Diwa stared into the fridge for long enough that the energy-saving alert beeped at him. He moved the Tupperware aside, as though lemonade might be hiding behind it, and then moved it back.
“Problem?” Stephen asked, from somewhere behind his left shoulder.
“No! No problem. Just…I think I’m out. Of lemonade. Which is annoying, because Idefinitelyhad some.” He closed the fridge and opened it again, like the second look was going to produce different results. Predictably, it did not. “I could go to the shops? There’s a Tesco Metro really close by.”
“A Coke’s fine, then.”
Diwa grabbed the Coke from the door shelf, set it on the counter, and turned round to find Stephen already at the island, his coat still on, one hand selecting a piece of bresaola from the charcuterie board.
The way to a Huxley’s heart, it turned out, was always through food.
Stephen shrugged off his peacoat, draped it over the back of the stool, and sat down at the island. He worked through the bresaola in overlapping folds, three at a time, before moving on to the aged Comté.
“This is good,” he said, around a mouthful of cheese, his eyes still on the board. “Where’s it from?”
“A place in Borough Market. They do a raw milk Comté that’s aged about eighteen months.”
Stephen turned the wedge over in his hand, bit into it, and chewed while his gaze moved across the charcuterie board like he was auditing it. He selected a cornichon, ate it, and reached for the Manchego.
“Right,” Stephen said. He set the rind down on the marble. “You’re going to Scotland with my father for five days. Walk me through it.”
Diwa pulled out the stool opposite him and sat. “We’re going to be staying in a cottage within the grounds of a heat retreat in the Highlands. It looks isolated, but there’s a full emergency notification system throughout the cabin. Someone from the medical team can be with us inside twenty minutes to provide assistance, round the clock. A cleaning crew comes in daily while we’re out walking or he’s resting in the sage room, and meals are delivered to the door each morning. Your father will be well taken care of.”
Stephen’s jaw worked on another piece of Comté, his gaze fixed on the marble countertop between them, his thumbnail tracing the faint grey veining. “And if something goes wrong? If the heat’s too much for him, or if he needs serious medical attention?”
“Then there’s a doctor on site. An omega specialist who’s part of the retreat staff.”
Stephen nodded, reached for another slice of bresaola, folded it in half, and ate it. “Do you even know what my dad’s been through?” He didn’t meet Diwa’s eyes as he posed his question.
“Yes,” Diwa said. “He’s told me.”
Stephen’s head came up. His expression cycled through, fast and ugly, exposing his horror at the thought of his father’s worst secret sitting with another person, while also conflicting with his recognition that Colin had to have felt incredibly safe with Diwa to even share the information with him.
“He told me in that way he has,” Diwa went on, keeping his voice low. “He didn’t dress it up.”
The omega’s knuckles went white. Stephen’s throat moved, but nothing came out.
“I’m going to take care of your father, Stephen.”
Stephen didn’t answer. He pulled the plate back towards him and picked up a piece of Manchego.
“I don’t want you to take care of him.” His voice had gone flat. “That’s mine and Lysander’s job. We owe him that. Do you know what it took for him to keep us? The care system wanted to take us. They kept trying, kept sending people round, and he was fourteen years old sitting in meetings with social workers telling them he could manage. And he did manage. He managed on nothing, and the least I can do is make sure nobody ever ruins his life again.”
“Is that what you think I’m going to do?”
Stephen’s jaw tightened. “How do you see this ending, Diwa?” He leaned forward on the stool, his elbows on the marble, and the question landed like a hostile cross-examination. “You’re twenty-eight. He’s forty. You’re a literal billionaire, and he’s a handyman who takes the bus to work. We’re not living out a rom-com. There’s no guaranteed happy ending. So what’s the plan?”
Diwa turned his water glass on the marble, watching the condensation track a slow arc across the stone.
“I don’t have one. I’ve never not had a plan,” Diwa said. “I’ve had a five-year projection for every major decision I’ve made since I was nineteen. I set myself revenue targets, growth models, exit strategies. I should be terrified right now.” He let go of his glass. “But the moment your dad puts his bag on the hook by the bedroom door, nothing else really matters. He takes care of me, and I take care of him, and it just works.” He met Stephen’s eyes. “So, full transparency; I have no plans, Stephen. I’ve just got him.”
Stephen’s throat moved. His hands had gone still on the countertop, and Diwa could see the fine tremor running through his fingers.
“Can you understand why hearing that is terrifying for me?” His voice cracked on the last word, and he looked away, blinking hard.
“Yeah,” Diwa said. “I’m terrified too, Stephen. Of ever being the kind of alpha who could hurt him. What happened to your dad…that’s not something that he’ll ever be able to leave behind. It’s a part of him. It always will be. And I’ve got to be the kind of man who can help him hold onto that without ever adding to the weight of it.”
Stephen pressed the heel of his hand against his eye, sniffed once, and started picking through the offerings on the charcuterie board again. “As long as you understand what your job is,” he muttered.
