My heart stuttered. “You do?”
“Mhm.” His voice dropped, just for me. “But you get flustered every time I use it, so I save it for special occasions.”
The memory hit me. His voice in my ear yesterday morning, low and sleep-rough, when he’d found me making coffee. The word he’d used instead of my name.
Love.
Heat flooded my face so fast I felt dizzy.
“T-that’s not a nickname,” I blurted out defensively. “That’s just... British.”
“I’m not British.”
“Then why do you-”
“Because I like the way you blush when I say it.” His grin widened. “Exactly like that.”
I was going to kill him. I was going to take this casserole dish and bash it over his beautiful, stupid head.
A snort came from behind us. Solomon had materialized at the table, fork already in hand, helping himself to a portion of pasta bake.
“She’s not wrong,” he said without looking up. “You do hand out nicknames like candy.”
“I do not.”
“You called the fire chief‘Big Red’for three months.”
“His name is literally Red. And he’s tall.”
“You call Lucian‘grumpy.’“
“You know that one is not a nickname. It’s a description.”
I pressed my fingers to my temples. “I cannot have this conversation right now.”
“That’s fine.” Percy’s hand found my lower back again. “We can revisit it later. When you’re less flustered.”
“I’m not flustered.”
“Love, you’re bright red.”
There it was again. Said so casually while my entire cardiovascular system staged a revolt.
Solomon snorted again, louder this time, and shoved another forkful of pasta into his mouth.
Before I could formulate a response that didn’t involve violence, the front door opened.
Lucian walked in, still in his captain’s uniform, and the room rearranged itself around him. People stepped aside without being asked. Conversations dropped to murmurs. He didn’t demand attention; he just occupied it, the way gravity occupied space.
Percy made me feel warm. Solomon made me feel seen. Lucian made me feel an emotion I couldn’t name yet. It lived closer to a challenge than a comfort, making my pulse kick up.
“Mira.” He crossed to our table, nostrils flaring slightly as he caught the scent of my casserole. “You cooked.”
“Pasta bake.” My voice came out embarrassingly breathless. “It’s not much.”
Lucian took the dish from Solomon, inhaled deeply, and his face turned softer.
“This is ours,” he announced to the room.
