Page 54 of Omega in Love
Dante hums, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. "This might be the gayest breakfast I've ever had."
"I thought last week's pancakes spelled 'pack goals' was peak," Hero says, deadpan, though the corner of his mouth twitches upward.
"Hey, I stand by that," I reply, pointing my spatula at them. "Those pancakes were a masterpiece."
Brookes laughs. Really laughs. Not the careful, measured chuckle he's been using like armor, but a full-bodied sound that starts deep in his chest and bubbles up like champagne. The sound makes something inside my chest twist in a way that's not entirely comfortable but entirely welcome, like muscles stretching after too long at rest.
We eat together around the island, trading jokes and bites and mock insults. The food isn't fancy, just eggs, toast, and fruit, but it's ours, made with care. At one point, Dante feeds Hero a strawberry and Hero actually rolls his eyes but takes it anyway, the brief moment of tenderness between them making Brookes smile into his coffee.
Then Hero glances at Brookes, his expression carefully neutral, though I catch the significance in his eyes.
"So. . .what if we went out for breakfast tomorrow?" he says casually, like he's suggesting nothing more important than a change in coffee brands. "There's that semi-private rooftop place on Sunset. Outdoor seating, VIP section, no press. Good sightlines, two exits." The security assessment comes naturally, woven into the invitation.
The room goes still, the clink of silverware suspended.
All eyes go to Brookes, waiting, not pressuring.
He looks down at his plate, fork pushing a blueberry in slow circles. Then up at us, those brown eyes searching each of our faces in turn.
There's a beat, heavy with possibility and fear.
Then he nods, a small, decisive movement.
"Yeah," he says quietly, voice steady despite the enormity of what he's agreeing to. "I think I'd like that." His first voluntary venture into public since the incident, since the nightmares began.
Dante lets out a low whistle, eyebrows raised in pleased surprise.
Hero beams, a rare full smile transforming his usually serious face.
I reach for my phone, already pulling up contacts. "Reservation sorted.”
Brookes finishes his coffee and leans his head against my shoulder, his weight warm and trusting. The scent of roses wraps around me, no longer tinged with anxiety. "You love me. You really love me." The words are simple but weighted with everything he can't say.
"You make it easy," I say, kissing the crown of his head, breathing in the scent of his shampoo mingled with that distinctive floral note that's uniquely him.
After we clean up, minus the charred casualties, which get a proper burial in the trash. We settle into the living room with tea and the morning news playing low in the background. The sun streams through the windows, painting golden rectangles on the hardwood floor. Brookes sits between us, tucked under my arm, flipping through his phone, his body relaxed in a way that would have been impossible months ago.
"Charlotte's pack found another trafficking site," he says after a moment, voice steady despite the subject matter. "Somewhere near Prague this time. They rescued nine Omegas and three Betas. Some had been missing for years."
We all go still, the comfortable morning atmosphere shifting.
"She's a savior and she has the perfect men at her back," Hero says, setting his mug down carefully.
Brookes nods, scrolling through what must be a message from her. "They're not stopping. She said as long as there's one more out there, they'll keep digging. They've already partnered with three international networks. Teagan says they're building a global task force now. Governments are finally getting involved."
I exhale slowly, pride mixing with respect. "She's incredible."
"She is," Brookes agrees, quiet but proud, loyalty shining through. "But so are we." The inclusion of himself in that statement, another milestone I note silently.
He leans back, eyes fluttering closed in the warm glow of the morning sun, dark lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. His breathing evens out, not quite asleep but peaceful, trusting enough to let his guard down completely.
I just sit there, watching the man we almost lost to his darkness, burnt toast, apron, and all. My chest tightens with something too big for words, something fierce and protective and tender all at once.
The three of us sitting around a man who has slowly, painfully pieced himself back together, who wakes up some mornings screaming and others attempting breakfast, who still flinches at unexpected touches but now reaches for us in the night.
Brookes Daniels.
Our Omega.
