Morning
Knox
Steam clings to the bathroom mirror, softening the edges of my reflection. I wipe a strip clear with the side of my hand, lean in, and check the line of my beard. A few stray hairs stick out along the edges.
I lift the trimmer, angle it just right, and buzz along my jaw. The sound is sharp in the small space, blending with the quiet hum of the fan overhead. A few dark hairs fall to the sink below, curling like tiny question marks.
Black beard. Black hair. Black brows. And covered in scars. Dakota says I look like a demonic Viking. I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not, but he always smiles when he says it, so I figure it can’t be all bad.
I finish the last edge, then set the trimmer down and check myself in the mirror. My stomach isn’t what it used to be—just a hint softer than I’d like. I rub a hand over it and huff a laugh. Too many late-night beers and ribeyes. I should give them up, but they make life worth living.
I smooth the edge of my beard, make sure it’s even, then flex my pecs once out of habit. They bounce—barely—and I shake my head, grinning at my own stupidity.
Running my fingers through my damp hair, I slick it back then let it fall loose again —long, dark, and a little wild.
Time to get moving.
I tug on a clean pair of shorts, then stroll out into the hallway. My bare feet creak against the uneven floorboards.
The house is… well lived in.
At least that’s the polite way to say it.
It’s small—three rooms, one bathroom, and a flimsy wall separating the living room and kitchen. There isn’t even a proper door, just a half-wall that juts out like someone’s lazy attempt at dividing the space. You round it, and you’re in the kitchen whether you want to be or not.
All the walls are an off-white that probably used to be brighter, and the floors are scuffed and dented in some places. This place has had one too many hard winters.
But it’s ours.
A stack of mail litters the side table by the front door—mostly junk, half of it unopened.
Someone left a set of keys tangled up in a phone charger.
A pile of clean clothes is stacked on the arm of the couch, still warm from the dryer, waiting for someone to fold them.
No one will. Another pile on the worn couch is halfway to becoming a fort, thanks to Dakota’s “creative organization system.”
We tease him all the time. Betas are supposed to be tidy and meticulous, but I swear he’s just as messy as any alpha I’ve met, if not worse….well, almost any other alpha I’ve met.
Tadeo’s the exception. That alpha’s so damn clean it’s almost unsettling.
The man folds his socks, organizes his underwear by color, and wipes down his desk like he’s prepping for inspection.
But he keeps it contained—his room, his space.
He never complains about the chaos outside it.
He lets the rest of us live loud, letting the house breathe and sprawl and pile up around us.
Some days I wish he’d let those habits trickle out in the living room or kitchen, but it would probably drive me nuts, so it’s best not to say anything.
Instead, I tell myself—again—that I need to straighten things up. Just an hour. Toss some laundry in drawers. Clear off the kitchen table. Maybe vacuum.
…Maybe tomorrow.
Right now, I’m starving.
And it’s Tadeo’s turn to make breakfast.
God help us all.
I brace myself for whatever chaos he’s cooked up this time—literally or otherwise.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask Alex as I step into the kitchen.
The red-haired alpha freezes like he’s been caught mid-crime. He’s hunched over the biggest sandwich I’ve ever seen, hands suspended on either side, trying to keep it from toppling over.
“Tadeo’s making breakfast,” I remind him, crossing my arms.
“I’m making a snack,” he says, completely unbothered. “I need something to tide me over.” He licks a smear of mayo off his thumb.
“A snack?” I eye the mountain on the counter.
There’s at least half a pound of lunch meat stacked between three slices of bread, two kinds of cheese, half a tomato, a pile of onions, lettuce, and a fried egg sliding out the side.
“That’s three fucking meals. Tadeo’s gonna be pissed you didn’t wait. ”
“It’ll be fine,” Alex smirks and pats his bare stomach. His cut abs flex under his hand. Showoff. “I’m a growing boy. I can eat two breakfasts.”
I give him a flat look. “You’re almost forty.”
“Still younger than you, old man.” He winks, smug as hell.
“By barely a year.” I snort, grabbing a mug from the drying rack and pouring myself some coffee from the half-full pot someone left on the burner.
It’s lukewarm, slightly burnt, and perfect.
I take a sip and sigh. “Where’s Tadeo, anyway?
” I glance at the unused stove. “Is he trying to get out of breakfast duty?”
“He left with Dakota about an hour ago.” Alex shrugs, carrying his sandwich to the tiny kitchen table. He plops into a chair, shoving the broken carburetor for his bike to one side.
“Great,” I mutter. “No breakfast.”
“I’d offer you some of my sandwich,” Alex smirks as he picks it up and takes an enormous bite, “but I wouldn't want to tempt you. It would upset Tadeo too much.”
“Fuck off,” I say with a snort.
Alex flips me off with a grin, then grabs a paper towel and wipes his mouth. “Also, the screen door is about to fall off its hinges again.” He takes another bite. “I might need your help this time,” he mumbles through his mouthful of food.
“No problem.” I walk to the fridge and open it wide. The light flickers weakly. There’s a questionable jar of salsa, a single lime, and an egg carton with maybe one egg rattling inside. I shut it again and lean against the counter. “This place is a damn frat house.”
“A high-functioning frat house,” Alex says proudly.
“Barely.”
He shrugs again and chews. “We have food. We have walls. We have hot water—most days. What more do we need?”
“Hey hey!” Dakota’s bright voice drifts from the front room, followed by the thud of Tadeo’s heavier footsteps. “We have breakfast!”
My face breaks into a wide smile. That beta’s voice always sounds so bright, like he won something—or stole it and got away with it.
Alex perks up too, licking his fingers clean and setting aside the last half of his monstrous sandwich. “Thank goodness,” he yells out. “I’m starving.”
I can’t help but laugh.
Dakota bursts into the kitchen first, arms full of paper bags, wearing yesterday’s hoodie and basketball shorts. His short hair sticks out in wild, chestnut-brown tufts like he’d styled it with a blender.
Behind him, Tadeo steps in, more composed. Crisp jeans. Simple button-down, sleeves rolled enough to show off the lean muscle of his forearms. He’s carrying a bakery box like it holds sacred treasure, and honestly, it kind of does.
“That smells good,” I say, stepping forward.
“Don’t touch it yet,” Tadeo warns, holding the box up and out of reach like a mom protecting a birthday cake. “Let me at least set it down before you savages rip it open.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Dakota chirps, shouldering past him and setting a few grocery bags on the stovetop. “It’s not a bomb. It’s magdalonas.”
“Magdalena,” Tadeo corrects softly, his Spanish accent slipping just slightly on the word. It adds a smooth, rolling edge that always makes Alex’s ears twitch. “Say it with respect.”
“Whatever you say, Papí,” Alex says with a grin, and I swear the air shifts with the change in Tadeo’s face.
The second Tadeo looks across the room at Alex, his mouth tightens.
Our red-haired alpha is chewing again.
“You seriously couldn’t wait for us to get home to eat?” Tadeo asks, eyes narrowing.
Alex lifts his sandwich like a guilty trophy. “It’s a snack.”
“We were only gone for twenty minutes.” He sets the box on the counter, pushing a few discarded cups out of the way.
“I didn’t know you were bringing cake,” Alex says with mock innocence. “If I’d known, I would’ve waited.”
“It’s not cake, it’s a traditional—”
“—Spanish sponge miracle, I know,” Alex interrupts. “I didn't mean to upset you, but I promise. I’m still very hungry,” he growls the last few words, eyeing Tadeo like he’s the meal.
Tadeo’s brow lifts as he watches Alex slowly stand, “It wouldn’t have killed you to wait,” he says, but all his anger is gone, replaced by a heated look as Alex stalks toward him.
The red-haired alpha crosses the kitchen in three slow steps, sandwich abandoned, mischief in every movement. He walks right into Tadeo’s space, crowding him against the counter with that stupid, cocky smirk that always gets him exactly what he wants.
“You know I can’t resist it when you talk about food with that sexy Spanish accent,” he murmurs, brushing the tip of his nose against Tadeo’s.
Dakota groans dramatically and plops into a kitchen chair. “Can we not make out over the pastries?”
Alex ignores him. Of course.
“You had better not let all that food go to waste.” Tadeo eyes the last of Alex’s sandwich.
“Yes, sir,” Alex stands a little taller, giving the younger alpha a wink.
Tadeo sighs like he wants to be mad, but his mouth twitches. Then he reaches out and catches Alex’s face in his hands and kisses him once, slow but sure, before pulling away.
“You’re an idiot.”
“I’m your idiot.”
“Unfortunately.”
I clap my hands once. “Okay, enough foreplay. Let’s eat the damn cake.”
“Magdalena,” Tadeo and Dakota say in unison.
“Yeah, yeah.” I grab a plate off the drying rack. “Just gimme a piece with the most sugar on top.”
Tadeo opens the bakery box with the reverence of a priest. Inside, soft golden domes wait in neat rows, their tops dusted with sparkling sugar, still warm. The scent of lemon and vanilla fills the kitchen, cutting through the chaos and socks and laundry and burnt coffee like a holy damn miracle.
Alex grabs one and takes a bite, groaning loudly. “Okay. Fine. You win. I’d wait a week for this.”
“You’re welcome,” Tadeo mutters, rolling his eyes—but he’s smiling now, just a little.