Page 18 of Crown of the Mist

"There she is," Jace says, breaking the moment with a wide grin. He's standing at the stove, a spatula in one hand and a pan in the other, his easy confidence barely hiding the flicker of reliefin his eyes.

Theo leans against the counter, holding his coffee mug with both hands the way he always does when he's worried, his usual calm smile softening as his gaze meets mine. Gray, perched against the far wall, straightens slightly, his sharp eyes flicking over me while his shoulders stay tense despite his casual stance. Rhett, still sitting at the table, glances up, his expression steady but softening just enough to be noticeable.

"You made it just in time," Jace says, flipping the pancake in the pan with a flourish. "Feast of champions, right here."

I pull the shirt's hem lower, suddenly too aware of my bare legs and the scars they can probably see now. My throat tightens, but I force myself to speak. "You didn't have to do all this."

"Didn't have to," Jace says, grinning. "But I wanted to. That's what friends do, Bree."

The words hit me like a physical blow, gentle but undeniable. Because that's what they've always done, isn't it? Been there, steady and unwavering, while I've spent years convincing myself I didn't deserve it.

12. Bree

I hesitate at the edge of the room, my bare feet sticking to the cool tiles, but Rhett's steady gaze grounds me. He's the only one at the table, slicing strawberries into neat piles with an ease that makes me ache with something I don't have words for.

"Sit," he says, his tone calm but firm. "I'll grab you some coffee."

Before I can protest, he's already standing, heading for the counter where the pot sits steaming. My legs feel shaky as I move toward the chair nearest to him, pulling Rhett's shirt lower over my legs and crossing my arms against the sudden urge to retreat.

Jace glances over his shoulder from the stove, still brandishing the spatula like a conductor leading an orchestra. "You're gonna love this, Bree. Best pancakes of your life. Guaranteed."

The sound of footsteps draws my attention to the hallway, where Wes appears, moving with that quiet grace of his. His dark eyes meet mine for a moment, and something in his expression tells me he's been waiting, watching to make sure I didn't try to slip away again.

"Morning," he says simply, leaning against the doorframe.

"Morning," I manage, my voice quieter than I mean for it to be.

"Did you save me some of the masterpiece, or are you hoarding it all?" Gray's voice carries from near the coffee pot, his sharp green eyes sweeping the room before landing on me. He doesn't say anything, but the tension in his shoulders eases as he moves to lean against the wall.

"Masterpiece?" Wes asks from his spot by the counter, arching a brow.

"Perfection," Jace corrects, pointing the spatula at him. "And yes, I saved you some. But Bree gets the first plate."

"Lucky me," I murmur, staring at the empty plate in front of me like it might fill itself if I wish hard enough.

The guys settle in one by one, the table filling with movement. Plates clatter, coffee mugs arefilled, and Jace's voice carries over everything, filling the space with easy chatter.

Rhett sets a mug of coffee in front of me, the steam curling upward in soft spirals. "Here," he says simply.

"Thanks," I whisper, curling my hands around the warmth.

Jace finally sets a plate in front of me, piled high with pancakes, eggs, and bacon. "Et voilà," he says, grinning.

"It's a lot," I say, my stomach twisting at the sight of so much food.

"You deserve it," Jace replies, sitting down across from me. "We all do."

The table hums with life as the guys start eating, their banter light but steady. For the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself listen—really listen. The sound of their voices, the clink of forks on plates, the soft scrape of chairs against the floor.

It feels normal. Too normal.

I stare at my plate, pushing a piece of pancake around with my fork. The food smells amazing, but my stomach churns every time I try to take a bite. They're all being so careful—too careful. Like I'm made of glass. Like last night never happened.

But it did happen. I'm sitting here in Rhett's borrowed clothes while Phil is probably passed out in his apartment, planning God knows what. While Mrs. Henderson is—

The fork slips from my fingers, clattering against the plate. The sound cuts through the conversation, and suddenly five pairs of eyes are on me. I can feel the weight of their concern pressing in from all sides.

"Bree?" Rhett's voice is quiet, but it carries a current of something stronger.