Berk stands at the stove, moving with the same practiced rhythm she had when we were kids, sliding pans around like she never left. My chest tightens watching her, like the years between then and now collapse into nothing but smoke. I’m half-embarrassed to admit I’m not much better at cooking than I was back then. I’ve learned just enough not to starve, but there’ve been more than a couple of close calls, more than a few meals I had to toss out because they were inedible. Berk? She makes it look effortless.
Kimber sits at the bar, swinging her legs, chattering away, her eyes bright with recognition. She was barely six when Berk disappeared, but she remembers just enough. The fun girl days, she calls them, the times Berk and Reign let her tag along like she was one of them. Hearing her little voice stumble over those memories makes something in my throat knot. Berk leans in as Kimber talks, laughing softly, her smile wide and warm, like she’s been waitingfor this exact moment. It’s too easy between them, too natural, like time bent in their favor.
The sizzle of sausage fills the air, rich and savory, and the aroma curls through the house like a lure. I’m not surprised when both Ronan and Rowan appear, almost in sync, like cartoon characters being tugged forward by a finger of smoke. Ronan doesn’t waste a second. He plays invincible like always, but I catch the subtle shift of his weight, the way he guards his side when he thinks no one’s paying attention, before he crosses the kitchen and slides right in behind Berk, his large body crowding hers against the counter. His hands settle low on her hips, his mouth brushing her neck as he mutters something against her skin that I can’t catch. Whatever it is, making her giggle—that soft, startled sound I haven’t heard in years—has a flush rising on her cheeks, pink blooming across her skin.
It’s beautiful, that blush, and it stabs me all at once. A flash of jealousy rears its head, sharp and unwelcome. Not because I don’t want her to be happy, but because I’m not there with her yet. I’m not the one making her laugh, making her cheeks heat, drawing those soft sounds out of her. I grip the cool edge of the counter, letting the jealousy burn through me, quiet and private, reminding myself that this is a beginning. Not the end. That she came back at all is more than I dared to hope for.
Rowan lingers, eyes flicking between us, face unreadable. Still, I know he feels it—the pull, the ache, the understanding that she’s the center we all circle, deserving or not.
She takes my breath without warning. One moment she’s making breakfast like it’s any other morning, and the next she does something simple that completely undoes me. She hands Ronan a plate first, telling him to sit down and eat, kissing him softly on the lips before pushing him toward a chair. That alone doesn’t surprise me. It’s how natural it looks, how easily she does it, that makes my grip tighten on the counter.
Then she turns, sets a smaller plate in front of Kimber, and gives her the brightest smile, a smile that makes my little sister practically glow as she digs into her food. My chest swells at that, but what comes next is what undoes me. She walks toward me with another plate, sets it in front of me, and before I can even thank her, she leans down and presses a kiss to my cheek. The touch is light, fleeting, but the warmth lingers like a brand. A shy smile plays on her lips as if she knows what she just did to me, but she doesn’t stay. She grabs the last plate, guides Rowan toward a chair, and places it in front of him.
And then—she kisses his cheek too.
I swear, Rowan stops breathing. His eyes squeeze shut like he is trying to hold something back, like the touch is almost too much to bear. She lingers a second longer than necessary, her hand brushing against his arm before she moves away. That’s when he snaps out of it. Rowan’s hand shoots out, catching her wrist before she can slip from him. His eyes open, bright and wet, and he stands slowly, crowding her space with a deliberate calm.
“Row,” I murmur under my breath, but he doesn’t listen.
He bends toward her, giving her every chance to back away, every chance to tell him no. She doesn’t. A soft gasp slips from her lips when his mouth finally meets hers. He does not push, does not demand, just kisses her softly, reverently, as if he is pouring every apology and every vow he cannot say yet straight into her mouth. It’s a kiss heavy with meaning, one that makes my throat burn.
When he pulls back, his voice is rough. “You first, baby.” He tugs her gently until she sits in the chair he was just in, her body settling down almost dazed. He pulls the plate she set in front of him toward her and leans down to kiss her again, softer this time, like a benediction. “Eat this one. I’ll get mine. It smells delicious. Thank you.”
He kisses her forehead and finally steps away, leaving her gaping after him, lips parted, eyes wide.
Ronan, of course, is grinning like the devil himself. That half-crazy smile stretches across his face, the one he gets when he knows the world just tilted in his favor. He stands and steps behind her again, bends down, and presses a kiss to the side of her head. “Good girl,” he murmurs, voice low and pleased. “Being good to my brothers. We missed you just as much as you missed us.”
Their quiet exchange drifts toward me, low and private, but I catch enough. Enough to realize how much he and Berk have already worked through. How much they have spoken about us as a unit, not just her and him. My chest tightens, both with jealousy and hope, because for the first time, I see it—that maybe she still wants all of us.
She preens under Ronan’s praise, a soft glow in her cheeks that makes her look younger, lighter, like the weight she’s been carrying all these years has eased just a little. And then the most ordinary thing happens—breakfast. The four of us and Kimber around the table, sausage and eggs and toast, answering her questions while she chatters like the kid she is. For a little while, it almost feels normal, almost feels like we’re a family again instead of whatever jagged thing we’ve become.
Then Kimber drops the bomb the way only a child can. She sets her fork down and tilts her head, eyes wide and innocent. “Berk,” she asks, “are they all your boyfriends? You kissed them all.”
The room goes quiet. My chest squeezes so tight I forget to breathe. Berkley doesn’t flinch, though. She looks at each of us, one by one, her small smile steady, and then she nods. “They are,” she whispers, but loud enough to leave no doubt. Her eyes flick back to Kimber, and that smile grows into something brighter. “Aren’t I lucky?”
The words slice me open and stitch me back together in the same breath. She’s claiming us. All of us. Even with the mess between us, even with the damage, she’s saying we’re hers. My heart cracks but then knits itself stronger, fuller, like it finally has something worth beating for again.
I can’t sit still. Not after that. I take my plate to the sink, but halfway there I stop. She’s right there, close enough that I can lean down and press my lips to the top of her head, then to her cheek, and finally lower to the curve of her neck. I linger there, breathing her in,letting my nose brush against her skin as I whisper just for her, “Claim accepted.” When I straighten, my throat is tight, but my voice is firm when I say loud enough for everyone at the table. “I love you, Berk.”
The words hang in the air, heavier than the smoke from the stove, thicker than the scent of breakfast still clinging to the room. I turn back to the sink, rinsing my plate like nothing monumental just happened, but inside I know I’ve overlapped her claim with one of my own. And I pray she felt it.
The day drifts by slower than most, a lull that feels borrowed. None of us say it, but we all know we need the pause. Kimber runs circles around us, full of energy, tugging hands, demanding games, demanding the attention she hasn’t had in years. I keep silencing my phone only for it to buzz again. Bryce doesn’t let up, not once, calling every half hour like a man possessed. I don’t answer. None of us do. And though he’s relentless, it isn’t what unsettles me most.
It’s Dean.
His silence is louder than Bryce’s rage. Not a single call. Not one demand. He hasn’t reached out to the twins, hasn’t even tried to bait us with threats. The quiet stretches long enough to feel deliberate, more dangerous than shouting.
The idea takes root as the hours drag on. Bryce and Dean have always shared the same mess, but something’s different now. Bryce is relentless, lighting up my phone, while Dean stays eerily quiet. Silence like that doesn’t happen by accident. It makes mewonder if they’ve turned on each other—or if the fault line has finally split.
I push the unease down and save it for the dark hours, when Kimber is asleep, and the house settles into silence. Right now, she deserves something normal—something that smells like a life untouched by violence.
Kimber wins the dinner debate like she always does, all steel and stubborn grin. “Pizza. And a movie. With popcorn,” she declares, like it’s an edict from a tiny queen.
Rowan exhales, part mock exasperation, part smile. “Spoiled already.”
“I am not,” she snaps, chin up. “And you’re making the crust because you don’t burn things like Em.”
Laughter spills around the kitchen, and I throw her a look that melts into a grin before I can stop it. “Hey, I can cook,” I protest, hands raised in mock defense, knowing full well my track record.