The alignment.
The silent agreement that we’re all-in now.
Vitaly’s in.
Reid’s next.
No more testing.
We wash hands. Tie aprons. Pull out bowls.
The four of us move through the kitchen like it’s choreography from another life.
Me kneading.
Noah measuring.
Elliot scoring loaves.
Vitaly stirring something experimental and complicated with those baker forearms.
Like Orion, Callum, and Reid aren’t off disposing of three bodies.
This is normal.
This is home.
Vitaly watches Elliot’s hands as he folds the dough. Precise. Powerful. Elegant.
“Your technique’s impressive,” he says.
Elliot doesn’t even glance up. “It’s in the wrist.”
I hum. “Elliot’s good with his hands. Especially when they’re on my ass.”
Noah snorts.
“Accurate,” Elliot says.
Vitaly’s ears go pink.
He dusts flour from his hands and leans against the counter, watching us work with an expression of belonging.
“We should take a couple loaves of black bread,” Noah says, checking the oven timer. “And stop by the deli. Bring a spread.”
“They’ll be famished,” Elliot agrees. “Disposal is exhausting.”
Vitaly sets down his spoon.
Looks at each of us, like he’s measuring whether he’s earned the right to ask.
“Let’s bump Reid’s dinner to tonight. We have meat and cheese. We have bread. We have time before they’re back,” he says.
The kitchen goes still.
Because what he’s suggesting?
What he’s understood, is that after violence, after blood, after proving we’ll kill for each other, we come home and we live.
