9
SAVANNAH
After the time I spent in the kitchen, I deserve to snoop and I'm pretty sure Xavier said dinner was at seven, but it's nearly six and no one is here, so I decide to stick to Operation Savannah. Making this place a home for alphas, and not for rats.
Griff's bedroom is a fucking disaster.
I'm talking about next-level disasters, like a tornado hitting a construction site and deciding to take up permanent residence. Tools everywhere, but not in any kind of organizational system that would make sense to humans. Hammers on the nightstand next to what I hope is just old coffee but might be a science experiment. Screwdrivers scattered across his dresser like he was interrupted mid-project and just walked away.
I'm pretty sure there are layers here that predate his last relationship, possibly his last decade. Dirty work shirts mixed with clean ones, jeans that have achieved sentience through neglect, socks that should probably be classified as biological weapons.
His bathroom makes me question his commitment to basic hygiene. Toothpaste tube squeezed from the middle like abarbarian, towels on the floor creating a textile obstacle course, and soap scum that's probably developing its own zip code.
The man builds beautiful furniture with his hands but apparently can't figure out how to put dirty clothes in a hamper or hang up a towel. It's like watching someone who can perform brain surgery but can't tie their own shoes.
Logan's room tells a completely different story. His bed is made so perfectly you'd think he was expecting a military inspection, as if he's going to win a Nobel Peace Prize for hospital corners. I chuckle to myself, remembering this is why I was attracted to him in the first place. A man who knows what he wants and stops at nothing to get it right.
Everything has a place and mostly everything is in its place. Not obsessively perfect like someone with control issues, just organized enough to function like an actual adult human being. The room smells like leather and rain and that particular masculine scent that makes my omega instincts sit up and pay attention whether I want them to or not.
Sure, his gym clothes make unauthorized appearances around the house like they're conducting a tour of inappropriate locations, but his actual bedroom proves he has standards. They just don't extend to containing his workout gear to designated laundry facilities.
Then there's Xavier's room, which is so perfectly organized it's practically offensive to people with normal human flaws. Everything has a place and everything is aggressively in it, like his belongings are afraid of disappointing him through improper positioning.
His medical journals are arranged by specialty and date. His closet looks like a magazine spread featuring men who have their entire lives figured out and probably never wear the same shirt twice without washing it.
The bathroom is cleaner than most operating rooms. I'm pretty sure you could perform surgery in there without worrying about infection rates or whether the surfaces meet medical-grade cleanliness standards.
His desk looks like mission control for someone planning world domination through proper filing systems. Not a single paper out of place, pens arranged by color and function like they're soldiers awaiting orders, everything labeled with the kind of obsessive attention to detail that makes me want to mess something up just to see if his eye actually twitches.
I resist the urge. Barely.
The man definitely alphabetizes his socks and color codes his underwear. Probably has a skincare routine that costs more than my monthly coffee budget and involves products with names I can't pronounce but that work miracles on mere mortals.
The common areas get similar treatment because apparently I can't help myself when it comes to domestic disasters begging for salvation. It's like looking at chaos and knowing exactly how to perform an exorcism using cleaning products and organizational skills I didn't know I possessed.
Griff’s tools have been evicted from every inappropriate location and banished to his workshop where they belong. I found screwdrivers in the bathroom, a level in the refrigerator, and measuring tape wrapped around the coffee table legs like very boring Christmas decorations.
His work clothes were scattered through the house like he'd been shedding them during a very slow, very messy strip tease that nobody asked for. Work shirt draped over the kitchen chair, pants abandoned in the hallway, boots kicked off in three different rooms because apparently walking to the closet is too much effort after a hard day of construction work.
Logan's gym clothes have been rounded up and herded into the laundry room where they belong instead of conductingunauthorized tours of the living spaces. I found his protein powder in four different places like his supplements were staging an elaborate escape attempt from their designated kitchen cabinet.
The living room furniture no more looks like expensive storage units for random masculine debris. I discovered Griff's safety goggles on the coffee table, Logan's gym bag blocking the hallway, and what I think might be Xavier's stethoscope draped over the back of the dining room chair.
All fixed now, because I'm clearly a masochist with the organizational skills of someone who should probably charge money for this kind of domestic intervention. The afternoon light streaming through actually clean windows makes everything look like it belongs in a home decor magazine instead of a reality show about what happens whenman babiesare left unsupervised for too long.
The air smells like lemon cleaning products and accomplishment instead of whatever combination of takeout, sawdust, and masculine neglect was perfuming this place when I arrived. Even the ants have retreated, probably to find a household run by people who understand basic concepts like wiping down surfaces occasionally and not leaving food debris scattered around like offerings to the pest gods.
I'm standing in the transformed living room, admiring my handiwork and trying to decide whether I should start dinner prep or collapse from exhaustion, when I hear the front door open around six-fifteen. The sound of heavy footsteps and tired voices drifts through the house, followed by the familiar sounds of work boots hitting the entryway and keys jingling onto the table.
Their combined scents drift through the house like a greeting I wasn't expecting to affect me this much. Logan's smoky cedar and leather, sharp with the kind of exhaustion thatcomes from long days of physical work. Griff's sandalwood and sawdust, carrying notes of satisfaction and probably some kind of construction-related accomplishment. Xavier's cool mint and expensive cologne, precise and controlled even after what was probably a long day of dealing with other people's medical emergencies.
"What the hell?" Griff's voice carries from the entryway, sharp with surprise and something that might be wonder.
"Did we get robbed by someone with severe OCD?" Logan asks, his voice echoing with disbelief as he takes in the transformation of their living space.
"No one robs a house and leaves it cleaner than they found it," Xavier points out with the kind of logical precision that probably serves him well in medical situations and definitely makes him insufferable during arguments.
I appear in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, wiping my hands on a dish towel that's actually clean now instead of whatever biological hazard it was this morning. The afternoon light catches the golden highlights in Griff's sandy hair, makes Logan's storm-gray eyes look like silver, illuminates the sharp line of Xavier's jaw above his perfectly knotted tie that somehow survived whatever his workday threw at him.
