Not me. Her.
"Right," I hear myself say. "Makes sense."
She beams. "I knew you'd appreciate it! I also moved the olive oil closer to the stove. You had it way over by the vinegar, which seemed inefficient? Since you use it for cooking more than dressing."
My olive oil. That I placed there. In my kitchen.
"Thanks," I manage.
"Of course!" She's already moving past me, opening the fridge, pulling out eggs and butter like she's choreographed this. "I'm making breakfast this morning. Ragon mentioned he loves French toast, so I thought I'd surprise him. You don't mind, right?"
It's phrased as a question. It doesn't feel like one.
"No," I say. "Go ahead."
I grab the flour—from its new location—and retreat to the corner of the kitchen with my mixing bowl. I can make pancakes quietly. I can share the space. I'm an adult. I can handle this.
Marie hums while she cooks.
It's not an annoying hum. It's actually kind of pretty, melodic, the kind of unconscious sound that signalscontentment. The kind of sound that fills a space and saysI belong here.
I measure flour with more focus than it requires.
"Oh, Vee?" Marie glances over her shoulder. "Do you know if Eli likes cinnamon in his coffee? I know he takes it black usually, but I read that cinnamon can help with focus, and he mentioned having a long shift, so..."
"He likes it black," I say. "Just black."
"Right, but I mean, would he be open to trying it? Since I'm trying to learn everyone's preferences." She smiles. "You know them so well. I'm still catching up."
There's nothing mean in her tone. Nothing sharp. She sounds genuinely earnest.
It still feels like me being replaced in slow motion.
"I don't know," I admit. "You could ask him."
"I will!" She turns back to her pan. "I just want to make sure I'm taking care of everyone properly. They all work so hard, and as their scent match, I feel like I should understand what they need on a deeper level, you know? Like, instinctively."
The words land with the subtlety of a sledgehammer wrapped in velvet.
As their scent match.
Instinctively.
I crack an egg into my bowl with slightly more force than necessary.
Footsteps on the stairs signal incoming alphas. Drake appears first, hair wet, shirt only half-buttoned, grinning before he even fully enters the room. His citrus scent blooms ahead of him, bright and warm and—
He makes abeeline for Marie.
Not consciously, maybe. But his trajectory bends toward her like gravity, his hand landing on her lower back as he peers over her shoulder at the stove.
"Smells amazing," he says. "What're you making?"
"French toast for Ragon," she says, tilting her head back to smile up at him. "And scrambled eggs for you, since you mentioned liking them fluffy."
He lights up. "You remembered."
"Of course I did."
