Then, finally: “It just… it felt good. But it also scared me how much I needed it. I don’t want to need anyone that badly. Breaking—again—it would kill me.”
I nod slowly, not looking away. “Yeah. I get that.”
Hunter pulls her gently into his chest, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Forever, princess. That’s a promise that won’t be broken.”
Graham shifts behind me, his arm reaching over to rub her side. “Do you really think someone with control issues like mine would ever let you go?”
She huffs out a laugh—soft and emotional. Her teeth sink into her lower lip, trying to bite it back.
“You can need us,” I say quietly. “Needing someone doesn’t make you weak. It just means you stopped pretending you didn’t want to be held anymore.”
Willow’s eyes flutter shut. She exhales slowly.
And this time, when she breathes in, it sounds easier.
Later that night
The kitchen smells akin to heaven. And maybe a little spice.
There’s cumin in the air, a hint of charred tortilla, something spicy I probably overdid, and a whole lot of me trying not to look like I’m trying too hard.
Because I am.
Graham leans against the island, arms crossed, watching me, and waiting for something to catch fire. “You sure you don’t need the fire extinguisher handy, Gordon?”
I flip a tortilla with a little more aggression than necessary. “I know how to cook.”
“Grilled cheese doesn’t count,” Hunter says flatly from the corner, where he’s dicing tomatoes with unnecessary precision.
Willow’s sitting on the counter—our counter—hair up in a loose knot, one of Graham’s shirts on again because apparently we’ve collectively lost the ability to protect our clothing from her nesting habits. Her legs swing just enough to make the hem ride high on her thighs, and I have to refocus hard on the stove.
She smirks, sipping from a glass of water. “Wait. Carson’s really the one cooking?” she asks, clearly teasing me, her eyes sparkling with joy.
“Carson is making tacos,” I correct.
Hunter lifts an eyebrow. “Because that’s all we had in the fridge or because?—”
“Because tacos,” I cut in, “were the first food she ever moaned over in front of me.”
The room goes still for exactly half a second.
Then Graham coughs a laugh into his fist. “You’re shameless.”
Willow snorts, covering her mouth. “That wasn’t a sexy moan. That was a ‘this is really good cheese’ kind of moan.”
“And yet,” I say, turning with the pan in hand, “it lives in my head. Rent-free.”
Hunter mutters something that sounds suspiciously similar to “simp,” but I ignore him and plate the food with extra flair, sliding it across the counter to Willow with a bow so dramatic it makes her roll her eyes.
But she takes the plate.
Takes a bite.
And then—there it is. That soft, involuntary sound she makes when something just hits.
I straighten up, smug as hell.
Graham groans. “Don’t encourage him.”
