“You’re really okay with this?” she asks again, voice lower now, meant just for me. “With… taking our time?”
I nod. “I don’t want a rushed bond, Willow. I want a real one. The kind that lasts.”
Her lashes lower as she swallows. “I’m trying to believe I deserve that.”
“You do,” I say instantly. “You deserve everything we can give you, for the rest of our lives.”
Willow’s smile lingers, the echo of a promise, soft and private between the two of us.
She’s still in my sweatshirt—bare legs curling under her as she slides onto the barstool, hands wrapping around the glass of water she left there earlier. It fits. This moment. Her here. Us here. It all fits so well, it almost hurts.
I turn back to the oven, checking the pan-roasted chicken that’s crisping perfectly beside the foil-wrapped potatoes. I pull the pan out and pull down some plates. Steam wafts off of it, rich with garlic and rosemary. The green beans are already sautéed—just waiting on the stovetop.
Behind me, I hear Carson’s bare feet pad across the floor. He rounds the kitchen island like a man on a mission, his gaze on the stove top.
“Kitchen’s smelling like seduction in progress,” he says, peeking over my shoulder. “What are you making, Casanova?”
“Pan chicken. Herb baked potatoes. Green beans with lemon zest,” I mutter, plating a piece of chicken with practiced ease. “Food. Real food.”
“Sounds fake,” Carson deadpans, grabbing a potato off the pan and popping it in his mouth. “Where’s the indulgence and bad decisions?”
“Staring at me while stealing my potatoes.”
Willow laughs behind me, and I swear, it’s the sound of something healing.
I turn to find her watching both of us with wide eyes, the water glass halfway to her lips. “You really made all this?” she asks.
I nod and set a plate in front of her, a pile of herb potatoes, the chicken still steaming, and green beans perfectly bright.
“Thought you deserved something warm.”
Carson circles the island and leans on the back of her chair, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who didn’t cook a damn thing.
“You’re gonna spoil her,” he says, brushing her hair off her shoulder.
“I plan to,” I reply, watching the way her breath catches.
Willow lifts a bite of chicken to her mouth and moans. Actually moans.
Leaning against the kitchen island, Hunter freezes mid-sip of his coffee. His eyes flick to her mouth, then to me, then back to her.
Carson groans. “Nope. Nope. That’s it. If we’re doing this now, I demand a second plate. Preferably with a ring and a lifetime commitment.”
Willow snorts into her fork, cheeks flushed with amusement. “You’re ridiculous.”
Carson does a half-bow as he takes the seat next to her. “Thank you. It’s part of my charm.”
Hunter shakes his head but can’t suppress a smirk. “You three are chaos.”
Willow arches a brow, her lips twitching. “Chaos you volunteered for.”
His expression relaxes, something unguarded slipping through. “Yeah. And I’d do it again.”
There’s a beat of quiet after that. Comfortable. Familiar.
Hunter sits on her other side, leaning into her just enough to nudge his shoulder gently into hers. “You doing okay, princess?”
Willow gives him a small smile, one that reaches her eyes. “Yeah. I think I am.”
