Chapter 17 Quentin
quentin
The receipt from the home goods store is forty-seven dollars longer than I planned, and Milo is carrying bags with both arms like we just robbed the place.
"This is the softest blanket I've ever touched in my life," he says for the third time, his face half-buried in a cream-colored throw that he pulled from the bag before we even reached the car. "Feel it, Q. Feel it with your hands."
"I felt it in the store. Twice. Because you made me."
"And you liked it. I saw your face. You had a feeling."
"I had a thought. Thoughts and feelings are different things."
"Not when you're touching cashmere, they're not."
Iris starts laughing when we come through her apartment door, the bags rustling against the doorframe as Milo tries to fit through without putting anything down.
She's leaning against the kitchen counter in a sweater and jeans, watching us haul six bags of home goods across her living room like we're staging an invasion.
"What is all of this?" She picks up a throw pillow that escaped from one of Milo's bags and landed on the floor. "Did you buy out the entire store?"
"We bought strategically," I say, setting my bags on the couch.
"He sketched a floor plan on a napkin," Milo adds. "There was a color-coded system. It was the most romantic thing I've ever witnessed."
"It wasn't romantic. It was efficient."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive, Q."
Iris shakes her head, still smiling, and reaches for me.
Her hand finds the front of my hoodie and she pulls me toward her, tipping her chin up.
I lean down and kiss her, her mouth warm against mine, her fingers curling into the fabric at my chest. Milo makes a soft approving sound from somewhere behind the bags as I melt into our Alpha, something I started saying in my head since a few days ago.
The front door opens and I jump back to see our coach at the door.
"It's fine." Coach Delacroix steps inside carrying a casserole dish covered in foil, his keys in his other hand.
He doesn't break stride, walking past us to the kitchen like he didn't just witness his daughter kissing one of his players in her living room.
"I have to get used to this. At least you're vertical. "
Iris pulls back farther from me, her cheeks flushed. "Dad."
"What? I said it's fine." He sets the casserole dish on the counter and starts opening cabinets like he knows exactly where everything is.
"I brought lasagna. Your mother's recipe.
Figured if I'm breaking bread with the men who are dating my daughter, I should at least make something that'll shut everyone up for twenty minutes. "
The lasagna does shut everyone up. It's extraordinary, the kind of food that makes conversation physically impossible because your mouth refuses to stop chewing long enough to form words.
Milo is three bites in before he makes a sound that borders on indecent, and Coach shoots him a glare that renders Milo back into his box.
"This shouldn't get in the way of school," Coach says, pointing his fork between Milo and me. "Or the team. Or your careers. I'm happy for my daughter, but I'm still your coach and I expect the same output on that field regardless of who you're going home to."
"Yes, sir," I say.
"And grades. Milo, where are you sitting in Sports Medicine?"
"Three-point-seven," Milo says through a mouthful of lasagna.
"Keep it there." Coach turns to me. "Pre-med?"
"Three-point-nine."
He nods, satisfied, then sets his fork down and leans back in his chair. "So where are you going to live after graduation? All three of you in this apartment? Because I've seen the square footage and I have concerns."
"Dad," Iris says.
"I'm asking practical questions. Someone has to." He picks his fork back up. "And when does this become official? Are we talking timeline here? Because I'd like to plan accordingly."
"Dad."
"I'm a planner, Iris. You got it from somewhere."
God, this whole conversation is embarrassing but I shouldn’t have expected any less. Iris and our coach are meticulous planners. I’m surprised Iris hadn’t mapped all this out yet. Or maybe she has and has been waiting for the right moment to let us in.
Milo swallows his bite and straightens in his chair. "This lasagna is delicious, sir. Thank you. Truly. Best I've ever had."
Coach stares at him for a beat. "Don't change the subject."
"We still have a lot to talk about," I cut in, drawing his attention back to me. "But we won't make any rash decisions. We'll figure out the living situation and the timeline when we're ready. Not before."
Coach studies my face and then nods. "See that you don't." He turns to Milo. "Now. Blockers."
Milo groans, his head tipping back against the wall. "But they taste funny! And I really wanted to eat this lasagna and actually taste it. You can't put scent blockers and lasagna in the same evening, sir. It's cruel."
"You'll survive."
"I might not. This could be a medical situation. Iris, tell your father this is a medical situation."
Iris is biting her lip so hard I can see the indent. "It's not a medical situation, Milo."
Coach sets his fork down again and looks at Iris with an expression that's equal parts love and exhaustion. "Iris. Please tell me you're sure about these men so I don't strangle them."
"Yes, Dad. I'm sure." She reaches over and squeezes his arm. "No strangling the boyfriends."
Milo fist-pumps so hard his elbow catches the edge of the casserole dish. "I'm safe!" A chunk of lasagna launches off the serving spoon and lands with a wet splat on the table, right next to Coach's hand.
The table goes silent. Coach looks down at the lasagna splatter, then up at Milo, his expression unreadable.
Iris giggles, the sound escaping before she can stop it, and she reaches over to drag Milo's chair closer to hers, pulling him against her side like she's claiming him before her father can revoke the no-strangling policy. Milo goes willingly, tucking into her, his ears crimson.
"I swear," Coach says, wiping the table with his napkin, "I don't know how you survive, Milo."
"Because of me," I say. "Somehow I got the common sense and he got the..." I trail off, gesturing vaguely at Milo's entire situation. Milo's mouth drops open.
"Damn, Q. That's harsh." He recovers quickly, wrapping his arm around Iris' shoulders and pulling her closer. "Doesn't even matter because we have Iris. And part of that is because of me. I'm the one who found the auction listing. I'm the one who had the vision."
"You had a crush. I had the money."
"Teamwork, Q. It's called teamwork."
Coach watches the three of us, his expression shifting through something I can't fully read.
The gruffness is still there, the coach's armor he wears like a second skin, but underneath it there's something quieter settling into place.
His gaze moves to Iris, tucked between the two of us, laughing.
"It's definitely going to be a full house from now on," he says, his voice rougher than it was a minute ago.
"But for once, I'll welcome the change. It's gotten a little quiet over the years.
" He clears his throat, picks up his fork, and takes another bite of lasagna. "Welcome to the family."
Milo's eyes fill with tears, opening his mouth to say something.
Coach cuts him off. "If you cry into my lasagna, I'm revoking the welcome."
"Too late," Milo says, already wiping his face. "It's in there now. Adds flavor."
Coach leaves with a handshake for both of us and a hug for Iris.
Iris watches him walk down the hallway, only closing the door when we hear the building door shut behind him.
She twists around to face us, my brother leaning against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed, his eyes still a little red.
He chews his bottom lip for a few seconds, working through something, and then looks at both of us.
"This is like a thing, right?" His voice comes out a little hesitant.
"Like a forever thing. Like we're going to start looking for apartments and stuff. Because when your dad mentioned it, I realized we hadn’t talked about anything after graduation or like… anything."
Iris crosses the kitchen and pulls him into a kiss, her hands finding his jaw, holding him there until his shoulders drop and his body softens against the counter.
"Yes, Milo. That's on the agenda." She pulls back just enough to meet his eyes, her thumbs tracing along his cheekbones.
"I just didn't know how to bring it up because I wasn't sure that you—"
"I want the same thing." The words come out fast, tumbling over each other. "All the things. Especially your nest." His ears go pink. "Well, you in your nest. You specifically. In the nest. With us."
I lean against the doorframe and laugh. "Jesus Christ. I'm glad she likes you for you."
"I'm a gem, Q. You're just the package deal."
Iris grins, her fingers still resting against Milo's jaw. "I think I like package deals. A lot."
Milo's eyes go wide. "Is that code for something? Are we doing that again? I'm down but we need lube this time. Because last time I had to use my—"
Iris cuts him off with another kiss, this one hard enough to push him back against the counter, her teeth catching his bottom lip and tugging before she releases it. Her mouth drops to his neck, trailing down, and then her tongue drags up the side of his throat in one slow, purposeful stroke.
Milo shudders against the counter, his hands gripping the edge behind him, his breath hitching in his chest. The scent of slick hits the air a second later and his eyes flutter closed, his head tipping back. "That's... a really handy tactic." His voice comes out wrecked. "Fuck, okay. I'm ready."
I push off the doorframe and cross the kitchen. "But I'm on top this time." With my arm mostly healed, I want to take Iris apart like I’ve been dreaming of.
Iris turns to look at me, her eyebrow lifting, her lip caught between her teeth. "It feels like you're calling shotgun."
"I am calling shotgun."
She grumbles but there's no heat in it, already pulling Milo off the counter by the front of his shirt and steering all three of us toward the hallway. Milo stumbles along between us, his legs not fully cooperating, his scent flooding the apartment.
"I don't care where I am," he says, breathless, tripping over his own feet as Iris pushes the bedroom door open, "as long as I'm somewhere."