“You don’t eyeball salt,” Jasper shoots back. “You measure it.”
“Oh my god,” Beau groans, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his hand down his face. “We leave you two alone with a stove once and suddenly we’re having a domestic dispute.”
Jasper flips him off with a grin, and Lawson doesn’t even look up from twirling pasta onto his fork. “Glad we’re all so mature.”
Says the man who’s absolutely smirking.
I laugh before I can stop myself, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep in my chest. This feels… easy. Natural. Like my body remembers how to do it, even if my heart forgot.
The four of them argue about who should do the dishes. About whether pasta sauce counts as eating vegetables. About whether or not Jasper and Lincoln pretend not to know how to cook, just so they don’t have to do it. Lincoln tells a story about Jas trying to negotiate a sponsorship deal all by himself at twenty, then realizing he signed up for a full ad campaign wearing nothing but a cowboy hat. Jasper retaliates with another story about catching Lincoln falling asleep in his office chair at three a.m., suit still on, calculator in hand.
Beau chimes in, dry comments slipping in at just the right moments, making Lawson snort into his beer more than once.
And I just sit there.
Listening.
Soaking it in.
There’s a tightness in my chest that surprises me, because it isn’t anxiety. It’s something softer. Something dangerously close to grief. The kind that comes from realizing how much you’ve missed out on.
In my thirty-two years of life, I can’t remember the last time I sat at a table like this. Not since Kat and I were kids, legs swinging beneath mismatched chairs, laughing so hard milk came out of her nose while everything in the world still made sense. Before survival became the focus. Before, quiet dinners alone in my room felt safer than hoping for more.
My smile trembles before I can stop it.
Lawson must notice.
He always notices.
His hand slips beneath the table, warm and sure as it settles on my thigh. His thumb strokes back and forth, slow and grounding, before he leans in and presses a soft kiss to my temple. Nothing showy. Nothing possessive.
Just comforting.
I blink hard and let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding before leaning into him just enough to say thank you without words.
Later, Jasper pushes back from the table with a groan. “Alright. Ready, Linc?”
Lincoln nods, already standing. “Contracts won’t unfuck themselves.”
“Charming,” I mutter.
Jasper grins at me as he passes, brushing a quick kiss to the top of my head. “Don’t wait up, Red.”
Lincoln does the same, “Thanks for tonight, Sweetheart.”
“You’re welcome,” Beau calls after them.
Their footsteps fade with their laughs, leaving the house quiet—but not calmer.
Not even close.
Lawson, Beau, and I fall into an easy rhythm, clearing plates, rinsing glasses, bumping into one another in the shared space. But the air feels… thicker now. Charged in a way it wasn’t during dinner.
Lawson passes behind me with a pan from the stove, his hand settling briefly at my hip as he murmurs, “hot,” near my ear—not about the pan either, we both know it.
Beau’s close to my other side, sleeves rolled up as he rinses, his arm brushing mine every time I hand him another dish. Once, when I turn too fast, my chest crashes into his. His hands come up instantly, steadying me by the waist. “Easy, Darlin,” he says softly as his hold lingers.
I’m hyperaware of everything. Of Lawson’s presence at my back, of Beau’s voice so close, of how my body seems to be reacting before my brain can keep up. I enjoy it. God, I do. But I also don’t know what itmeans.
