Page 13 of Omega in Love
My chest aches with a feeling I'm not ready to name, something warm and frightening that spreads through me like wildfire.
I pour coffee into my diva mug, add the ridiculous amount of cream and sugar that Dante always teases me about. "At this point it's just warm, coffee-flavored milk," he always says, but he still stocks the fancy creamer I like, the one that's hard to find and costs too much. I've never said thank you. I wonder if he knows anyway.
The first bite of pancake is perfect, fluffy, sweet, with bursts of tartness from the berries. Levi's cooking is like everythingelse about him: warm, comforting, subtly attentive to detail. He remembers how I like things without me having to say it twice. The blueberries aren't just scattered but folded in so each bite has the perfect balance of flavors. The maple syrup is the real stuff, not the corn syrup imitation.
They all do this; remember the little things, the preferences I mention once in passing, the comforts I don't even realize I need until they're provided.
I eat slowly, watching them through the window. My sentinels. My protectors. My every?—
Last night's journal entry flashes through my mind.I think I care about them more than I want to.
The truth is, I don't just care. I'm falling. I have fallen. I am constantly falling into something deep and terrifying with these three men who came into my life as duty and somehow became essential. As necessary as breathing. As frightening as drowning.
Therein lies the problem. Because the last time I loved someone unconditionally, my parents, they threw me away like I was nothing. Like love had conditions after all, and I'd failed to meet them. Like I was defective for being exactly who I was born to be. Sixteen years old and suddenly homeless because my biology didn't match their expectations.
Dr. Kendrick says trauma rewires us. That my hesitation isn't weakness; it's self-preservation. That trust, once broken, doesn't just snap back into place. It has to be rebuilt, neuron by neuron, moment by moment, until new pathways form.
"Healing isn't linear," he always says, his voice steady and unrushed. "It's messy and complicated and sometimes it hurts worse before it gets better. But you're doing the work, Brookes. That's what matters."
I finish the pancakes, each bite easier than the last, the sweetness settling something restless inside me. By the time I drain the last of my coffee, I've made a decision. A small one.Baby steps, as Charlotte would say in her no-nonsense voice that brooks no argument.
I will go outside. I will sit with them in the sunshine. I will not talk about last night or the nightmare or the feelings swirling inside me like a gathering storm. I will not mention how I locked myself away or how they respected that boundary even when it must have worried them. I will be there with them, present and trying, letting the warmth of the sun and their quiet company seep into the cold places inside me.
It's something. It's a beginning.
Chapter 6
Hero
The stretch feels good, long and deliberate as I hold my final pose. My breath comes out slow, steady, a controlled release of tension I didn't realize I was still carrying. Yoga helps with discipline and focus, and also with not falling apart. Because there are mornings, like today, where it takes everything in me not to check every room, every lock, every window, not to patrol the perimeter one more time just to be certain.
Especially after a night like the one Brookes had.
I'd stood outside his door for longer than I should have, ears straining for any sign of movement, my hand hovering near the knob more than once. The hallway had been dark, silent except for the occasional creak of the house settling, and I'd counted his breaths until I lost track somewhere after three hundred. Levi passed once, gave me that knowing look, the one that said, ‘give him space’, even as I stood there clenching my fists so tight my knuckles ached. Dante had come by, too; silent, eyes shadowed with worry, a brief hand on my shoulder before he disappeared back to his room. None of us said it aloud but we all felt it. The pull. The fear. The scent of his distress. The helpless acheof not being able to protect Brookes from his demons, from the nightmares that live behind closed eyelids.
I wanted to break down the door so badly I almost cracked a tooth from clenching them so hard. To wrap him in safety, in warmth, in whatever comfort I could offer without words—but I didn't. Instead, I stood sentinel, waiting, listening. Sometimes protection means respecting boundaries, even when every instinct screams otherwise. Sometimes the hardest part of caring for someone is knowing when to step back, when to let them fight their own battles, even as every fiber of your being wants to fight for them. I've learned this lesson over and over with Brookes, and it never gets easier. Still, he made it through. Somehow. Now he's here.
Brookes steps into the garden like radiant sunlight breaking through storm clouds. His hair is beautifully unkempt, tousled in that way that models pay stylists hundreds to achieve but on him is just morning vulnerability. No makeup masks his features, no adornments distract from the raw beauty of him just existing. His oversized cream sweater keeps slipping off one shoulder, revealing a delicate collarbone that makes my fingers twitch with the urge to trace it. The hem hangs low on his thighs, making his legs look endless as his bare feet brush the cool stone patio with each deliberate step. His skin glows golden-brown against the pale fabric, warmed by the morning light, and there's something fragile but undeniably defiant in the set of his shoulders. A silent declaration that he's still here, still standing, still refusing to break.
He holds his ridiculous ‘Diva’ mug like it's a royal scepter, steam curling around his long fingers, pinky lifted in a silent dare to comment on either the mug or the shadows under his gorgeous eyes. Those eyes, the windows to a soul that's seen too much but still finds a reason to shine.
My pulse skips at the sight of him, then doubles its pace to make up for lost time. He doesn't look perfect. He looks real. Touchable. A little puffy around the eyes from crying, the faintest crease between his brows from whatever nightmares chased him through the darkness. There's color in his cheeks now, though, and that soft bratty smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth says more than words could. It's his armor, the slight upturn of his red pouty lips, the way he faces the world after it's tried to break him. He's stunning like this, not despite the vulnerability, but because of it.
Levi's the next to notice him, crouched over the herb garden he’d convinced Brookes to plant with him a month ago. His massive frame looks almost comical among the delicate green shoots, like a bear in a China shop, but his hands are surprisingly gentle with the plants. His suit jacket is discarded over a nearby chair, the sleeves of his crisp button-down rolled up to his elbows, revealing the intricate constellation of Aries tattoo peeking out on his right arm. The dark ink stands out beautifully against his deep brown skin in the morning light. Normally he would be dressed in worn jeans and an old t-shirt for his morning gardening activities, but Brookes has a beach shoot in a few hours that both Dante and Levi are already dressed for. Our uniform. Security always looking the part, blending in while standing out just enough to serve as a deterrent.
"Well, well," he murmurs, straightening from the basil he's been babying for weeks, his fingers still dusted with soil. "The elusive Bloom graces us with his presence." The morning light catches on Levi's dimples as he smiles, genuine pleasure warming his expression at the sight of Brookes.
Brookes sips his coffee with exaggerated daintiness. "Someone has to liven up the aesthetic. You're out here dressed like Business Casual Farmer Barbie, Levi." He gestures with hisfree hand at Levi's incongruous combination of gardening and formal attire.
Dante chokes on a laugh behind his laptop, the sound rare enough that I glance over. He's positioned himself strategically, back to the wall, full view of both entrances, but his eyes are crinkled with amusement. "Petal, he's been elbow-deep in rosemary for an hour. Be kind." His voice carries that gentle warning tone he reserves only for Brookes.
"I am being kind," Brookes says, settling onto the edge of the patio couch, his movements fluid and graceful despite the underlying tension I can read in his shoulders. "This whole serene masculinity in linen vibe you've got going is very Goop-catalog chic."
Levi walks over without missing a beat, his movements deliberate but gentle. He lifts Brookes by the thighs like he weighs nothing. Which to someone of Levi's strength, he practically doesn't, shifting him sideways along the couch to make space. The movement is casual but calculated; I recognize the technique. Create physical contact without making it feel like restraint. He drops down next to him, his wide thigh pressed casually to Brookes’. Then, without warning, he grabs Brookes’ ankle and deposits his foot into his lap like it belongs there.
My fingers twitch instinctively at the sudden movement, but I force them still. This is Levi. This is safe. I'm not going to lie to myself and say I don’t wish it was my hands and my lap his foot rested on.
Brookes sputters, coffee nearly sloshing over the rim of his mug. "Excuse me. What are you doing?" His voice rises an octave, indignation fighting with surprise.
