“Better than puking up buttery toast if your tummy's not ready,” he says, completely serious.
I snort. “I never imagined I’d hear you say the word tummy.”
He grins. “I never imagined you’d be in Derek’s robe.”
Touché.
I smirk back. Alex winks. My eyes widen.
They know.
They know I’m enjoying being wrapped in Derek’s things a little too much.
Alex winks again, unapologetic.
“Stop,” I warn weakly, but I’m smiling.
The kitchen smells like bacon and coffee and something warm I can’t quite name. Comfort, maybe. The counters are spotless granite, everything clean and deliberate, like Derek’s life is built on intention. Morning light pours through the wide windows, catching on stainless steel and pale wood. Outside, his yard stretches greenand manicured, a stone path curving toward a small gazebo that looks like it belongs in a magazine spread.
It’s… peaceful.
Too peaceful for how last night could’ve ended.
My stomach growls again, louder this time, as if emboldened by the smell of bacon.
“Okay,” I concede. “I think I need bacon.”
Mark chuckles and heaps a generous portion onto my plate. He moves like he belongs in a kitchen — confident, easy. Alex hovers nearby, clearly on helper duty. Derek leans against the cabinets across from the island, arms crossed, watching me as if he's making sure I stay exactly where I am.
“What kind of juice do you have?” I ask.
Derek straightens immediately. “Apple.”
He pulls a bottle from the fridge, cool condensation beading along the glass. Alex reaches for it automatically, then pauses, unsure.
Derek grabs a glass and pours— slowly, controlled — like this is a high-stakes operation. He only fills it half way.
“Just in case,” he says quietly.
I take a sip.
The apple juice is cold and tart, crisp enough to wake my mouth up without shocking it. It tastes… clean. Like it belongs in this kitchen.
“That’s good,” I murmur.
“Derek’s an apple juice guy,” Mark informs me. “I’m an orange juice guy.”
“What about Alex?” I ask.
“What about Alex?” Alex replies, already opening cabinets.
“Apple or orange?”
He shrugs. “Either. But the orange-strawberry-banana juice? That stuff is the shit.”
I nod. “Agreed.”
“I don’t know how the hell they get banana juice,” Mark mutters.
