"More wine?" Xavier asks, already reaching for the bottle.
Griff suddenly pushes back from the table, his chair scraping against the floor. "I'll get another bottle from the kitchen."
"God, yes," I say. "If I'm going to make questionable life choices, I might as well be properly lubricated for the experience."
The sound of breaking glass echoes from the kitchen.
"Son of a bitch!" Griff's voice carries frustration and resignation in equal measure.
"What now?" Logan calls, but he's grinning.
"Wine glass," Griff responds with weary acceptance. "And it's one of the good ones."
"Maybe," I suggest with a smile that feels genuine despite the domestic chaos, "we should invest in plastic everything for special occasions."
The laughter that follows is warm and real and exactly the kind of sound that makes a house feel like home, even when home includes broken dishes and men who apparently can't handle fragile objects without creating casualties.
Thank you, universe, for letting me think a lavender bath would give me peace while three alphas turned dinner prep into a contact sport with expensive dishware.
11
SAVANNAH
The wine glasses sit empty on the table, dinner plates scraped clean, and the three of them are already moving toward the kitchen like they have an actual system for this.
“I can help," I offer from the doorway, but all three of them whip around like I just suggested burning the house down.
"Absolutely not," Griff says with the kind of authority usually reserved for natural disasters. "You've done enough for one day."
"More than enough," Logan agrees, and I can practically see the guilt radiating off him. "You turned our disaster zone into something civilized. We can handle washing a few dishes without destroying the place."
"Even if we break half the china in the process," Xavier adds dryly, like he's already calculating replacement costs.
I lean against the doorframe, watching them with the choreography, and grace of elephants in a ballet class. Griff treats every dish like it's made of pure gold and might spontaneously combust. Logan follows what appears to be a military-level cleaning protocol. Xavier hovers like a nervous parent watching toddlers near expensive electronics.
It's domestic chaos disguised as cooperation, and for some ridiculous reason, it makes my chest do weird fluttery things I'm choosing to ignore.
"The pasta really was excellent," I say, because compliments are safer than analyzing why watching them do dishes is giving me feelings.
Griff's face lights up like I just told him he won the lottery. "My grandmother's recipe. She taught me when I was twelve because she was convinced I'd starve to death otherwise."
"Smart woman,” I say.
"Terrifying woman. Made me practice until I could make sauce without turning it into something suitable for spackling walls."
"How long did that take?"
"Two summers and enough wasted tomatoes to supply a small Italian restaurant," he admits, looking sheepish. "But she finally declared me competent enough to feed myself without requiring medical intervention."
"High praise from a terrifying grandmother."
"The highest. She didn't believe in participation trophies. If she said you could cook, you could actually cook instead of just creating edible disasters."
Logan finishes wiping down the counter with the thoroughness of someone who's seen what happens when you don't properly sanitize surfaces. Occupational hazard of the firefighting business, I suppose.
"My grandmother taught me first aid instead of cooking," he says, hanging the towel with military precision. "She figured I was more likely to need medical skills than culinary ones, given my talent for finding creative ways to injure myself."
"Was she right?"
