Page 27 of Pack Frenzy
Cassian saves me. “Don’t let him lie. He reorganizes the spice rack every Sunday. Alphabetical. Peak neurotic Beta behavior.”
“That’sorganized,” I correct, rolling out the first disk. “Heavy on results, light on arguing about them.”
I cut even strips and show her the first weave: over, under, over, turn the pan. She copies with quick hands and steady pressure. When her finger brushes mine, there’s a zap that’s not static. She pretends not to notice; my pulse pretends it’s not doing a drumline solo.
“You’re a fast learner,” I say, meaning it.
“Survival skill.” She wipes flour on her jeans. “Had to feed myself cause the maid only cleaned. She even told me, ‘Why cook for one person?’ Watched cooking shows to keep busy.”
The weight in those last two words tells a story she’s not ready to share. I don’t push.
“Boston?” slips out before I can catch it. I already know she’s Antonio Mancini’s daughter, top five percentile in verbal acuity, zero percentile in giving a shit about social niceties. I’m not supposed to know. People hate when you know things about them you shouldn’t.
Her eyes flicker. “Yeah. You?”
“Queens. Flatbush later. Bus to Boston for tournaments when we were kids.” I scoop the apples into the pie crust, then crimp the edge with my thumbs, creating a rope pattern. “We’ll punch vent holes shaped like maple leaves. Cinnamon likes a dramatic exit.”
“Punch me,” she says, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“Don’t say that around Alphas,” Cassian says dryly, not looking up from his carrots.
She pinks, then leans into it instead of shrinking. Good. “I meant the spice.”
“Noted,” I say, brushing egg wash over the lattice. “Do you want tea?”
A footstep in the hall answers for us. Rowan appears in my gray t-shirt and borrowed sweats, hair damp from the shower, curls behaving for once. He stops just shy of Cassian’s orbit—he’s mapped our kitchen politics like he’s lived here his whole life. Which he has.
“Hi,” he says to Jess first, like he does with skittish things: voice soft, hands visible, body language open. “Did someone say tea?”
“Tea would be nice,” she says. She doesn’t shrink. She watches how he moves—permission asked twice, once with words, with distance.
Rowan fills the kettle, and his scent rises through the kitchen: sandalwood and rain, and my cock twitches. The quiet part of me that’s still humming sits up and pays attention. Hesets mugs down, fingers brushing mine as he reaches for the honey. It’s brief:I’m here. I tap back against his wrist:saw you.
Cassian sets the Instant Pot, wipes his hands on a towel. “You flinch when people move too fast,” he says, tone gentler than it should be for a man his size.
Jess’s grip tightens on the counter. “Only when I don’t see it coming.”
He nods once. “Good to know.”
“Copy,” I say, sliding the pie onto the middle rack. Sugar crackles when heat kisses egg wash. I set the timer and step back. Soon, the kitchen smell will upgrade fromgoodtoyou live here now.
The tea kettle whistles, and Rowan makes us each a cup with a dab of honey.
He slides Jess a mug of chamomile. I lean against the counter and decide to try something.
“Tell us something true,” I say. “Doesn’t have to be big. Just real.”
She thinks. It’s visible: the scan of exits, the weight of silence, the small decision to let us hold something. “Storms,” she finally says. “I like thunder. Was never scared of it as a kid, like most are. To me, it means life, like all the animals and plants are happy for the rain.”
Cassian goes still, then nods like she just solved his favorite equation. “Yeah, I could see that.”
“My turn,” I offer. “I hoard recipes like a dragon hoards gold. Open that drawer by the stove and die in an avalanche of magazine clippings.”
Rowan’s mouth crooks. “Embarrassing way to go.”
“Death by casserole cards,” I agree. “At my funeral, please note I died how I lived: covered in flour and making it everyone else’s problem.”
A soft chime pings from the tablet mounted by the fridge—three notes I know too well from all the times I’ve been on the other side of the camera.
