earthy, the kind that costs more per ounce than most people's monthly grocery budgets. Vanilla—warm and complex, aged rather than synthetic. Cardamom, because apparently that's a theme today. And beneath it all, dark florals and polished woods that speak of old money and older manners.
I know this scent.
I know this scent because it wrapped around me in a gym at 4:47 in the morning, when I was spiraling and couldn't catch my breath and a stranger with kind eyes talked me down from the edge of panic. I know it because I've thought about it more times than I care to admit since that morning. Because it mademe feel safe in a way that nothing has made me feel safe in years.
