Page 42 of Knot So Lucky

The possessive pride in his voice makes my Omega instincts purr with satisfaction, and I have to suppress the reaction before it shows on my face.

"When did you make all this?" I gesture to the plate, genuinely curious because I don't remember hearing kitchen noises over the racing simulator's audio.

He chuckles, the sound rich and intimate in the quiet apartment.

"While you were so zoned in, you didn't hear me ask if you were hungry."

I smirk, letting my eyes travel deliberately down his body—taking in the broad shoulders, the defined abs, the way his boxer briefs sit low on his hips revealing that perfect V-line that disappears beneath the fabric.

"It's good you didn't," I tell him, voice dropping into a register that has nothing to do with hiding my designation and everything to do with suggestion. "Or I'd be hungry for something other than food."

His eyes darken immediately, pupils dilating as Alpha pheromones spike in response to my tone. The burnt cedar and coffee scent that's distinctlyCaleintensifies, mixing with something muskier, more primal.

The corner of his mouth quirks up in that cocky grin I simultaneously love and want to wipe off his face with my teeth.

But instead of taking the bait, he points to the plate with mock sternness.

"Eat it while it's hot. You can have me for dessert."

I lick my lips deliberately, watching his eyes track the movement.

"Promise?"

"Fuck." He runs a hand through his hair, clearly struggling with his self-control. "Yes. Now eat before I change my mind about being responsible."

I smirk but acquiesce, picking up the fork he's provided—real silverware, not disposable plastic, because apparently even breakfast has standards in the Lane household.

"Have you eaten yet?" I ask, spearing a piece of pancake and dragging it through the syrup.

He gestures vaguely toward the kitchen. "About to. Made myself a plate too."

"Then let's eat together?"

The words hang in the air between us, surprisingly vulnerable for such a simple suggestion.

Because eating together implies something beyond casual fucking. Implies domestic intimacy and shared space, and the kind of couple behavior we've spent years avoiding through our hot-and-cold toxic dance.

Cale pauses mid-turn, his body going still in that particular way that means he's actually considering the implications rather than just reacting.

We share a look.

His grey eyes—storm-colored and intense in the morning light—search mine for something. Hesitation maybe. Doubt about what this means.

But all I feel is the comfortable satisfaction of good sex and good food and the simple desire to not eat alone in my enormous empty penthouse.

Finally, slowly, he nods.

"Yeah. Okay."

He retrieves his plate from the kitchen while I relocate from the gaming chair to one of the leather couches that faces the floor-to-ceiling windows. The view is spectacular—the city spread out below us like a glittering promise, skyscrapers catching the early morning sun in ways that would be beautiful if they weren't also symbols of generational wealth and privilege.

Cale settles beside me on the couch, close enough that our thighs touch. His body heat radiates against my bare skin, and I realize with some amusement that neither of us bothered putting on actual clothes.

We're just... naked, mostly. Eating breakfast on a couch that probably costs more than most cars, completely comfortable in our nudity because we've seen each other in far more compromising positions.

It should feel strange.

Instead, it feels natural in a way that makes my chest tight with emotions I'm not ready to examine.