Aeris
I didn't mean to end up in the kitchen.
I wasn't even sure I could walk that far.
But the house was quiet. Still. Like it was holding its breath with me. And something inside me whispered that if I stayed in that room too long, I'd drown in my own thoughts.
So I dragged myself out of bed, muscles aching, ribs protesting, IV disconnected for now but still taped to my skin like a warning label.
The hallway was warm. The floors cool beneath my socks. My heart raced the whole way — not from fear.
From anticipation.
The kitchen smelled like coffee and something sweet.
Pancakes?
I paused in the doorway, unsure if I should even be here.
Then Silas turned, flipping a pancake with a theatrical flair. He looked up, and when he saw me, his face broke into something softer than a grin.
"You're up," he said, voice low. "And walking. That's got to be a record."
"I don't know what you're feeding me," I muttered, "but it's working."
"Classic comfort food and Kade's death stares," he replied. "Very healing."
Speak of the devil — Kade was standing near the sink, sleeves rolled up, drying a plate with more care than I thought was humanly possible.
When he looked at me, he didn't smile.
But his eyes softened.
"You should be resting," he said.
"I needed to move," I said. "I'm not glass."
He didn't argue.
But he stepped forward, slow and steady.
And when he reached me, his hand rose.
Just a small gesture — one I wasn't ready for, but didn't stop.
His fingers brushed a lock of hair from my cheek, tucking it behind my ear. His knuckles grazed my temple.
It was nothing.
And everything.
My breath hitched.
He noticed.
So did Silas.
The air changed — subtle, electric, like the shift in the wind before a storm.
"You hungry?" Silas asked, voice suddenly quieter.
I nodded.
He handed me a plate with one pancake, perfectly golden, no questions asked. Just care. Undemanding. Easy.
Until Ronan walked in.
And nothing about Ronan was ever easy.
His eyes swept over me — hair slightly messy, standing in the kitchen with bare feet and bruises still blooming beneath my sleeves. His jaw tightened, like he had to hold back whatever he was thinking.
"Didn't think you'd be up," he said.
I raised the plate slightly. "Pancakes."
His lips twitched — not quite a smile. But close.
"You'll want tea," he said. "Your body's still rebalancing. Coffee'll hit you like a truck."
And then, without waiting for me to respond, he brushed past me — close enough that I felt the heat of his chest — and reached above my head for a cup from the cabinet.
His body pressed behind mine just briefly.
Not intentional.
But not accidental either.
I froze.
He paused.
And for one second, too long and too real, I could feel the way his breath brushed the curve of my neck.
Neither of us moved.
Until his fingers gently slipped the mug into my hand and stepped back without a word.
I sat at the table in stunned silence.
They moved around me like they'd done this before — like we were a unit. Like I wasn't broken pieces stitched back together, but someone worth orbiting around.
And the strangest part?
I didn't hate it.
Not even a little.