Page 46 of Scout

Kendrix chuckles under his breath. “It was.” Then, without even blinking, he leans down and kisses my temple.

And before I can recover from that, Xavier does the same.

My heart’s thudding in my chest, the way it does when I’ve just been caught doing something I wasn’t supposed to.

“Should I make some brunch?” Kendrix asks, sipping from his mug and eyeing me over the rim.

“I could eat,” I say, even though my appetite is halfway replaced with butterflies.

He moves around the kitchen like he owns it, whipping up the fluffiest frittata I’ve ever seen—loaded with spinach, goat cheese, and roasted tomatoes. There’s toast too, and some kind of spicy jam I didn’t know existed but now love.

We sit at the island, eating and talking as if we’ve done this a hundred times. As if it’s not weird. Not fragile. Not temporary.

And I don’t know what to do with that.

So I do what I always do. I flirt. I grin. I keep it light.

But when I finish the last bite of toast, I push my plate back and stretch like I’m about to go do something productive. “I think I’m gonna shower,” I say casually, sliding off the stool.

Xavier quirks an eyebrow. “Need company?”

I give him a look. “Alone.”

Kendrix raises his hands. “Understood.”

“I’ll be on the balcony,” Xavier adds, lifting his mug. “Soaking in the view with the good stuff.”

I smirk. “Enjoy.”

Then I wink—because of course I do—and turn to head toward the bathroom.

But the whole way there, I feel their eyes on my back.

And I kind of love it.

Xavier

Outside, the air smells like pine and leftover coffee. It's quietexcept for the soft creak of the wooden deck and the way the wind tugs at the hem of my shirt.

I lean back in the chair, mug cradled between both hands, and close my eyes. The sun hasn’t even crested fully yet, but the light is soft and golden. Peaceful.

Or it should be.

Instead, my brain drags me backwards.

I'm seven. Sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet with one of my dad’s old stethoscopes clumsily looped around my neck. My mom’s telling me to sit up straight. My dad’s got the news on too loud and a drink in his hand even though it’s not even dinner time.

And I’m talking to myself under my breath. “If I do good in school, I can be a doctor. If I become a doctor, I’ll have a nice house. A wife. Maybe kids. Someone to love me just because.”

Except love wasn’t handed out freely in my house. It was earned. A+ on a spelling test? You got a nod. Honor roll? A pat on the back, maybe.

But just existing? Just being?

Nope.

That got you silence. Or worse—criticism.

There were no soft hugs. No “I’m proud of you just because.” Only expectations. Rules. Pressure to succeed. Be better. Do more.