Berkley
Kimber is practically vibrating in the passenger seat as Emerson drives. Her sneakers tap against the floorboard, her hands fidget with the straps of her backpack, and every few seconds she lets out a tiny squeak of excitement she tries very hard to pretend isn’t happening.
Watching her like this fills me with a kind of warmth I don’t think I understood before.
A pride that’s almost painful. When she first came home, she woke up screaming most nights, curled in on herself like she was trying to disappear.
And each time, one of us sat with her until she could breathe again.
Slowly, the nightmares eased. Slowly, she remembered she was safe.
And now she’s bouncing. Smiling. Nervous, yes, but glowing in a way that makes my throat tighten.
My recovery has been… well, slow is putting it kindly.
My body is still mending in its own stubborn time, and the guys have been nothing but gentle and patient.
We’ve made love, but carefully, one of them at a time, always watching my face for the slightest sign of pain.
But tonight… tonight I want everything back.
All of us together, the way we were meant to be. My body is ready. My heart even more.
And with Kimber gone for the weekend, we finally have the space for it.
When we pull up to her friend’s house, her excitement shifts into nerves so fast her eyes go wide. She grips the door handle as if it might bite her.
“What if they think I’m weird?” she whispers.
I turn in my seat and cup her cheek. “They already adore you. Go have fun. Be loud. Eat too much sugar. That’s your job tonight. Just don’t puke.” I point, laughing.
Her laugh trembles, but she nods and climbs out. Before she shuts the door, she leans in. “Love you guys.”
“Love you more,” Emerson and I say at the same time.
We watch her walk to the door, ring the bell, and disappear inside. Emerson doesn’t move right away. His hands rest loosely on the steering wheel, but I can see the tension in them, the tiny tremor that only shows when he’s trying very hard not to feel something too deeply.
When he finally looks at me, his eyes are soft in a way that always undoes me. He leans across the console and kisses me slowly and gratefully.
“Thank you,” he murmurs against my lips. “For everything you’ve done for her. For loving her the way you do.”
I brush my thumb along his jaw, shaking my head. “You never need to thank me for that. I love her like she’s mine.”
His breath catches, just slightly, like that sentence slid under his skin and lodged somewhere tender. The drive back is quiet at first, but not uncomfortable. Just thoughtful. Emerson keeps glancing at me, like something’s sitting on the tip of his tongue.
Halfway home, he finally clears his throat.
“Berk,” he says softly. “Have you ever thought about… us having a family of our own someday?”
The question lands gently, but it still knocks the air from my lungs for a moment. I stare out the window, watching the blur of city lights before turning back to him.
“Yes,” I say, the word coming out warm and certain. “More than you know.”
He watches me closely, waiting.
“I didn’t think it could happen for a long time,” I admit. “Not after everything. I pushed the idea so far down I didn’t let myself hope anymore.” My smile grows slow and honest. “But lately… yeah. I think about it.”
His fingers find mine, threading together like they always have. “Good,” he whispers.
The moment Emerson and I step through the front door, I know something’s up.
The house is dim except for the soft glow of recessed lights, all turned low, as if the place is holding its breath.
Music drifts through the speakers—slow and sultry with a deep bass line that thrums in my chest. And the air…
damn, the air smells like warm chocolate and a hint of vanilla beneath it.
I blink, dazed for a second, because this is not how we left the house.
Emerson squeezes my hand lightly, as if he already knows exactly what awaits, and he leads me straight toward the kitchen without saying a word. His excitement presses through the bond between us as clearly as a pulse.
“Em…?” I whisper, trying not to smile too hard.
He doesn’t answer, just keeps walking.
And when we round the corner, I stop breathing altogether.
Rowan and Ronan stand side by side in front of the kitchen island, heads tilted in a perfect mirror image—something they used to do when they were little boys and wanted to confuse people. Except now they’re fully grown men, beautiful in a way that’s almost unfair.
And the only thing they’re wearing… is their damn octopus aprons.
Bare torsos. Tattoos winding across their chests and arms. Muscles carved in ways that make my mouth open and close like I’ve forgotten how to speak. They look like they stepped out of some fever dream my subconscious cooked up at three a.m.
Rowan grins slowly. “Hey, baby.”
Ronan gives that dark, wicked half-smile that always ruins me. “Hey, Pix.”
They walk toward me in perfect sync.
My entire body lights up. Not just a spark. A blaze. Weeks of recovery, restraint, careful touches—all of it combusts at once. Heat pools low in my belly so fast it’s almost embarrassing, and I swear my knees wobble.
“I think we broke her, brother,” Ronan murmurs, eyes dragging over me like he already knows every thought in my head.
Rowan leans in slightly, voice dipping low. “Not yet.”
That does it—I giggle, clapping my hands over my mouth because what else am I supposed to do? They’re naked except for tiny cartoon sea creatures.
“You remembered,” I sigh.
They laugh, but it’s not at my words—it’s because Emerson steps up behind me. His arms slide around my waist, warm and solid, and when I glance back…
My jaw drops again.
He’s naked in an apron too.
“Of course we did,” he murmurs against my ear, voice warm enough to melt steel.
I spin back toward the twins, heart pounding so hard it vibrates in my ribs. “You three… are ridiculous.”
“Romantic,” Rowan corrects.
“Efficient,” Ronan adds.
“Hungry,” Emerson finishes, giving my hip a squeeze.
I almost melt right there.
I try to peek at the counter, but Rowan intercepts me with a wag of his finger. “Nope. Dessert is after dinner.”
I pout. “Who cooked?”
“Both of us,” Ronan answers smoothly.
“But dessert?” Rowan lifts his chin proudly. “That was all me.”
I narrow my eyes. “I love you… but are we sure it’s edible?”
The look of betrayal on his face is so dramatic I snort.
“Wow,” he deadpans. “No faith.”
“You burned water last month,” I remind him.
Emerson snorts. Ronan cackles. Rowan flips them both off.
The teasing flows easily, bright and warm. For the first time in months, there’s no shadow behind our laughter.
Ronan glances meaningfully at the thermostat. “We probably should’ve turned the heat up if we planned to eat dinner naked.”
I lift my chin. “Oh really? You think the three of you get to level the playing field without me?”
Their eyes snap to me in unison.
Emerson whispers, “Oh no…”
I take my time. Slow. Deliberate. One piece of clothing at a time, letting it fall wherever it wants. Their breathing changes instantly—deeper, heavier, charged.
When I’m bare, I walk right past them to the hook on the pantry door and pull down the apron I had made for myself.
A frilly little thing with—naturally—cupcakes all over it.
My old fighting name.
I slip it on and tie it behind my back before turning around and smirking.
“Better?” I ask.
Rowan groans. Ronan rubs a hand over his cock. Emerson mutters something that definitely isn’t safe for public consumption.
“So,” I say sweetly, stepping into the circle of their heat, “what’s for dinner?”
Their eyes go dark in perfect, hungry synchronization.
And just like that… my life feels whole again.