Blake's head snaps up, his eyes widening behind his glasses, blinking rapidly as if trying to re-enter reality. He looks guilty, his thumb reflexively tapping the tablet screen to dim it, trying to hide whatever spreadsheet or project timeline he was obsessing over. Luca doesn't startle; he just blinks, his blue eyes soft and heavy before offering us a slow, syrupy smile that says he knows exactly what I'm thinking.
"We were," Blake says, his voice raspy and thin from lack of use. "Then Samuel decided he was a ninja on a night mission, and Rosalie decided the ninja needed a queen to give him orders, and... things escalated. Logistics were required."
"You've been working, Blake," I say, stepping into the room.
Luca shifts, pressing a lingering kiss to Blake's jaw, his scent spiking with a protective, grounding note. It’s been amazing watching them become more protective over each other. "I told him his only job was to let himself be held. He's being very difficult about it. He thinks the world will stop spinning if he isn't checking the rotation speed every twenty minutes."
Grayson moves past me, his face lit with a grin that could melt ice. "Oh, look at them. They're like a basket of puppies. Luther, don't you dare be the grumpy Alpha right now. Look at James' little face."
He immediately betrays my attempt at discipline, sinking onto the edge of the blanket pile with a contented sigh and scooping a sleeping Rosalie into his arms. She lets out a tiny, imperious grunt, shifting her weight but not waking, her head falling onto Grayson's shoulder. Grayson looks up at me, his eyes daring me to ruin the moment.
Maceo doesn’t say anything either as he crosses the room and reaches down to tuck Samuel's bare foot back under a plush duvet. He meets my eyes for a second, a silent communication passing between us that the others don't see.He's too pale,Maceo's look says, directed at Blake.He's vibrating.
I look at Blake again, really looking this time. He's trying to stand, but his movements are sluggish, a visible tremor in his hands that he tries to hide by gripping the armrest of the chair. I'm across the room before he can protest, my hands finding his waist to steady him. He's too thin. I can feel the ridges of his ribs through his shirt. He's been skipping meals again, trading calories for code, thinking we wouldn't notice if he did it gradually enough.
"Tablet away, Blake," I command, my voice dropping into a register that usually ends all arguments in the boardroom and the bedroom alike. "Now."
Blake sighs, a long, weary sound that seems to deflate his stubborn posture. He looks at the device as if it's an extension of his own hand. "Luther, I have the final build for the third level due by noon. The lighting engine is still buggy, and if I don't--"
"It will be there after you've had breakfast and a real nap," I cut in, my tone leaving no room for negotiation. I reach down and slide the tablet from his hand, passing it back to Maceo without looking. "You're done for the morning. The digital world can wait for the real one to catch up."
I lean down, hooking one arm under his knees and the other behind his back. Blake lets out a small yelp of surprise, his hands flying up to clutch at my neck for balance.
"I can walk, you overbearing brute," Blake mutters, though he doesn't pull away. He leans his head against my chest, his curls smelling of the lavender soap Luca likes. He's already giving in, the exhaustion finally winning the battle against his will.
"You could," I say, "but you won't. You're being relocated to a zone with zero Wi-Fi and high concentrations of protein and forced cuddling."
Luca stands, stretching like a cat, his joints popping. He looks at the nest he built and a flicker of something like mourning crosses his face as we prepare to dismantle it for the day. He steps up to Blake in my arms and steals another kiss before plopping back into the armchair. "I'll bring the rest of the blankets back to the nest later," Luca whispers, his eyes lingering on our Delta. "He just needed to be near the kids, Alpha. The house felt too big last night."
I nod, pulling Blake closer to my chest. I know what Luca isn't saying. The house feels big when the world gets too loud, for both Blake and Luca. I should have known when talks of mergers and going public started to stress him out that there would be a problem. Grayson stands, Rosalie still tucked against him. "Since we’re all up, let’s get breakfast. I'm making the pancakeswith the chocolate chips, and if anyone complains about the sugar-to-flour ratio, they can take it up with the boss here." He nudges Rosalie, who mumbles something about 'more syrup' in her sleep, her tiny brow furrowing.
Maceo gathers James, the boy waking just enough to recognize the Gamma's steady, grounding scent and go limp in his arms, his mechanical toy still clutched in his small fist. Samuel is the last to be hauled out, slung over Maceo's free shoulder like a sack of flour, his legs still kicking at an imaginary foe as he transitions from dreams to the waking world.
I lead the procession back toward the kitchen, the weight of Blake in my arms a constant, grounding pressure. He's fallen asleep already, his breathing shallow and quick against my collarbone, his head lolling into the hollow of my neck.
“Why didn’t you say something, sweetheart?” I mumble against his forehead. I set him down on the couch, pulling a stray blanket over him. He just curls into my side before a small snore permeates the air.
I almost wake him to ask what’s really wrong when there’s happy screeching from the kitchen and Rosalie yelling about chocolate chips. I guess I can hold off a little longer.
2
Blake
The humming of thirty high-end servers usually sounds like progress, but today it sounds like a migraine waiting to happen. I lean back in my chair, the springs groaning in sympathy with my spine, and squint at the monitor.
Code bleeds into more code, a cascading waterfall of brackets and variables that I've been staring at for so long they've started to look like gibberish. A localization glitch in the French build is currently threatening to push our release date into the nextcentury, and my lead developer is currently face-down on a beanbag chair in the corner, snoring in a way that suggests he's forgotten what a bed looks like.
"Boss! Look!"
A small, sticky hand slaps onto my thigh, followed by the precarious weight of a three-year-old climbing up my leg. Rosalie doesn't wait for permission; she never does. She hauls herself onto my hip, her plastic crown lopsided and digging into my collarbone. She smells like strawberry yogurt and the faint, dusty scent of the deli downstairs. She brandishes a neon-yellow highlighter like a scepter, waving it dangerously close to my eye.
"I'm the boss now, Daddy," she declares, her hazel-green eyes, so much like Luther's it actually hurts to look at them sometimes, widening with the absolute authority of a toddler. "You go nap. I do the wires."
I snort, shaking my head. If anyone told me five years ago that my office would be shared with my children, I would have told them they were lying. But now? I can’t imagine the chaos any other way.
"You're the boss, huh?" I mutter, shifting her so I can actually reach my keyboard. My left hand has a slight tremor, a fine-motor protest against the four cups of coffee I've had and the heart medication I definitely haven't taken yet. I tell myself the headache behind my eye is just the lighting. "If you're the boss, can you tell the QA team that the collision physics in the Forbidden Forest aren't 'abstract art,' they're a disaster?"
Rosalie nods solemnly and taps a sticky note onto my forehead. It saysBuy more snacksin someone else's handwriting, but to her, it's a decree. "Fixed it. Give me a sticker."
