James nods, solemn. "And there's fruit."
I reach for the small table nearby and grab the one thing I managed to save from the kitchen: a glass bowl of sliced fruit. I'd chilled the grapes and sliced the apples into thin, uniform wedges, then added cheese cubes because Quentin's notes mentioned protein and because Blake's more likely to eat if no one makes him decide. I press it into Blake's hand without comment.
He looks at the bowl, then up at me, his brown eyes soft, heavy, and swimming with gratitude he's too tired to voice. Hetakes an apple slice and lets Luca's fingers slide into his curls, untangling the knots of the night with the same care he gives everything he loves. James shifts closer to Blake's shoulder, still watching, then carefully picks a grape from the bowl and places it in Blake's open palm.
"For after the apple," James says.
Blake's fingers close around it. "Thank you."
Samuel looks between his cookie and the bowl of fruit, visibly weighing loyalty against hunger. "Fruit counts as breakfast too."
"It does," I say.
He considers this, then takes a grape and shoves the rest of his cookie behind a pillow with no subtlety whatsoever. I choose not to document it.
Blake eats the grape, then another apple slice. It isn't enough, but it's a start. His hand trembles once when he reaches for the cheese, and Luca sees it. So does James. So do I. No one says anything. Luca simply hooks his hand more firmly in Blake's shirt, and I shift so Blake's feet can rest more comfortably against my thigh.
After a minute, Blake leans forward with that slow, half-asleep softness he only has when he's stopped fighting everyone's care. He presses a dry, lingering kiss to the curve of my shoulder. It's a small gesture, incidental and quiet, but it grounds me more than any speech about belonging ever could. I'm not the Alpha who leads or the Omega who heals. I'm the Gamma who notices. I'm the one who remembers the fruit and the vitamins when everyone else is distracted by the cookies and the crisis.
"Eat," I say, my voice a low rumble that vibrates in my own chest. "The cookies are a legal liability. You need real glucose."
"They're delicious," Blake whispers, stealing another slice of apple. He closes his eyes, leaning into Luca's touch as the Omega continues to card slender fingers through his messy hair."Everything's so loud, Maceo. Why's everything in my head so loud this morning?"
"Because you're awake," I say. "The world only gets loud when you're in it, Blake. If you stayed asleep, we'd all be sitting in silence."
"Doubtful," Luca says, dodging a stray pillow thrown by Samuel. "Rosalie would just narrate her own life until the walls vibrated."
I stay there for a long moment, letting the warmth of the nest seep into my skin through my shirt. This is the part of the job they don't teach you in any manual: the art of holding a perimeter made of pillows, sugar-high toddlers, and the fragile peace of a man who works too hard. I look at my phone, at the Sugar Log, and the meticulously planned schedule for the day. Then I turn the screen off and slide it into my pocket. Some crimes don't need a witness, and some plans are meant to be scrapped.
I stand up, moving with deliberate care so I don't disturb the nest more than necessary. I've got a pan to scrape and a kitchen to decontaminate before Grayson wanders down and sees the evidence of my incompetence. As I walk away, I hear Rosalie declaring that the next cookie belongs to the dog, even though we don't have a dog, and Luca's soft laugh follows me down the hall.
Back in the kitchen, the smoke's finally cleared, leaving behind only the stubborn ghost of burnt toast and the humming of the refrigerator. I pick up the spatula, looking at the blackened remains of my good intentions. I'm not a cook. I'm a protector. And sometimes, protection looks like admitting defeat and ordering real breakfast from the deli downstairs, the one with the heavy protein wraps and the fresh fruit smoothies Quentin actually approves of.
I reach for my phone to call in the order, but my hand pauses on the cold marble counter. There's a small, sticky smear of chocolate on the granite, right where Samuel was sitting. I look at it, a tiny, messy proof of life in a house that used to be too quiet, too sterile, and too empty.
The eggs were a failure, but the morning's not. That's a math I can live with.
I wipe up the chocolate, rinse the cloth, and make the call to the deli while the pan soaks behind me. The order's large enough to feed the family twice over, with extra protein for Blake, fruit for Luca, and coffee for everyone who's earned it by surviving my attempt at breakfast. When I hang up, I pick up the spatula again and start scraping the pan clean.
5
Grayson
The hallway smells of lavender detergent, clean pajamas, and the particular kind of trouble that usually begins when Samuel goes quiet.
I'm crouched behind a wicker laundry basket with one knee pressed into the runner, trying to negotiate with a five-year-old who's decided that pants are no longer part of his personal belief system. Samuel's halfway to the stairs, bare feet slapping againstthe hardwood, curls wild from sleep, pajama shirt twisted around his narrow chest, and nothing on his bottom half.
"Samuel Keller," I call, keeping my voice bright with effort, "if you put those pants on, I'll let you choose the music in the car. The dinosaur song. Three times in a row."
He stops at the top of the stairs and looks back over his shoulder. The expression on his face says he knows exactly how much power he has. "Four times?"
I brace one hand on the floor and push myself up just enough to lunge if he makes another break for it. "Three times. And I'll do the roaring part."
His mouth opens, and for one quiet second I think I have him. Then Rosalie's voice rings out from the nursery behind me.
"I'm the boss today!"
Samuel shrieks with laughter and ducks into the linen closet before I can catch him.
