"Considering I chose a career that involves running into burning buildings for fun and profit, absolutely." His grin is self-deprecating. "Though I did eventually master three meals that won't kill anyone."
"Three whole meals?" I raise an eyebrow. "Such culinary diversity."
"Spaghetti, scrambled eggs, and grilled cheese. The holy trinity of 'please don't let me starve' cooking."
"And all perfectly edible," Griff adds loyally.
"Edible is generous," Xavier corrects with clinical precision, earning glares from his pack mates. "But they meet basic nutritional requirements and rarely result in food poisoning, which puts him ahead of most adults."
"Such ringing endorsements," Logan says, but he's grinning.
Xavier finishes his supervisory duties and turns to me with the kind of assessment that makes me feel like I'm about to get a medical evaluation whether I want one or not.
"You must be exhausted," he says with that clinical authority that brooks no argument. “Nearly four hours of intensive cleaning, social interaction, and a full meal. Your stress hormones are probably elevated."
"I'm fine," I start, but he cuts me off with the kind of gesture that suggests arguing is pointless.
"You're running on adrenaline and stubbornness. Admirable, but not sustainable." His voice carries the weight of someone used to making medical pronouncements. "You need rest, hydration, and time to process today's emotional chaos."
The observation hits uncomfortably close to home. My body is tired from the cleaning marathon, but my brain is fried from the emotional complexity of being back in their space, surrounded by their scents and their weird pack dynamics and this domestic fantasy I definitely shouldn't be entertaining.
"Maybe he's right," Griff says with concern that makes my omega instincts sit up and take notice. "You've done way more than anyone should have to do. Go upstairs, get comfortable."
"What about you three?" I ask, because leaving them alone with my newly cleaned kitchen feels like abandoning a daycare full of toddlers near fragile objects. "Are you going to have a dishwashing technique argument the moment I'm gone?"
"Probably," Logan admits with characteristic honesty. "But we'll try to keep the property damage to a minimum."
"The dishes we broke earlier are already repaired," Xavier adds with the efficiency of someone who treats household accidents like medical emergencies. "Professional-grade ceramic adhesive, properly applied. They'll be stronger than the originals."
"You already fixed them?"
"Emergency protocols. Immediate intervention prevents permanent damage and reduces replacement costs."
"Right," I say, because arguing with Xavier's organizational systems would probably require more energy than I have left. "Try not to break anything else that needs emergency intervention."
"We'll do our best," Griff promises with the solemnity of someone taking a sacred oath.
I head toward the stairs, pausing to look back at three men standing in their actually functional kitchen. The evening light catches the gold in Griff's hair, makes Logan's eyes look like silver, shows off Xavier's sharp intelligence behind those glasses. Logan reaches over to brush a streak of flour from Griff's cheek, and Xavier leans in to press a quick, soft kiss to Logan's temple in passing.
They look good together. Right together, like they've figured out how to make this whole pack dynamic work despite their individual quirks and apparent inability to handle fragile objects without turning them into expensive confetti.
The thought sits in my chest like a warning I should probably listen to. Sure, they've built something here, but these are thesame man babies who just destroyed half their dishware making pasta. If they can't keep wine glasses intact for one dinner, what exactly makes me think they can handle something as breakable as my heart?
Which I'm definitely not risking again. Because if I let them in, then I could be spending another eight years rebuilding myself after three alphas prove that good intentions don't equal follow-through.
One decent meal and some flirty banter doesn't erase the fact that these idiots broke my heart once. And if tonight's ceramic casualty count is any indication, they're still in the business of breaking things they claim to care about.
No thank you. I've learned my lesson about trusting pretty alphas who cook well but can't be trusted with anything delicate.
"Goodnight," I say, the word carrying more weight than a simple farewell.
"Goodnight, Savannah," Xavier responds with precision, but his voice is warmer than usual.
"Sleep well," Griff adds, genuine concern in his tone.
"Sweet dreams," Logan concludes, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that makes my pulse stutter.
I climb the stairs listening to their voices drift up from below. No arguing yet, just the comfortable murmur of people who know each other well enough to coordinate cleanup without bloodshed.
