I nod. “He didn’t do anything. Just talked. And took a photo.”
Graham’s mouth tightens for a beat. I see the war in his eyes, the part of him that wants to burn down the world for me… and the part of him that’s trying to let me breathe.
He looks at me for a long moment—reading everything I’m not saying.
“I don’t like the way he looks at you,” he admits, his voice raw now, softer than I’ve ever heard it. “Like you’re a thing he already owns.”
“I’m not,” I say immediately. “But I think you’re going soft, alpha.”
Graham narrows his eyes, as if I’ve just challenged his entire existence. “You tell Carson, and I’ll make him do dishes for a month.”
I let out a quiet laugh and step closer, nudging his arm with mine. “I knew it. You’re getting soft. I’ve ruined you.”
“You’ve unhinged me,” he mutters, but there’s no heat behind it. Just that deep, low rumble I’ve started to recognize as affection—his own brand of it, anyway.
I rest my elbow on the counter and lean into his space a little more. “So I guess that makes us even.”
He arches a brow. “Even?”
I nod solemnly. “You unhinged me first. Somewhere between drilling locks on my windows and refusing to let me self-destruct, I think I started…caring. And liking the protection you gave.”
His hand stills on the spoon he’s using to stir the pan, and he glances at me. “Yeah?”
“Don’t get cocky.”
His mouth quirks. “Never.”
But his eyes soften, just a little.
“Dinner smells amazing,” I say, changing the subject before things get too heavy. “You’re really determined to win me over with domesticity, huh?”
“It’s not about winning,” he replies, turning back to the stove. “It’s about showing up.”
That steals the breath from my lungs for a second. Because I know he means it. He is showing up. For me. In the smallest, most consistent ways.
I rest my chin on my hand and watch him work, the tension in the room diffusing into something quieter, gentler.
Safe.
“I still might tell Carson,” I murmur, just to stir the pot.
“Do it,” he says without looking at me. “Then watch how fast he throws me under the bus to keep his own title of favorite.”
I laugh again, and it feels good.
The front door opens with a bang, sounding as if someone forgot it has hinges, and I don’t need to look to know who it is.
“Peaches! Your favorite omega whisperer has arrived—with snacks and surprises,” Carson calls, his voice filling the apartment before he is even fully inside.
Graham exhales through his nose, barely containing a smile. “Subtle as ever.”
I grin as Carson strides in with a paper bag tucked under one arm and a small package in the other. His hair’s wind-tousled, cheeks flushed from the evening chill of summer moving into fall. He kicks the door shut with his heel and makes a beeline for me.
“For you,” he says with dramatic flair, placing a soft bundle in my hands. He tilts my chin up to his and presses his lips to mine before I get a peek inside.
When he stands straight again, I pull apart the tissue to find the most ridiculously soft pair of fuzzy socks I’ve ever seen. Omega-coded, for sure—pale pink with little stars and moons embroidered along the cuffs. My heart does something stupid in my chest.
“They reminded me of you,” he says, a little softer now, and then adds, “Fierce, fiery, and cold-footed at night.”
