Pedro is definitely laughing now. Hiding it behind his spatula, but laughing.
Sergio pours two mugs and brings one to me. He has to get close to hand it over. I notice his gaze drops to my legs. To the henley. To the bare skin visible where the shirt has ridden up on my thighs.
His jaw tightens. His hand flexes around his mug.
"Thanks," I manage, taking the coffee. My fingers brush his, and it's like touching a live wire.
He steps back quickly. Clears his throat. Drinks his coffee like it might save him from something.
The kitchen suddenly feels very small. Very warm.
"So," Sergio says, his voice deliberately casual. "Pedro was singing when you came down, wasn't he?"
I light up. "Oh my God, yes. The Proclaimers. With hip wiggle."
"There was NO hip wiggle!" Pedro protests, but his ears are red again.
"There was definitely hip wiggle," I insist. "And spatula choreography. It was a whole production."
Sergio laughs. Full-bodied, head thrown back, genuine laughter. "I wish I'd seen that."
"I can demonstrate," I offer.
"Please don't," Pedro says flatly.
"??I would walk five hundred miles??" I start singing, wiggling my hips on the counter.
Sergio joins in immediately. "??And I would walk five hundred more??"
"I hate you both," Pedro mutters, but he's fighting a smile.
The kitchen fills with our terrible singing. Sergio grabs a wooden spoon and uses it as a microphone. I'm wiggling on the counter. Pedro is shaking his head but his lips are twitching.
And for a moment, just a moment, everything feels light. Easy. Right.
Then Carlos appears in the doorway.
Still in his work jeans from yesterday. Flannel shirt open over a white t-shirt. Tool belt still hanging on his hips. Hair messy like he just rolled out of bed. Or didn't go to bed at all.
His blue eyes take in the scene. Me on the counter in his henley. Sergio shirtless with his wooden spoon. Pedro at the stove. All of us singing and laughing.
"Pancakes?" he asks, his voice rough.
"Pancakes," Pedro confirms. "With too much chocolate."
"My favorite." Carlos doesn't move from the doorway. Just stands there, watching us. Watching me.
The singing stops. The playfulness dims.
Because suddenly I'm aware of all of it. The three alphas in this kitchen. They're looking at me. The way my omega is practically vibrating with awareness.
The fact that I'm sitting on the counter in bare legs and a borrowed shirt, surrounded by men who smell like everything I've ever wanted.
The fact that I just left Callum three days ago.
The fact that this, whatever this is, is moving way too fast.
"I should probably get dressed," I say quietly, setting down my half-eaten pancake.
