He gestures at the stove with the spatula, sending a piece of egg flying to the floor. “I thought breakfast might be… But your stove heats up faster than I expected. And your toaster has different settings than I’m used to.”
Two plates wait on the counter beside him, each holding a slice of blackened toast.
“You didn’t have to,” I say faintly.
“I know.” His sea-glass green eyes drop to the piece of egg on the floor, then back to my face. “But I wanted to. You saved me.”
The earnest hope on his face, combined with the embarrassment of failing, tugs at my heart. I remain in the doorway, fingers gripping the frame to anchor me as a tide of emotions rises in my throat.
No one has ever made me breakfast before.
Not Auren, who expected coffee waiting when he woke. Not any of the other Alphas he brought into our pack, who treated the kitchen as my domain, a place where I served rather than was served.
The realization sits heavy in my stomach. Allthose years of early mornings, of measuring coffee grounds and warming milk to the perfect temperature, of slicing fruit and toasting bread, of setting everything out before anyone else was awake. Years of caring for others who never once thought to return the gesture.
And now, this young Alpha stands in my kitchen, surrounded by the evidence of his failed attempt to do something kind for me.
My throat tightens, and I swallow hard, gesturing toward the stove. “It’s burning.”
“Shit.” Jared spins back to the pan, lifting it off the burner. “Sorry. I can clean this up and start over. Or we can go out. Or you can pretend this never happened, and I’ll hide in the guest room until the security appointment.”
His panic breaks through my paralysis, and I step into the kitchen, the tile floor cold beneath my bare feet.
“It’s fine,” I say, moving closer. My palm settles on the solid counter to steady myself. “You don’t need to hide.”
He scrapes the spatula across the stainless-steel pan, attempting to dislodge something from the bottom. “I made a mess of your kitchen.”
“You did,” I agree, studying the contents of the pan. Half the eggs are scrambled, while the otherhalf are only a step above charcoal. “But I appreciate the thought.”
The simple admission costs more than it should. Gratitude has never come easy to me, not after years of having it thrown back in my face or dismissed as expected.
Jared’s face brightens, despite the bruising. “Really?”
My chest constricts at his eagerness, at how little it takes to make him light up. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, wincing when the movement jostles his injured nose.
“Did you take your medicine?” I ask, changing the subject before the moment can deepen.
“Right after I woke up. With crackers, like you said.”
The domesticity of the conversation settles over me like a weight. This is what normal people do, I think. They wake up, make breakfast, and talk about their morning routines. They exist in shared spaces without calculating every word and movement.
I reach for the pan, slipping it from his grasp. “Let me show you how the stove works.”
It’s easier than acknowledging the way my pulse races, or how the simple act of someonetrying to cook for me has cracked open the walls I built after Auren left.
The pan sizzles as I set it in the sink. “Let’s start over. Fetch the eggs from the fridge.”
His warm gaze traces over me, as if he reads my confusing reaction to him hidden behind my practiced calm. “Anything else I should get out?”
My tongue sweeps over my bottom lip in consideration. “There’s a basket in there, too. Pull it out so we can get the bread in the oven.”
“We don’t need to let it rise more?” he asks as he bustles away.
“No, it should have risen enough overnight.” I slide a fresh pan onto the stovetop and pop a large clay cloche into the oven to get nice and hot while the oven preheats.
I wash out the bowl he used to scramble the first round of eggs while resisting the urge to take over. Instead, I dry the bowl and pass it to him, earning another one of those excited smiles that catches me off guard.
He cracks the eggs, fishing out the few shells slipping into the bowl when he taps them too hard.