He shrugs, but his mouth curves. “I pay attention.”
My chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with instinct.
He hesitates, then looks at me properly. “Can we take care of you?”
My heart does something warm and dangerous inside my ribs. I nod before I can talk myself out of it.
“Yes.”
Dorian exhales like he has been holding that breath for days. “Okay. I’ll get your hair cleaned up.”
Jude stands, already rolling his shoulders like he has a plan. “I can handle the clothes. Sheets, too. It’s… a lot.”
Ryker snorts. “That means I’m on breakfast duty.”
Something about how easily they fall into roles makes my eyes sting again.
They each step in turn, quick and gentle. Jude presses a kiss to my temple, his lips warm and lingering just long enough to make my stomach dip.
Ryker cups my face, brushes his mouth over mine in a kiss that is firm but careful, like he is checking in rather than claiming.
Dorian kisses me last, deeper than the others, like he’s sealing something. He nods at them once, a silent exchange I don’t fully understand but feel anyway.
“If you have eggs,” I say to Ryker, because suddenly that craving is loud, “I really want eggs.”
His mouth lifts into a full smile, beautiful and devastating. “Okay, sweetheart.”
The bedroom clears out in a quiet shuffle. Dorian guides me back into the bathroom, hand at my lower back, not steering so much as reminding me he’s there.
“Hey,” he says once the door is closed. “You really okay?”
I nod. Then I nod again, more firmly. “Yeah. I am.”
He studies my face like he is reading something between the lines. “It was a lot for one Omega to take.”
I tense despite myself, waiting for the unspoken follow-up.
“You did so well,” he finishes. “I’m proud of you.”
The words hit harder than anything else this morning. My chest folds inward around them. I step closer without thinking, letting myself curl into him, forehead pressing into his shoulder.
He wraps his arms around me easily, like this is where I belong.
I tilt my head up and kiss him. It’s soft, brief, but full of meaning. When I pull back, something tender remains between us.
“How’s your mom?” I ask quietly.
“She’s okay,” he says. “For now.”
He brushes his thumb along my jaw, grounding me again. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He turns the shower on, tests the water with his hand, adjusts it until steam begins to rise. “I’m a little sad about it,” he admits. “You smell really good. I don’t love the idea of washing it away.”
Heat blooms low in my belly. I swallow, suddenly aware of how close he is.
“We can get it back,” I say, half-teasing.
His smile turns slow and knowing. He steps aside and helps me out of the towel, movements careful, eyes tracking every mark like he’s cataloging them.
