I gestured vaguely at the kitchen, at them, at the whole scene. "This. People cooking for me, being included without having to earn it, and feeling like maybe I belong somewhere besides my garden."
The kitchen went quiet for a moment, the only sound was a soft sizzle from Garrett's pan. Then Oliver spoke, his voice carrying certainty, "You do belong here, Daphne. You don't have to earn it or prove anything. You just have to be willing to try."
"I'm trying," I whispered, and realized it was true. Despite every instinct screaming at me to run, despite Trinity's poison words echoing in my head, despite all my fears and doubts—I was trying.
"That's all we ask," Garrett's soft voice soothed the nerves while bringing the roasted vegetables to the table. They moved around the kitchen with practiced coordination, assembling dinner—perfectly cooked steaks, vegetables that looked like art, focaccia that smelled like heaven, a simple salad with what looked like homemade dressing. Everything was arranged on the table with care.
As we all settled into our seats—Oliver at the head of thee table Garrett to my left, Levi to my right, and Micah across from me, felt something shift inside me. That wall I'd built so carefully, so high and strong, developed another crack.
Maybe that was okay.
Maybe walls were meant to have doors, and I'd just been too scared to build any.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Daphne
The first bite of steak nearly made me moan aloud. I managed to clamp my mouth shut, but only just. The meat was cooked to absolute perfection—medium rare, still glowing pink at its heart, the outer crust charred to a deep mahogany that cracked beneath my knife to reveal a butter-soft interior. Each fragment melted on my tongue, carrying the taste sea salt, cracked black pepper, and a whisper of roasted garlic with smoked paprika that swirled across my palate and made my eyes ache back in my head.
“Good?” Oliver called from the opposite side of the table, amusement dancing in his clear blue eyes.
“It’s—unbelievable,” I confessed, slicing off another bite. My knife swept through the steak as if it were warm butter, while the juices pooled at the edge of my plate in rivulets glossy enough to be illegal. “I’ve never tasted steak this good.”
“Oliver’s secret is letting the meat rest,” Garrett said, reaching for the basket of focaccia. His grey eyes gleamed as heraked a hunk of bread from the pile. “Most people hack into it while it’s still sizzling, and all those juices just leak out. He made us wait a torturous ten minutes while it sat there, looking perfect.”
Oliver lifted one brow, lips quirked in a half-smile. “Patience is a virtue.”
“Patience is torture when you’re hungry,” Micah countered, spearing a wedge of roasted carrot, his green eyes gleamed with mirth.
I turned my attention to the vegetables next: thick slices of carrot, strips of bell pepper, and coins of zucchini, each blistered at the edges and slick with olive oil. Sweet caramelized sugars met savory notes of thyme and rosemary in a dance on my tongue. The texture was spot-on. Every bite spoke of someone monitoring oven temperatures, drizzling oil by weight, sprinkling salt with the precision of an alchemist.
“Garrett did the veggies,” Levi volunteered, leaning back and watching me with a satisfied smirk. “He’s obsessive about roasting temperatures and timing.”
Garrett’s cheeks flushed pink. “I just don’t like soggy vegetables,” he muttered, though the flush was more pride than embarrassment. “If you’re going to cook, you might as well do it right.”
Micah laughed, bright and teasing. “Says the man who burned three pans of Brussels sprouts last month trying to get them ‘perfectly crispy.’”
“They were perfect the fourth time,” Garrett shot back, but the stern edge in his voice had softened. As he laughed, relaxed and easy, I saw the kind of comfort these men had with one another—teasing without malice, joking with genuine affection. My fingers drifted toward the focaccia. The bread was still warm,the crust crackling under my touch. As I tore off a chunk, the scent of freshly chopped rosemary mingled with the rich tang of olive oil. I brought the piece to my lips, and the interior—light as air, dotted with honeycomb holes—yielded into a glorious pillow of flavor. The olive oil was fruity and grassy; the rosemary bright and piney; the salt crystals burst like tiny fireworks on my tongue.
“This is officially unfair,” I mumbled, crust in hand, forgetting to be polite. “How do you make bread taste like this?”
Levi’s face lit up so intensely that it felt like I’d handed him a trophy. “You really like it? I adjusted the olive oil ratio the way you suggested, used my sourdough starter instead of commercial yeast, and—” He cut off, laughing. “Sorry. I get carried away talking about bread and even cooking.”
“Don’t apologize,” I said, meaning every word. “It’s the best focaccia I’ve ever had…it’s perfect. You should be proud.”
He swallowed, eyes bright and unguarded, and I felt a sudden pulse of warmth in my chest. When had I last seen someone beam because of something I’d said? When had I allowed myself to care about another’s happiness so fully?
Oliver nudged a small dish across the table. “Try it with the balsamic.” The vinegar caught the overhead light in a little amber pool—dark, syrupy, droplet-thick. I tipped a sliver of focaccia into it and lifted the combination to my mouth.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” I asked, eyes moving around the table as curiosity overtook me.
“My mom taught me,” Oliver said softly. His gaze drifted to the ceiling, as if recalling a memory. “She believed feeding people was an act of love. That putting effort into a meal was the best way to show you cared.” His voice trembled slightly at the edges. The moment hung there, rich with unspoken emotion.
“I learned from necessity,” Micah said, breaking the hush with his easy drawl. “Four years in college subsisting on ramenand cereal made me swear I’d never eat like that again. So I taught myself—mostly by screwing up until I got it right.”
“He nearly burned down his apartment twice,” Garrett added, and we all laughed as Garrett caught a stray piece of focaccia Micah flung at him, popping it into his mouth with relish. “But hey, practice makes perfect.”
Levi turned to me, curiosity shining in his brown eyes. “What about you? You mentioned your adoptive parents taught you to bake. Did they teach you to cook savory dishes, too?”
