Page 53 of Omega in Love
Charred toast leans precariously on the edge of a plate, blackened beyond recognition, corners curling inward like dying leaves. Something vaguely resembling bacon is crisscrossed like kindling, shriveled and smoking. My gosh, the eggs are more of a scrambled crime scene than anything edible. It looks like part rubber, part liquid, with suspicious dark flecks throughout.
Brookes looks up at us with wide, watery eyes, those beautiful brown irises reflecting hurt and disappointment. A smudge of what might be flour decorates one cheekbone, and his curls sticks up in the front, rumpled and adorable.
"I was trying to make breakfast," he says, voice small, fragile as spun sugar. "For you."
I honestly think we're all stunned silent.
The alarm continues to shriek, a perfect soundtrack to the disaster.
Hero wordlessly lifts a broom and hits the smoke detector until it shuts up with an indignant beep, the sudden quiet almost deafening.
Dante walks straight into the kitchen, waving smoke away with exaggerated flair, opening windows with practiced efficiency. "I have so many questions. None of them appropriate." His voice carries that special blend of sarcasm and fondness reserved only for Brookes.
Brookes’ bottom lip wobbles, that perfect pout that breaks me every time. The scent of roses intensifies. "I just wanted to do something nice. You guys always cook, and clean, and everything. I wanted to give back."
His shoulders hunch, and the apron bunches in his fists like he's bracing for scolding, a reflexive protection against criticism I've seen too many times before.
Nope. I'm having none of that. I just walk over and pluck the plate from his hands, setting it gently on the counter, careful not to let my expression show anything but warmth.
"You know what would be nice?" I murmur, voice deliberately soft, the tone I use when he's had a nightmare. "If you'd sit your pretty ass on the counter and let me handle breakfast."
"But—"
"No buts." I lift him easily, clocking that he could stand to eat more, and set him on the marble. "This is a danger zone now. Chef Levi to the rescue."
He sniffles, a tiny sound breaks my heart a little. "I really did try."
"I can tell," Hero says, biting back a smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. "There's effort. Considerable effort."
"Effort and arson," Dante adds, opening the last window. "A truly bold flavor profile. Culinary innovation at its finest."
Brookes grabs a dishtowel and smacks Dante in the thigh with it, the gesture playful despite his embarrassment. "Shut up."
Dante grins and leans in kissing Brookes lips quickly, invading his space with the easy confidence only he can pull off. "You can return the favor later. I accept apologies in the form of my name being moaned."
"Dante!" Brookes squeals, scandalized, a blush blooming across his cheeks, that beautiful brown skin turning a shade darker.
"I'm just saying?—"
"Okay, kitchen rated G now," I cut in, cracking eggs into a pan with a satisfying sizzle. "Dante, you get the plates. Hero, fruit. Let's salvage this morning."
"Copy that," Hero says, already slicing strawberries like it's a mission briefing, his knife work precise and efficient.
We settle into a rhythm, the three of us moving around each other with the practiced ease of men who've learned each other's patterns. The smoke clears gradually, replaced by the comforting scent of properly cooked food. Brookes, now perched cross-legged on the counter, watches us work with wide, grateful eyes, tracking our movements like he's studying for a test.
"I see Dr. Kendrick was right," I say after a minute, flopping toast on a plate with a practiced flick of my wrist. "You are making progress. Last month, the idea of you stepping into the kitchen and trying something new would've caused a full-on panic."
Brookes shrugs, picking at the edge of the apron, tracing the glittery letters with one slender finger. "I just wanted to show you I'm not broken anymore." His voice carries the weight of months of therapy, of nightmares and panic attacks, of progress measured in small, painful steps.
I glance at him, then set down the spatula, giving him my full attention.
"You were never broken, sweetheart," I say softly, meaning every word. "You were hurt. There's a difference. But you? You've always been whole." I reach out, and brush the bit of flour from his forehead, letting my fingers linger against his temple.
He blinks fast, eyelashes fluttering against the threat of tears. "Don't make me cry over burnt bacon."
"You started it," I reply with a chuckle.
Brookes sticks out his tongue at me and goes back to watching Hero arrange blueberries into a heart on a plate, his artistic precision making the simple gesture look elegant.
