11. Levi
Levi
T he smell of cinnamon and browned butter fills the kitchen as I flip the last pancake onto the stack.
I've already got turkey bacon crisping in the pan and fresh berries rinsed in a bowl.
An array of strawberries, blueberries, and blackberries arranged in neat little piles, just the way he likes them.
The coffee pot gurgles behind me, its steady drip the only sound in the quiet house, a comforting rhythm against the soft golden morning light streaming through the windows.
At least until the shuffle of socked feet reaches my ears, padding across the hardwood floors with a deliberate slowness that tells me he's still half-asleep but eager.
I don't turn around. I don't have to. I feel him.
The subtle shift in the air, the faint scent of roses that always surrounds him, growing stronger as he approaches.
My body seems to know exactly when he enters a room, an instinctive part of me attuned to his presence in ways I still can't fully explain.
"Something smells good," Brookes says, his voice still thick with sleep and mischief. It curls around my spine like smoke, low and warm, sending a pleasant shiver across my skin. Even groggy, he knows exactly what he's doing to me.
"You mean me or the food?" I ask, keeping my tone casual as I drizzle maple syrup across the pancakes, watching it pool and run over the perfectly round edges. I'm trying not to smile too much, to give away how much I love these quiet moments before the world fully wakes up.
"Mmm." He stretches the sound like he's tasting it, letting it linger between us. "Definitely the food. You're a close second, though." The teasing lilt in his voice makes my heart stutter in my chest.
I finally glance over my shoulder and damn near lose the ability to breathe, my hands freezing mid-task as I take him in.
He's wearing my shirt again. White, soft, and oversized, hanging halfway down his thighs and cinched a little at the waist where he's probably tied a knot in the back.
The collar dips low enough to expose the elegant line of his collarbone, the smooth brown skin there practically begging to be touched.
It makes him look effortlessly edible, like something too beautiful to be real.
His short curls are crushed on one side like he slept hard, and his skin practically glows against the morning light, warm and inviting.
Those brown eyes, still heavy-lidded with sleep, watch me with a mixture of affection and playfulness that makes my chest ache.
Perfection. Ours. Mine to protect, to cherish, to feed pancakes on lazy mornings.
"You gonna just stand there and stare or feed me?
" he teases, hopping onto the counter like he owns the place.
His bare legs swing slightly, drawing my gaze to the smooth skin that looks soft as velvet.
Which, to be fair, he kind of does. At least, he owns every inch of my attention, every corner of this space we've carved out together, every moment like this that feels stolen from some life I never thought I'd have.
"Someone's impatient this morning." I reply, quirking a brow as I take in the sight of him, all tousled and warm, like a dream that wandered into my kitchen.
"Two weeks of shared bed privileges and still no special treatment?" he asks, fluttering his lashes in a way that sends a pulse of heat through me. "Rude."
I move toward him, setting my spatula down and stepping between his knees without thinking.
His thighs part easily to let me in, and the air between us shifts, thickening with the unspoken promise of more.
His fingers toy with the hem of my shirt where it brushes his skin, sending tiny sparks of sensation dancing across my nerve endings.
"You get plenty of special treatment," I murmur, watching his eyes drop to my mouth, lingering there like a physical touch.
His grin falters, lips parting slightly as his breath hitches almost imperceptibly. "Prove it."
I reach for a strip of bacon, hold it up.
He leans forward to take it directly from my fingers, lips brushing my knuckles in a way that makes me want to capture his mouth with mine.
He chews slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact.
My stomach tightens with anticipation, with the need to taste him, to feel him.
"I didn't mean with breakfast," he says, and I swear my knees go a little weak at the implication in his voice.
"You trying to start something, Bloom?" My voice dips lower, rough with the desire that's been simmering beneath the surface all morning.
He shrugs one shoulder, coy and infuriatingly cute. "Maybe. Maybe I just like the way you look when you're trying not to kiss me."
"You think I'm trying not to?" My voice is barely more than a growl now, the tension between us stretching taut as a wire.
He blinks, momentarily stunned, then that soft flush spreads across his cheeks. "So do it."
I lean in just a fraction, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, to catch the faintest whisper of rose and something deeper underneath.
His eyes flutter shut like he's bracing for it, like he's ready to surrender to whatever comes next.
My fingers skim his waist, land on his hipbones beneath the borrowed shirt, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin fabric.
He shudders, just once, a tiny tremor that ripples through him, through me, binding us together in this moment of pure, exquisite anticipation.
Then I pull myself back abruptly. "Not yet," I whisper, my voice rougher than intended. "Not like this. Not when we've got a shoot in an hour and I can't give you what you deserve."
He opens his eyes, frustration and want warring across his face. The flush on his cheeks deepens, and I can see his pulse fluttering at the base of his throat. "You're cruel," he accuses, but there's no real heat behind it.
"I'm patient," I correct, running my thumb along his jawline. "You're the one driving me crazy, standing here in my kitchen looking like that."
He huffs out a laugh that's half sigh and leans his forehead against mine, letting the moment stretch between us like taffy, sweet and lingering. His hands slip under my shirt, palms flat against my ribs, his touch feather-light but scorching, grounding us both in this stolen moment.
"You always take care of me," he says, quieter now, vulnerability threading through his words. "Even when you want more. Even when it would be easier not to."
"Always," I promise without hesitation, brushing my lips to his temple, breathing in that intoxicating rose scent. "That's what this is about. But when you're ready to give more, Bloom? I'll take it all. Everything you've got."
The air vibrates between us, charged and electric yet somehow tender. He pulls back with a soft sigh that feels like it comes from somewhere deep inside him, resting his hands on the counter behind him.
"We really do need a bigger bed," he mutters, shaking his head. "This four-man arrangement is getting ridiculous."
I chuckle and tap the tip of his nose, delighting in how it crinkles. "You're the one who insists on sleeping starfish-style. Pretty sure Hero still has bruises from your elbow."
He sticks out his tongue, playful and carefree, and for a second it's just lightness, joy, something easy and uncomplicated that we've fought hard to earn.
I plate the pancakes, adding an extra drizzle of syrup to his, and hand him one as he slides off the counter with a wink that promises we'll continue this conversation later.
It's not until we're heading toward the front door, Brookes tucking his bag under his arm, that I feel it—a shift, a change in the air around us. Brookes’ scent is suddenly stronger, more alluring, richer. . .fuck. A slight hint of spice amongst the roses, like cinnamon or clove warming through a garden. My gut tightens in a different way this time, instinct flaring to life. I check my watch as Dante opens the SUV door for Brookes, his eyes meeting mine briefly over Brookes’ head, one eyebrow raised in silent question.
I let the brewing apprehension simmer as Hero and I join them in the car.
Maybe I'm just imagining it but the Alpha in me is suddenly very, very alert.
Two weeks, I think to myself as I take in our new reality as I drive us to the commercial shoot.
That's all it took for my entire life to realign itself around one beautiful, stubborn Omega and two equally devoted Alphas. Like gravity had shifted, and we'd all just naturally fallen into orbit around each other.
I've spent fourteen mornings waking up beside Brookes.
Sometimes with him curled against my chest, sometimes with him sprawled across Hero's lap, sometimes with his feet tucked under Dante's thigh.
It doesn't matter the configuration. What matters is that he's there, and we're allowed to reach for him.
The mattress situation became a running joke after the third night.
Four grown men on one king-sized bed is ambitious.
Especially when one of those men stretches out like he's trying to touch all four corners at once.
I've woken up with Brookes' foot in my face more times than I care to admit, but I wouldn't trade it for anything.
"You're thinking too loud," Hero mutters beside me, eyes on the road as I continue to drive us to Brookes' shoot.
I glance in the rearview mirror, catching Brookes' profile where he's leaning against Dante's shoulder in the backseat, scrolling through his phone. My chest tightens at the casual intimacy of it.
"Just reflecting," I admit.
"On how much better your cooking has gotten since you've had someone to impress?" Dante's deep voice rumbles from behind us, laced with amusement.
I snort. "My cooking was always good."
"Your cooking is the bomb," Brookes agrees without looking up from his screen. "But your timing could use work. We're going to be cutting it close today."