"Evidence suggests otherwise," I point out, but I'm smiling as I say it.
Xavier adjusts his glasses again, this time with the kind of precise movement that means he's making a decision about something important. "We want to do this. For you. After everything you've done for us today."
"Are you sure?" I ask, because the kitchen is finally clean and I'd hate to see it destroyed by good intentions and masculine stubbornness.
"Positive," Griff says with the kind of determination that suggests he's made up his mind about something and isn't going to be talked out of it. "Go relax. We've got this."
I look at three faces that are set with the kind of resolve usually reserved for major life decisions or declarations of war, and decide that maybe I'm overthinking this because I'm tired and emotionally overwhelmed and not used to people wanting to take care of me instead of the other way around.
"Fine," I say, backing toward the stairs with my hands raised in surrender. "But if I come downstairs to find the kitchen on fire, I'm moving into a hotel for the rest of my stay."
"Fair enough! And we’ll pay for it,” Logan agrees with the kind of easy confidence that comes from years of dealing with actual fires and probably thinking domestic cooking is relatively low-risk by comparison.
Yes, you will, because I’m borderline broke. Not that I will admit it to them. Nor anyone. Pride and all that.
I head upstairs, listening to the sound of three alphas moving around the kitchen below, the soft murmur of voices discussing meal planning and task division like functional adults who can actually coordinate basic household activities.
Thank you, universe, for three alphas who can apparently function like adults when properly motivated. May this miracle last longer than five minutes.
10
SAVANNAH
The guest bathroom has a deep soaking tub that looks like it was designed for people who understand relaxation instead of just efficient showering. I turn on the water, adding some lavender bath salts I find in the cabinet because apparently someone in this house believes in self-care.
The hot water feels like heaven against muscles that are sore from nearly four hours of intensive cleaning. I sink into the water up to my chin, letting the heat work on the knots in my back from spending the day bent over surfaces that probably hadn't seen a cleaning product since the house was built.
The sounds from downstairs are surprisingly peaceful. No arguing, no raised voices, no sounds of anything breaking. Just normal kitchen noises - dishes clinking, something sizzling on the stove.
I close my eyes and let myself float, listening to the dinner prep happening below. It's domestic and comfortable and exactly the kind of scene I used to imagine when I thought about what being part of a pack might feel like.
Then I hear it.
The crash of ceramic hitting hardwood, sharp and final and definitely expensive.
"Fuck!"
"Did you just?"
"It slipped!"
"Those are Xavier's good plates!"
Another crash, then growls like three cavemen having a collective panic attack while discovering gravity.
My eyes snap open. Of course. Of fucking course they can't handle basic kitchen tasks without destroying things. I sink deeper into the bathwater, steam rising around me. Maybe if I stay in this tub long enough, they'll figure out how to clean up their mess without me having to play referee.
But the arguing starts immediately.
"I told you to be careful with those!"
"It's not my fault they're slippery when they're wet!"
"Everything is slippery when it's wet, that's why we dry them first!"
"Don't lecture me about dish handling!"
Three alphas turning a simple accident into a territorial dispute. My jaw clenches. So much for functional pack dynamics. So much for them actually having their shit together.
