Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
AUDRA
I take one bite and immediately make a face.
“What?” Alex asks.
“I hate dry toast.”
“Better than puking up buttery toast if your tummy's not ready,” he says, completely serious.
I snort. “I never imagined I’d hear you say the word tummy.”
He grins. “I never imagined you’d be in Derek’s robe.”
Touché.
I smirk back. Alex winks. My eyes widen.
They know.
They know I’m enjoying being wrapped in Derek’s things a little too much.
Alex winks again, unapologetic.
“Stop,” I warn weakly, but I’m smiling.
The kitchen smells like bacon and coffee and something warm I can’t quite name.
Comfort, maybe. The counters are spotless granite, everything clean and deliberate, like Derek’s life is built on intention.
Morning light pours through the wide windows, catching on stainless steel and pale wood.
Outside, his yard stretches green and manicured, a stone path curving toward a small gazebo that looks like it belongs in a magazine spread.
It’s… peaceful.
Too peaceful for how last night could’ve ended.
My stomach growls again, louder this time, as if emboldened by the smell of bacon.
“Okay,” I concede. “I think I need bacon.”
Mark chuckles and heaps a generous portion onto my plate. He moves like he belongs in a kitchen — confident, easy. Alex hovers nearby, clearly on helper duty. Derek leans against the cabinets across from the island, arms crossed, watching me as if he's making sure I stay exactly where I am.
“What kind of juice do you have?” I ask.
Derek straightens immediately. “Apple.”
He pulls a bottle from the fridge, cool condensation beading along the glass. Alex reaches for it automatically, then pauses, unsure.
Derek grabs a glass and pours— slowly, controlled — like this is a high-stakes operation. He only fills it half way.
“Just in case,” he says quietly.
I take a sip.
The apple juice is cold and tart, crisp enough to wake my mouth up without shocking it. It tastes… clean. Like it belongs in this kitchen.
“That’s good,” I murmur.
“Derek’s an apple juice guy,” Mark informs me. “I’m an orange juice guy.”
“What about Alex?” I ask.
“What about Alex?” Alex replies, already opening cabinets.
“Apple or orange?”
He shrugs. “Either. But the orange-strawberry-banana juice? That stuff is the shit.”
I nod. “Agreed.”
“I don’t know how the hell they get banana juice,” Mark mutters.
“Squeeze it, dummy,” Alex says.
“That doesn’t make it less weird.”
I snicker. All three of them look at me.
I snicker again.
“You dirty, dirty girl,” Derek says.
I shrug. “I saw the twinkle in your eyes too. Don’t act like it was just me.”
His mouth curves despite himself.
“What about cereal?” Alex asks suddenly, already rummaging through cabinets.
Derek closes his eyes. “Don’t.”
“There has to be cereal,” Alex insists.
"Here we go," Derek sighs.
“This is a house. Houses have cereal.”
“There is exactly one box,” Derek says. “And it’s not yours.”
Alex freezes, peering into the cabinet. “Granola?”
“Yes.”
“With flax?”
“Yes.”
"I'm not emotionally prepared for flax," he says aloud.
I bite back a laugh. Flax isn't friendly to me either.
Alex looks personally offended. “You don’t own real cereal?”
“I’m an adult,” Derek says evenly.
“Wow,” Alex mutters. “Tragic.”
Mark laughs. “He eats like he’s training for something.”
“I am,” Derek replies. “Not dying early.”
Alex finally pulls the box out, reads the label, sighs dramatically, and puts it back. “I miss my childhood.”
“I eat sugary cereal sometimes,” I offer.
Alex perks up. “See?”
"But I also eat oats."
His smile fades.
“Loaded with brown sugar,” I add.
Alex points at me like he’s just won something and slaps his hand against the counter. “Yes!”
Derek just watches me, something unreadable flickering across his expression.
Despite myself, I laugh. The sound surprises all of us.
Derek’s gaze sharpens, relief flashing there before he schools it away.
“How are you feeling?” Mark asks, gentler now.
I chew, swallow, and consider. “Okay. Still… off. Like my emotions are lagging behind my body.”
“That tracks,” Mark says.
Derek leans forward, elbows and forearms braced on the island, moving closer without crowding me. His voice drops, soft. “You ordered water.”
I blink. “I did?”
“You did,” he says. “You barely touched the drink. But the water—”
He stops.
Doesn’t finish.
Doesn’t need to.
“That was supposed to be the safe part,” I whisper.
His jaw tightens. “I know.”
The room goes quiet — not tense, just heavy.
I suddenly feel very tired.
“Shannon okay?” I ask.
“She went home,” Mark says. “Levi stayed with her. He threatened bodily harm if we didn’t keep him updated.”
That earns a faint smile from me. “That sounds right.”
“Boyfriend material?” Alex asks.
I laugh softly. “No. Gay bestie material.”
His brows lift. “Seriously?”
Pause.
“Damn,” Alex mutters. “I was ready to claim him as a wingman.”
"I don't see that working out," I tell him with a lop-sided grin.
We eat in companionable silence for a moment. Outside, the yard looks unreal — calm, green, untouched by the night before.
“I love your yard,” I say quietly. “It’s beautiful.”
“Planned it,” Derek says. “Don’t maintain it. I kill plants.”
I perk up. “So there is something Derek Pierce can’t do.”
He chuckles. “Plenty.”
“But plenty you can,” I reply.
His gaze darkens briefly — heat flickering there — and the timing of it irritates me, because my body notices even when my head isn’t ready to.
“So,” Mark says, breaking the moment, “the plan is to keep you here until you feel better.”
Alex nods. “Doctor Pierce’s orders.”
“Is that right?” I ask lightly.
"He's a worrier," Mark adds.
Derek exhales. “I am not a worrier.”
“You hovered,” Alex says. “Aggressively.”
I snort.
Derek shakes his head, but he doesn’t deny it.
“I think I need to lie down for a bit,” I admit. “My head’s starting to pound again.”
“Of course,” Derek says immediately. No hesitation.
He doesn’t touch me unless I wobble — and even then, it’s careful. Controlled.
As I head down the hall, I hear Alex whisper, “He hovered.”
“I did not,” Derek mutters.
I smile faintly.
It turns out hovering feels different when it comes from someone who never actually leaves.
I excuse myself to use the restroom.
The bathroom is cool and quiet, the light gentler than I expect. I wash my hands longer than necessary, steadying myself as the last of the adrenaline drains away. My reflection looks… better. Still pale. Still tired. But no longer lost.
That feels like progress.
When I step back into the hallway, the house feels calmer now—less overwhelming. While I enjoy Mark and Alex, it was getting to be too much.
I notice clean lines. Neutral walls. Art chosen carefully but without flash. Derek Pierce lives here, but the space doesn’t shout it. It hums instead.
I move toward the living room, the robe brushing my calves, the shirt soft against my skin.
The sofa is enormous.
Deep. Plush. The kind of couch that invites surrender.
I sink into it with a slow exhale, my body melting into the cushions like it’s been waiting for permission to stop holding itself together. My head tips back. My eyes close.
For a few seconds, I just breathe.
The house is quiet except for muted sounds from the kitchen—movement, water running, the soft clink of dishes. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
The TV clicks on gently. Something soothing. Nature. Water. Wind.
I don’t remember deciding to close my eyes.