Page 7 of Omega in Love
Some people think being a bodyguard is all about intimidation and brute force. I guess in a way, yeah, sometimes that's part of it but the real work is in the careful observations.The intuition. The quiet assessment of threats before they become problems.
Kind of like knowing exactly when pancakes need flipping.
I'm so lost in thought that I barely register the sound of Brookes entering the kitchen, his voice animated as he talks on the phone.
"No, I'm not lonely. How can I be with my three big hellhounds guarding my every step?" His laughter is bright, theatrical, but I hear the subtle strain underneath it. "Hero still walks around like he's got a gun tucked in his apron. I swear the man could make a spatula look threatening. I'm good." A pause, and then his voice softens, vulnerability slipping through. "I need you to visit, Char. Stop trying to save the world for five minutes. I miss you. Tell Beaux I'm still waiting to destroy him at poker. Last time was just me being nice."
I don't turn around, but I smile to myself, flipping another perfect golden pancake. Charlotte's his lifeline. She was there before any of us, his family when his blood relatives proved they didn't deserve him. The bond between them reminds me of what I have with my sisters, unbreakable, forged in both joy and hardship.
"Fine, fine. I know you're busy. Just soon, okay? Love you too," Brookes says, ending the call with a sigh that carries the weight of missing someone who truly sees you.
When I glance over my shoulder, he's settling onto one of the barstools at the kitchen island, posture perfect, as always. He's done up today. His hair perfectly coiffed, makeup flawless, outfit runway-ready. The armor he puts on to face the world. The moment Charlotte's voice isn't in his ear anymore, I watch the transformation happen in real time. The smile slips from dazzling to dim. His shoulders drop a fraction, like he's finally letting go of a breath he's been holding, barely managing tokeep himself together. The sparkle in his eyes dims, replaced by something more fragile, more real.
Most people wouldn't notice these subtle shifts. It's my job to notice though. I've spent my life reading the unspoken needs of others, first with my siblings, now with him.
I slide a mug of coffee across the counter to him, already prepared how he likes it. Two pumps of vanilla syrup, a splash of almond milk, topped with a swirl of cream. Honestly, it's more dessert than actual coffee, just sweet enough to cut the bitterness but still give him the caffeine he craves in the morning.
"Morning, Bloom," I say, using the nickname that slipped out one day when I caught him arranging flowers in the living room, so delicate and careful with each stem, talking to them softly like they could hear him. "Breakfast is almost ready. Made those blueberry pancakes you pretend not to love."
Brookes takes the coffee, fingers curling around the warmth of the mug, but waves a hand dismissively at the mention of food. "Just coffee today. I've got that shoot tomorrow. Carbohydrates and my gut does not make for a picture-perfect photo."
I pause, spatula mid-air, and really look at him. The circles under his eyes are hidden under expert concealer, but they're there. His cheekbones are a touch too sharp, casting shadows where there shouldn't be any. He's lost weight in the past few months, and not in a healthy way. His collarbone juts out beneath the loose neckline of his sweater.
"No," I say simply, turning back to the stove, my tone gentle but leaving no room for argument. "You'll eat. You need fuel, not caffeine and sarcasm. Your body deserves better than that."
"I'm not hungry," he huffs, the bratty edge to his voice one I recognize well. It's his defense mechanism. His way of pushing back before anyone can push him.
I don't respond immediately. Instead, I plate up the food with care. I add the fluffy pancakes stacked just so, crispy bacon arranged on the side, scrambled eggs with the fresh chives he pretends not to love but always eats first. I set it in front of him with gentle finality, then lean forward, both palms flat on the counter, my eyes meeting his.
"You eat," I say, my voice quiet but firm. "Or I'll feed you myself. And neither of us wants that scene at eight in the morning."
His eyes widen a fraction, surprise flickering across his face before he narrows them again. The momentary flash of vulnerability reminds me of my youngest sister when she'd get caught sneaking cookies before dinner. For a moment, I think he might actually fight me on this. Brookes never backs down easily, but then he rolls his eyes dramatically and picks up his fork, stabbing at the eggs with unnecessary force. The chives go first, just like always.
"You're insufferable," he mutters, but there's no real heat behind it. Just the familiar dance we do. His shoulder relaxes a fraction as he takes the first bite, the tension easing from his jaw.
"So I've been told." I turn back to the stove, hiding my smile as I wipe down the counter. My hands, built for protection, find purpose in these small acts of care. He may think I'm being overbearing, but I know what I saw. The momentary relief in his eyes at not having to pretend he's fine. The way his body language shifts when someone makes a decision for him that's actually in his best interest. I've watched six siblings grow up, recognizing when stubborn pride masks genuine need.
Sometimes, what people need most is someone who won't let them get away with their own bullshit. Someone who sees past the armor to the person beneath. Brookes has enough people in his life who only see the glossy exterior he presents to the world. I'm not going to be another one.
I'm plating up my own breakfast when Hero walks in, already dressed in his usual dark clothes, tablet in hand. His eyes catch mine first, a silent greeting, before drifting to Brookes, who's grudgingly eating his pancakes.
"Good morning," Hero says, voice soft but carrying. He pours himself coffee, black, no sugar. The man has the taste buds of an ascetic monk. A little sugar never hurt nobody. I watch him take a satisfied sip with a grimace, before he joins us at the island. "Flash magazine emailed again. They're pushing for that in-person interview in New York next week."
Brookes’ fork clatters against his plate. "I'm not going back to New York."
The words hang in the air, heavy with everything unsaid. New York is where it happened. Where those men took him, hurt him, left him broken in ways that still haven't fully healed. I feel my jaw tighten at the memory of reading his file, but I force the anger down. It doesn't help Brookes for me to rage.
"I already anticipated that," Hero says, calm and unflustered as always. "I've offered them alternatives. A virtual interview, or they come here with a scaled-down team that we can vet personally."
Brookes relaxes slightly, returning to his food. "Virtual is fine."
Hero nods, making a note on his tablet. "Dr. Kendrick also called to confirm your appointment today."
"I don't need?—"
"Therapy is non-negotiable," Hero interrupts, not unkindly. "It was part of the agreement when you came back to work. The agency insists."
Brookes’ scent shifts, roses turning slightly bitter with frustration, but he doesn't argue further. Instead, he simply gives a curt nod and focuses intently on cutting his pancake into progressively smaller pieces. The methodical way he dissectshis food speaks volumes. It's his way of maintaining control when he feels it slipping elsewhere. I've watched him do this enough times to recognize the pattern, the careful precision that keeps his hands busy while his mind works through whatever's troubling him.
