Neither of us speaks. We don’t need to. The kiss said everything words can’t.
For the first time, it feels like we’ve stopped fighting ghosts. For the first time, it’s just us—alive, awake, and holding on.
Until her stomach growls loud enough to break the quiet between us. For a beat, we both freeze—foreheads still pressed together—and then laughter spills out of us, soft and unexpected. It shakes something loose inside my chest, a knot I didn’t know I’d been holding.
“Guess that’s my cue,” I murmur, brushing a thumb over her cheek before pressing one last kiss to her lips. “Let’s get you some breakfast, baby.”
She hums in agreement, still smiling, and I can’t stop myself from smiling back. The sound of her laughter is still lingering as we untangle from the sheets and pull on the first clothes we can find. There’s something domestic about the way she slides on one of my shirts—it hangs off her shoulder, swallowing her whole—and I feel a dangerous possessive warmth bloom in my chest.
The hallway is quiet except for the faint clatter of dishes and the low hum of conversation. As soon as we step into the kitchen, the smell of bacon and coffee hits, thick and perfect.
And then we see them. Our family.
Ronan stands at the stove, spatula in hand, wearing nothing but his black boxer briefs, his inked skin shifting with every move he makes. The only thing keeping him from being indecent is an apron that readsKiss the Chef—except the wordKisshas beencrossed out and replaced withFuckin thick black marker. The bastard even looks proud of it.
Emerson is beside him, setting plates on the table, shirtless, though at least he’s wearing shorts. The two of them look like they walked out of a damn calendar shoot for poor decisions.
Berkley stops dead in the doorway, blinking once, twice. Her mouth falls open a little, and I swear she forgets how to breathe for a second. I don’t mean to laugh, but it breaks free before I can contain it.
“Don’t stare too long,” I tease, swatting her on the ass as I nudge her forward. “You might start drooling.”
She yelps and shoots me a glare over her shoulder, one hand flying to her backside, rubbing the sting away. The sound alerts the idiots in the kitchen.
Both Ronan and Emerson glance over at us, identical smirks forming. Ronan flips a strip of bacon, grinning like the devil. “Morning, lovebirds,” he drawls. “Sleep well, Pix?”
Emerson chuckles low, leaning against the counter. “Judging by those smiles, I’d sayverywell.”
I roll my eyes but can’t stop my grin. “You two are ridiculous.”
Berkley’s cheeks flush pink, but she doesn’t hide behind me. Not this time. She squares her shoulders and fires right back, “We slept great, actually. How about you two? Enjoying your matchingnudist chefaesthetic?”
Ronan laughs, full and rich, tossing his head back. “You know you like the view, baby.”
“I’ve seen better,” she shoots back, lips twitching.
Emerson groans as he sets the last plate on the table. “Please, for the love of everything holy, keep your flirting away from the food. I’m starving.”
I slip an arm around Berkley’s waist and guide her toward the table, unable to keep the lightness out of my step. The tension that’s been hanging between all of us feels thinner now, stretched but not breaking. There’s something new here—a fragile peace, but it’s peace, nonetheless.
As Ronan plates breakfast and Emerson pours coffee, I glance at them, at her, at all of us gathered in this small space that somehow feels like the center of the world again.
The sound of small, sleepy footsteps drifts down the hall before we even finish plating the food. A few seconds later, Kimber appears in the doorway, hair sticking up in wild little tufts, her oversized T-shirt hanging halfway to her knees. She blinks at us, nose scrunching as she rubs her eyes.
“Smells yummy,” she mumbles, her voice rough with sleep.
Berkley’s face brightens instantly, the fatigue from the night before melting away. She steps away from her chair and opens her arms with a soft smile. “Hey there! Good morning, trouble. Come here, kiddo.”
Kimber runs straight into her arms without hesitation, instinctive trust that twists something in my chest. It’s been so long since that little girl had anyone to run to. Seeing her wrap her arms around Berk’s neck, her small fingers fisting in the fabric of herborrowed shirt—it feels like something right has finally found its way back home.
Ronan grins from the stove, flipping the last of the pancakes onto a plate. “The princess awakens,” he says, his voice teasing but gentle in a way I rarely hear. “You’re just in time. Grab a seat before your brothers eat everything.”
Kimber laughs, wrinkling her nose as she climbs onto the chair. “You made pancakes? Real ones?”
“Real ones,” Emerson says, sliding a plate in front of her and ruffling her hair. “None of that boxed nonsense. Ronan insisted on showing off.”
“Hey,” Ronan shoots back, “I’m a man of many talents.”
“Yeah,” Berkley mutters under her breath as she takes her seat beside Kimber, “most of them involve fire and trouble.”