11. Levi #2
"Says the man who spent twenty minutes picking out sunglasses," I counter, and Brookes finally glances up, flashing me that smile that makes my insides somersault.
"Worth it, though."
I can't argue with that. The oversized frames perched on his nose make him look like a movie star from another era.
They also hide the dark circles under his eyes.
A remnant of last night's nightmare that had him thrashing against invisible hands at three in the morning.
None of us mention it. Some days are harder than others, and we all know today is a workday.
Brookes doesn't like mixing his trauma with his job.
That's one of the unspoken rules we've developed over these past two weeks. Work is work. Home is home. Brookes decides when and how much of himself he shares in either space.
We pull up to the studio, a converted warehouse with floor-to-ceiling windows that flood the space with natural light. It's one of Brookes’ favorite venues, familiar territory, friendly crew. The security is top-notch too, which eases some of the perpetual tension I carry in my shoulders.
"You sure you want all three of us here today?" I ask as Hero parks. "We can rotate if you need space."
Brookes fiddles with the strap of his bag, hesitating. I know what he's thinking, now that things have changed with us that he doesn't want to seem clingy. We are still his security, we still have a job to do.
"I want you here," he finally admits, so quietly I almost miss it. "All of you."
Dante's hand briefly covers Brookes’ on the seat between them, a silent acknowledgment. "Then we're here."
The four of us move like a well-oiled machine now, falling into formation without having to discuss it.
Hero leads, clearing the path. I stay beside Brookes, while Dante brings up the rear, his eyes constantly scanning.
It should feel militaristic, but somehow it doesn't. It just feels like us, like protection born from care rather than obligation.
Inside, the energy shifts. This is Brookes’ domain, where he transforms from the soft, sleep-rumpled man who steals my shirts to the poised professional who commands attention with a single glance.
I watch the change come over him, shoulders straightening, chin lifting, stride lengthening.
It's mesmerizing, this glimpse into another facet of him.
"Brookes! Finally!" A woman with electric blue hair rushes toward us, clipboard in hand. "Camilla's been asking for you for twenty minutes."
"And now she can have me," Brookes says smoothly, passing his bag to Dante without looking. "These three come with me."
The woman, Sylvia, I remember from previous shoots, raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. By now, most of Brookes’ regular collaborators have grown used to us. Three Alphas hovering might seem excessive to outsiders, but after what happened in New York, nobody questions it too hard.
"Fine, but hurry. We're running behind schedule," she says frantically.
Brookes is whisked away to the makeup chair, and we position ourselves around the perimeter of the area.
Close enough to intervene if needed, far enough to give him professional space.
I lean against a concrete pillar, watching as Camilla transform Brookes’ already beautiful face into something otherworldly.
"He's going to need to eat after this," I say quietly to Hero, who nods.
"Already ordered lunch delivery for 2 PM. Should be here right after they wrap the first set."
This is how it's been, the three of us anticipating Brookes’ needs, sometimes before he knows them himself.
Not because we're trying to control him or because we think he can't take care of himself.
Because sometimes, when you love someone, you pay attention to the little things they forget when they're focused on the big picture.
Yes, I said love. I haven't said it out loud yet, none of us have, but it's there, growing steadier by the day.
It's in the way Dante checks the locks twice before bed because he knows it helps Brookes sleep.
It's in how Hero always keeps spare pain medication in his pocket for when Brookes’ old injuries flare up.
It's in my compulsion to feed him, to nourish him, to remind him that his body deserves care after years of treating it like a commodity.
I'm pulled from my thoughts by a subtle shift in the air. It’s the same intensified rose scent I noticed earlier, now mingled with something almost like honey.
I straighten, my gaze sharpening on Brookes in the makeup chair.
He's shifting uncomfortably, a faint sheen on his forehead that Camilla dabs away with a tissue as she continues to gossip softly with Brookes.
"You feeling alright, hun?" she asks, and I strain to hear Brookes’ response.
"Just a little warm. Air conditioning in here is a joke," he says as he fans himself with his hand.
But the studio is actually quite cool. I exchange a glance with Dante, whose nostrils flare slightly. He's noticed it too.
"Pre-heat?" he mouths at me in question, brows raised, confirming my suspicions.
Well, shit. Today was going too well.