Chapter 15 Amelia #2
"I've been wanting to do that for weeks," he admits, his voice even rougher than before. His thumb is still stroking across my cheek, gentle and grounding. "Watching you with the kids, seeing you make this house a home again. You have no idea what you've done for us."
I open my mouth to respond, to say something that won't sound completely ridiculous, when he reaches around me for something on the counter behind me. His chest presses against mine briefly, solid and warm, and my breath catches in my throat.
He's reaching for the flour canister, I realize. Just grabbing an ingredient for breakfast. But the casual intimacy of the movement, the way he doesn't immediately step back, makes my heart race all over again.
"We should probably start breakfast," he says, but he's smiling like he knows exactly what effect he's having on me. "Before the kids wake up and find us like this."
"Right. Breakfast." I try to step back, to give us both space, but my elbow catches the edge of the flour canister. It tips, spilling white powder across the counter in a cloud of dust.
"Shit." I reach to steady it, but I'm too late. Flour goes everywhere, coating my hands, dusting across Silas' dark shirt, settling on the counter in a fine layer.
For a moment we both just stare at the mess. Then Silas starts laughing, the sound surprised and genuine and absolutely beautiful. I've heard him laugh before, small chuckles when the kids say something funny, but never like this. Never this full, unrestrained joy that lights up his whole face.
"I'm so sorry," I say, trying not to laugh myself as I survey the damage. "I didn't mean to..."
He reaches out and swipes a finger through the flour on the counter, then boops me on the nose with it. Flour explodes across my face, and I gasp in mock outrage.
"Did you just..."
"Maybe." His grin is wicked, playful in a way I've never seen from serious, workaholic Silas. "What are you going to do about it?"
The challenge is impossible to resist. I grab a handful of flour from the canister and fling it at him. It hits his chest, creating a white explosion across his dark shirt. He looks down at himself, then back up at me, and something shifts in his expression.
"Oh, it's on."
What follows is absolute chaos. We're both grabbing handfuls of flour and throwing them at each other, laughing breathlessly as white dust fills the air.
I duck behind the kitchen island when he advances on me with a particularly large handful, giggling so hard my stomach hurts.
He catches me around the waist, pulling me back against his chest, and dumps flour directly over my head.
"Truce!" I shriek, but I'm laughing too hard for it to sound convincing. "Truce, I surrender!"
"Do you?" He turns me to face him, both of us covered head to toe in white.
There's flour in his hair, on his eyelashes, across his cheeks.
He looks ridiculous and wonderful and I'm suddenly very aware of how close we are, of his hands still on my waist, of the way he's looking at me like I'm something precious.
"What's going on in here?"
We both freeze, turning to find Isaac and Riley standing in the doorway in their pajamas, staring at us with wide eyes. Isaac's mouth is hanging open in shock, while Riley looks like she can't decide if she should be concerned or delighted.
"Miss Amelia and Dad are having a flour fight," Riley announces, and then her face splits into a huge grin. "Can we play too?"
Before either of us can respond, Isaac lets out a war cry and charges into the kitchen. He grabs a handful of flour from the counter and launches it at Silas, coating his father in even more white dust. Riley is right behind him, giggling as she scoops up her own ammunition.
The kitchen descends into total mayhem. All four of us are throwing flour, ducking and weaving, laughing so hard we can barely breathe. Isaac gets me right in the face with a particularly well-aimed handful. Riley manages to dump some on her own head by accident and just laughs harder.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs makes us all pause, guilty children caught in the act.
Wyatt appears first, his blond-brown curls still sleep-mussed, wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt.
His blue eyes go wide as he takes in the demolished kitchen, the four of us covered in white, flour coating every available surface.
"What..." He starts to say something, then just starts laughing. "Oh my god. What happened in here?"
"Flour fight!" Isaac announces proudly. "Dad started it!"
"I absolutely did not start it," Silas protests, but he's grinning. "Amelia knocked over the flour and then it just... escalated."
Hunter appears behind Wyatt, already dressed for the day in jeans and a henley despite the early hour. He takes in the scene with those serious hazel eyes, and my stomach drops. This is it. This is where he tells me I've been too familiar, that I've overstepped, that I need to remember my place.
But then his face softens into a small smile, and something in my chest loosens. He's not angry. He's watching us with an expression that looks almost fond, like he's pleased to find his family covered in flour and laughing in the kitchen at seven in the morning.
Wyatt reaches out to brush flour from my cheek, his fingers lingering longer than strictly necessary.
His thumb strokes across my skin, gentle and deliberate, and the moment stretches out between us, heavy with want and possibility.
I can feel Silas still at my back, can see Hunter watching from the doorway, and the intensity of having all three of them focused on me makes it hard to breathe.
"You've got flour everywhere," Wyatt murmurs, his voice low and warm. "In your hair, on your face, probably down your shirt."
Before anyone can respond to that loaded statement, Isaac decides to launch another handful of flour, this time aimed at Silas. It hits him square in the chest, white dust exploding everywhere, and Silas grins before launching his own counterattack.
The fight resumes with renewed energy, now with Wyatt joining in. Even Hunter stays in the doorway, watching with that small smile, occasionally ducking when a particularly wild throw goes in his direction.
Eventually we all collapse, breathless and covered in white, the kitchen an absolute disaster zone. Flour coats every surface, the floor is slippery with it, and all six of us look like we've been caught in a blizzard.
"I think," Silas says between gasps for air, "we need to clean up before we can even think about making breakfast."
"I'll help," Wyatt offers immediately. "Hunter, can you get the kids cleaned up and changed?"
"Come on, you two." Hunter herds Riley and Isaac toward the stairs, both kids still giggling as they track flour footprints across the floor. "Let's get you in the bath before your teachers see pictures and think we don't know how to take care of you."
"But it was so much fun!" Isaac protests. "Can we have flour fights every Saturday?"
"We'll see," Hunter says diplomatically, which makes Riley roll her eyes.
Once the kids are gone, it's just the three of us standing in the demolished kitchen. Wyatt is still grinning, Silas looks more relaxed than I've seen him in weeks, and I'm suddenly very aware that I'm alone with two Alphas while covered in flour and probably looking like a complete mess.
"I should..." I gesture vaguely at myself. "I should probably clean up too. And then we can tackle the kitchen."
"Or," Wyatt suggests, moving closer, "we could all tackle the kitchen together and then you could join us for the family breakfast you came here to make. Minus the flour, hopefully."
The invitation is simple, but it feels like so much more. Like he's asking me to stay, to be part of this, to stop treating myself like hired help and start accepting that I belong here.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "That sounds good."
We spend the next thirty minutes cleaning, the three of us working together with an ease that feels natural.
Wyatt wipes down the counters while I sweep, making jokes that keep us all laughing.
Silas empties the dustpan and starts pulling out ingredients for pancakes, his earlier kiss hanging between us like a promise.
By the time the kids come thundering back downstairs, clean and dressed, the kitchen is mostly restored. I'm still covered in flour, my clothes white and my hair probably a disaster, but I don't care. I'm too happy, too content, too wrapped up in the warmth of this moment to worry about how I look.
We make pancakes together, all six of us crowded into the kitchen.
Isaac insists on helping crack eggs, which results in shells in the batter that Silas carefully fishes out.
Riley measures out flour with exaggerated care, clearly determined not to start another flour fight.
Wyatt flips pancakes with practiced ease while Hunter sets the table, his movements economical and efficient.
And me? I'm in the middle of it all, surrounded by noise and laughter and the kind of chaotic joy I never thought I'd have again.
This is what home feels like, I think as I watch them all move around each other with practiced ease. This messy, imperfect, beautiful thing. This is what I've been missing my entire life.
We settle around the table twenty minutes later, plates loaded with pancakes and syrup, the morning sun streaming through the windows.
Isaac is telling an elaborate story about the flour fight, embellishing details that definitely didn't happen.
Riley is correcting him every few sentences, which just makes him add even more outrageous elements.
Wyatt's hand finds mine under the table, his fingers threading through mine and squeezing gently. When I glance over at him, he's smiling at me with such warmth that I have to look away before I start crying.