"And Jess? I love you."
"Love you too."
When we hang up, I'm smiling despite the lingering anxiety. Tonight, I have soup and pack and the knowledge that I'm not facing any of this alone.
A soft knock on the bathroom door.
"Jess?" Pedro's voice, muffled through the wood. "Soup's getting cold."
"Coming." I pocket my phone and open the door.
He's standing in the hallway, still in his scrubs from God knows when, hair slightly damp like he showered in one of the other bathrooms. His green eyes scan me with clinical assessment, checking for signs of distress.
"You look better."
"I feel better. Still made of jello, but higher-quality jello now. The fancy kind with fruit in it."
His mouth twitches. "I'll take your word for it."
"Sharon called. Well, she called me back." I fall into step beside him as we head for the stairs. "She had the babies. Twins. Both girls."
"That's good news."
"It is." I pause at the top of the stairs. "I didn't tell her about Rosa's article. About the Morrisons. She just gave birth. I didn't want to worry her."
Pedro stops and turns to face me. "You don't have to protect everyone, Jessica. It's okay to lean on people."
"I know. I just..." I swallow hard. "She's been through enough. I can handle this."
"You can." His hand finds my shoulder, warm and steady. "But you don't have to handle it alone. That's what we're here for."
The words settle into my chest like warmth from a fire.
"Thank you."
"Come on." He starts down the stairs. "Before Carlos burns the soup trying to make it 'gourmet.'"
The kitchen is chaos.
Carlos stands at the stove, apparently having woken up enough to take over soup duty. He's stirring a massive pot with the focus of someone defusing a bomb, wearing only sweatpants, hair a disaster.
Sergio sits at the table, laptop open, typing something with his characteristic efficiency. He's dressed now, in jeans and a grey henley, looking almost normal. Almost like the past three days didn't happen.
Except for the bite mark visible above his collar. That's new.
Nacho leans against the counter, nursing a cup of coffee, watching me descend the stairs with those dark, steady eyes.
Four alphas. My alphas. In a kitchen that smells like chicken soup and fresh bread.
My family.
"She's alive!" Carlos waves his wooden spoon in greeting. "I was starting to think the shower swallowed you whole."
"The shower and I have reached an understanding." I slide into a chair at the table. "It agrees not to drown me, and I agree to limit my existential crises to under thirty minutes."
"Sounds reasonable." He ladles soup into a bowl and sets it in front of me. "Eat. Doctor's orders."
"Pedro didn't order anything."
