My phone buzzes on the counter, and the contact name flashing on the screen makes my chest tighten.
Orion.
I snag it and hit speaker. “Hey, you’re on with the world’s most overworked breakfast chef. Speak fast or starve.”
“Funny,” my older brother says dryly. “Hey, so… you think you could swing me a couple of tickets for one of the shows next weekend?”
I raise a brow. “Aww, hi, Oreo. It’s so nice to talk to you, too. So, you’re not calling me because you miss me, or wanting to congratulate your sister on kicking off the start of her world tour, but because you’ve got a hot date with yourFirefly?”
Korbyn and Shiloh both perk up at the mention of my brother’s long-term girlfriend. Linkin outright grins, licking syrup from his fingers.
“I’m sorry, let me try again. Congratulations, Silly. I am so proud of you,” Orion groans through the phone, using my least favorite childhood nickname. “She isn’t moving up for another couple of months. I’m just trying to do something nice for a friend.”
I smirk. “Mm-hm.”
“Celeste, please.”
“Fine, fine,” I say, amused. “You’ve got two spots at will call, and I’ll book you a room at a nearby hotel. All you need to do is book travel.”
Orion thanks me, and we disconnect the call.
Linkin whistles low. “Never thought I’d see the day. Little Orion, settling down.”
I chuck a kitchen towel at his head. “Just because you’re literally one-fourth of an inch taller than he is doesn’t mean you need to call my six-foot-four older brother ‘little’. I will say I‘m thankful he can’t spend more time around us so you can’t corrupt him more, you walking hormone.”
Shiloh raises her cold brew. “To corruption and caffeine.”
Linkin clinks his fork against her thermos. “Cheers to that.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. This chaotic, mismatched little family is the only thing that’s ever made mefeel whole. Even when the ghosts in my chest won’t shut up, even when the past claws at the edges, this is my home.
The door to my rig swings open, and the air shifts immediately.
Rowan is tall enough that he has to duck slightly through the doorway, the movement effortless but commanding. His leather jacket creaks as he straightens, tattoos peeking from the open collar of his black shirt. Every inch of him saysprofessional menacefrom the silver rings glinting on his fingers, to his jaw set like he’s already preparing to wrangle our special brand of chaos.
“Good morning, degenerates,” he says dryly.
“Morning,Daddy,” Linkin replies without missing a beat.
Rowan exhales through his nose, which is his version of a sigh, and gives me a look that saysthis is your circus, these are your monkeys.
“You love us.” I grin as I flip another pancake, but he pretends not to hear.
He steps closer. The rig feels smaller with him here—not because he’s enormous, though he is, but because his presence fills the space the way a steady drumbeat fills a song: grounded, certain, the kind of person who makes you believe whatever’s fraying will hold. I can feel the shift in the air, the room rearranging itself around him.
Rowan thumbs through his notes. “The technical notes are clean. The first stop of the tour was solid. The energy from the stadium was insane. Only hiccups were so small the audience wouldn’t have noticed unless they were psychic or in production.”
Translation: it was perfect.
Before I can savor the small victory, Rowan closes out the meeting with the same quiet efficiency he brings to everything.
“I’m done for now,” he says, flipping the clipboard shut. “Enjoy your day off before I remember more things to make you do.”
“Love you too, boss man,” Shiloh singsongs, flashing a sleepy smile as she braids a strand of her red hair.
Rolling his eyes, Rowan deadpans, “Don’t call me that.”
Linkin snorts. “Daddy is fine, but boss man is off the table?”
