I feel iteverywhere.
I don’t miss the way Beau’s laughter from where he sits at the counter cuts off mid-sound. And when I glance over, he’s watching us—watchingme—his expression unreadable and dark and… wanting. It’s not jealous or angry.
It’s something sharper.
Something desperate.
My stomach flips at the sight of blue eyes locked on mine.
The week flashes through my mind in fragments as I walk away from Jasper and Lincoln at the stove. Hands sliding along my back in passing. Murmured words in my ear when the others were only a few feet away. Kisses stolen in hallways and doorways—never hidden, never secret.
Lincoln has been down from his office more and more. Jasper’s schedule somehow “magically” went from every weekend busy from now until March to only a handful of events. And I constantly catch Lawson smiling, even when he’s trying his damnedest not to. And Beau is… he’s there. Always there. Always making me feel like the world is just a little bit lighter.
Lincoln, Lawson, and Jasper haven’t shied away from touching me. Even Beau takes any chance he can to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear or brush his thumb against my cheek. And the thought of them wanting me so openly reminds me day in and day out that being wanted is more than being kept. It’s being so sure of wanting happiness for a person, wanting them to feel free in every regard, that you follow their lead. You do whatever you can to make them happy. To makethem craft a smile just for you. To want their name whispered in your ear any chance you get.
I step between Beau and Lawson sitting at the counter, and Lawson’s arm immediately comes around my waist, the motion easy and familiar. The feel of his fingers squeezing against me warms me at my core.
“Well?” Beau asks from the other side of me, tipping back his glass of whiskey. “You trust them not to burn the place down?”
“Absolutely not,” I reply. “Which is why this is as far from them as the three of us are going.”
“See, this is why it’s good to have an older woman around, ain’t it, Law?”
I narrow my eyes at Beau, even though we both know there’s no real heat behind the expression. “Keep it up, and there will be no dinner for you.”
Lawson chuckles against my temple before kissing there softly. Beau reaches up, fingers gentle as he brushes a loose strand of hair back from my face. His touch is light, and it sends a completely different kind of shiver through me. Softer. Slower. Like he’s taking his time learning me.
Every one of them touches me differently, and it says everything about who they are.
Lawson’s hands are steady. Certain. When he holds me, it’s never rushed or hesitant. His arm around my waist feels like a promise made without words, like he’s already decided I’m something he intends to protect. Like he wants to keep me close, always. His touch is grounding, anchoring me in the present, reminding me I’m safe here. And that if the world tilts too hard, he’ll be the one bracing me without ever making it feel like a burden.
Lincoln, I’ve learned, is quieter about it than his brother. He’s more careful. As if he’s constantly measuring what he’s allowed to want against what he thinks he should do. When his fingersbrush my wrist or linger at my back, there’s still restraint there—but it’s loaded. Intensity packed tight beneath control. His touch feels deliberate, reverent even. He’s memorizing me instead of claiming me. Like every second of contact matters because he doesn’t take a single one for granted.
And Jasper—god. Jasper touches me like he lives in the moment between every heartbeat. Like if he doesn’t reach for me then and there, he might never get the chance again. His hands are warm and sure, but a little reckless, guided by instinct more than thought. And when he kisses me, it’s urgency and heat and want all tangled together in a beautiful and chaotic web. It’s entirely all-consuming. Jasper’s touch feels like choice—like he’s choosing this, choosing me. Every single time.
Even Beau, who pretends he’s the most laid-back of them all touches me like he’s listening. Like he’s paying attention to every breath I take, every shift of my body. His fingers are gentle, exploratory, never assuming. And when he tucks my hair behind my ear or brushes his thumb along my cheek, it feels intimate in a way that sneaks up on me. It’s slow and intentional, like he’s learning me piece by piece and enjoying the process far too much to rush it. I guess that’s why he hasn’t.
Beau tilts his glass toward me. “Want some?”
My eyes find my glass of wine I left by the stove as I hesitate for a second before taking a sip of the amber liquid, the burn blooming warm in my chest. As I lower the glass, I catch the look Beau and Lawson exchange. It’s brief, but loaded. A silent conversation I’m not privy to but one that deeply affects me anyway.
Heat coils deeper in my stomach.
It lasts exactly three seconds. “Red!” Jasper shouts from the stove. “Can you come back now? Linc is fucking it up.”
“I didn’t do shit,” Lincoln snaps. “Jasper’s the one who doesn’t know the difference between a tablespoon and a teaspoon.”
Lawson snaps, “Good fucking christ.”
Beau laughs wide and unrestrained as I push off the counter with a sigh that’s only half exasperation. “I’d better go save dinner before we’re all subject to starvation,” I say, already moving.
But as I walk back toward the kitchen, the memory of Lawson’s arm around me, Beau’s careful touch, and the feel of being nestled between them, settles deep, insistent, and impossible to ignore.
Dinner is loud in the best way.
It’s plates clinking and chairs scraping and Jasper declaring—far too proudly, might I add—that the sauce “only almost burned.” Lincoln immediately counters with, “BecauseIfixed it,” which earns him a roll of Jasper’s eyes and a pointed reminder that he’d dumped salt in like he was trying to give himself high cholesterol then and there.
“I was eyeballing it,” Lincoln defends.
