But I already am. That little tingle from earlier spreads, slow and sweet, curling beneath my skin.
“You’re all getting way too good at this taking-care-of-me thing,” I say softly, looking at each of them.
Carson’s mouth curves, the smirk giving way to something closer to affection. Hunter’s lips press together, fighting a smile. And Graham doesn’t say anything, but his hand flexes in his lap, and I get the feeling he wants to reach for me.
Maybe someday he will.
Back at the apartment,the door swings open and a wave of warm, buttery air hits me in the face. My stomach growls on cue.
The scent is rich—lemon, garlic, and something herby and savory that has my mouth watering before I even make it fully inside.
I toe off my shoes and step into the space, narrowing my eyes toward the kitchen where the oven light glows. Grahamheads into the area and pulls something out with an oven mitt.
Which is…weird.
I’ve never seen Graham cook. He doesn’t even order food for me. That’s usually Carson’s thing. Graham handles logistics. Lockdowns. Perimeter security. Not this.
But there he is, completely unbothered, setting a cast-iron skillet on the stovetop.
“You really did cook,” I say, stepping further in. “While I was at practice?”
He glances over his shoulder, voice casual. “You needed a real meal. Carson and Hunter didn’t need help keeping an eye on you, so I slipped out real fast.”
“This was all you?” I ask, attempting to recalibrate everything I thought I knew about the man.
He doesn’t look at me, but I catch the corner of his mouth twitch. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I am surprised.”
“It’s not a big deal.” He grabs a small plate, his movements efficient.
But it feels like one.
Carson drops a heavy-looking bag onto the coffee table with a groan and flops dramatically onto the couch. “G went all domestic. Don’t scare him off by making it weird.”
I open my mouth to retort, but Carson pulls out a small, carefully wrapped bundle and tosses it my way.
“What’s this?”
He grins, boyish and proud. “A little something I saw in the shop window next to the smoothie place. Figured you might appreciate it.”
I sit and start peeling the tissue paper away. Nestled inside is a heat pillow. Not just any one—one of the luxe omega-specific ones. Handmade, soft, filled with a mix ofcalming oils I instantly recognize: chamomile, lavender, and just the faintest hint of amber.
Pure comfort.
My throat tightens, and I have to blink a few times to clear the sudden burn in my eyes.
“This is...really thoughtful.”
Carson shrugs and shifts his weight, suddenly more interested in the remote than in my reaction. “You’ve been stressed.”
I run my fingers over the soft fabric, letting the weight of the gift settle in my lap. He didn’t have to do this. None of them have to do any of this. But they keep showing up, keep noticing things I never say out loud.
Hunter drops into the armchair with his usual quiet intensity, watching me without comment. Graham still doesn’t turn around, but his posture eases just slightly.
I hug the pillow to my chest and sink deeper into the couch beside Carson, who slings an arm across the back casually.
“Thanks,” I say, my voice quiet.
