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"Grandma Lexton's secret recipe," Christopher explained, returning to the sink to finish the dishes. "Comfort food was her specialty. She believed good food could heal almost anything."

"Smart woman," Miles commented, leaning against the counter with his own mug of tea.

I continued eating, surprised by how hungry I actually was.

The conversation flowed naturally around me—Julian mentioning an upcoming charity event and another tennis match, Miles discussing plans for winter crops in the garden, Christopher debating whether to try a new bread recipe.

They included me with casual glances and small smiles, but didn't pressure me to contribute.

It was strange, being present without performing.

No one was evaluating my posture or monitoring my food intake.

No one expected me to demonstrate proper conversation skills or display appropriate Omega deference.

I could simply... exist. Eat when hungry.

Listen without strategizing my response.

Be comfortable in clothes that would have earned my mother's sharpest disapproval.

"Nicolaus texted," Julian mentioned, glancing at his phone. "He'll be home in about twenty minutes."

"Did you tell him Lilianna's awake?" Christopher asked, drying his hands on a kitchen towel.

Julian nodded. "He says he's glad you're resting and to save him some of the apple tart if we haven't devoured it all."

"Apple tart?" I couldn't help the interest in my voice.

Christopher's face lit up with pride. "I made it this afternoon while you were settling in. It's cooling on the counter if you'd like to try some after you finish your dinner."

I glanced toward the counter where a golden-crusted tart sat on a wire rack, its surface glistening with what looked like a honey glaze. The scent of cinnamon and baked apples had been teasing at the edges of my awareness since I'd entered the kitchen.

"I'd love to try it," I said, then felt compelled to add, "though I should probably save room."

Miles raised an eyebrow, his expression amused. "Says who? If you want tart, have tart. If you want dinner and tart and maybe some cheese afterward, have all of it."

The casual dismissal of portion control—something that had governed every meal of my life—was both liberating and disorienting at the same time.

"With vanilla bean ice cream?" Christopher asked, already moving toward the freezer with an energy that suggested my interest had made his entire evening.

"That sounds perfect," I said, then paused.

"Actually, could I... could I see how you made it?

The tart, I mean. I've never really learned to bake.

" The words tumbled out before I could second-guess them.

My mother had always insisted that proper Omegas should understand domestic arts but never actually perform them.

Christopher's eyes absolutely lit up, his excitement palpable. "You want to learn to bake?" he asked, as if I'd offered him a precious gift. "Really?"

"If that's... if you wouldn't mind teaching me," I said hesitantly, suddenly worried I'd overstepped. "I don't want to impose on your time or—"

"Impose?" Christopher laughed, the sound bright and genuine. "Lilianna, I've been hoping someone in this pack would show interest in baking beyond eating the results. These two," he gestured toward Julian and Miles, "are hopeless in the kitchen."

"I can make coffee," Miles protested mildly. "And toast."

"Barely," Julian added with a small smile. "Christopher's been carrying our domestic load for years."

I felt warmth spread through my chest at their easy teasing. "My mother always said cooking was to be left to the servants.”

Christopher's expression darkened slightly at my mother's words.

"Well, your mother was wrong about that too," he said firmly.

"There's something deeply satisfying about creating food with your own hands.

About nourishing people you care about." he eyes softened at his words.

"We could start tomorrow if you'd like," he continued, his enthusiasm returning.

"Something simple—maybe cookies or muffins.

Work our way up to more complex things like the tart. "

I nodded eagerly, surprised by my own excitement. "I'd love that."

Julian watched this exchange with quiet satisfaction, his hazel eyes warm as they moved between Christopher and me. "I think Christopher just found his new favorite person," he observed.

"Don't be jealous," Christopher shot back playfully. "You had your chance to learn proper knife skills and you chose to stick with protein bars and takeout."

Miles chuckled, finishing his tea. "To be fair, we've all gotten spoiled by your cooking. Why learn when we have a master chef in the house?"

"Flattery will get you extra dessert," Christopher replied with a grin, already cutting generous slices of apple tart.

I watched their easy banter with fascination.

In my parents' household, meals were formal affairs with predetermined conversation topics and careful attention to proper etiquette.

This felt more like... family. The thought caught me off guard, the word carrying implications I wasn't ready to examine.

The front door opened and closed, followed by the sound of Nicolaus's measured footsteps in the hallway. He appeared in the kitchen doorway moments later, his dark red hair damp from his swim, carrying a small leather bag that I assumed contained his pool gear.

"Good evening," he said, his gaze softening as they landed on me.

"Hello," I offered shyly, suddenly self-conscious about my casual appearance in front of Nicolaus, whose crisp demeanor seemed unaffected even after swimming.

His gaze swept over me—taking in my star-patterned pajamas, loose hair, and the nearly empty plate before me.

"You look comfortable," he observed, voice soft as he looked me over again before setting his bag down by the door. "Sleep well?"

I nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Better than I expected to."

Nicolaus gave a smile, “Good. I am glad you decided to come out of your room and join us. Has Chris been behaving himself?” The teasing in his voice made me relax even more.

Christopher gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. "I'll have you know I've been a perfect gentleman. And for your information, Lilianna's going to learn baking with me tomorrow."

"Is that so?" Nicolaus raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking into what might have been a smile as he moved to the refrigerator.

He pulled out a water bottle, unscrewing the cap with efficient movements.

"I should warn you, Christopher's teaching style involves flour in places you never thought possible. "

Miles snorted. "Remember when he tried to teach me to make bread? The ceiling had handprints for weeks."

I found myself laughing at the mental image, the sound bubbling up before I could contain it. "I don't mind a little mess," I admitted, surprising myself with the truth of it. Mess had never been allowed in my mother's house—everything pristine, without a speck of dust anywhere.

"Famous last words," Julian murmured, but his eyes were warm with amusement as he watched me laugh.

Christopher placed a generous slice of apple tart before me, the vanilla bean ice cream already beginning to melt into creamy pools around the golden crust. The first bite was a revelation—buttery pastry giving way to tender apples laced with cinnamon and something else I couldn't identify.

"There's cardamom in this," I said, pausing mid-bite as the exotic spice registered on my tongue.

Christopher's face lit up with delight. "Most people miss that! It's just a pinch, but it makes all the difference."

"You have a good palate," Nicolaus observed, settling into the chair beside me with his own slice of tart. "Have you done much cooking or baking before?"

I shook my head, taking another bite, “No, but I am excited to learn.”

"We should probably discuss the schedule for tomorrow," Julian said, his tone gentle but practical. "Christopher, what time were you thinking for the baking lesson?"

Christopher glanced at me, his gray eyes bright with anticipation. "What works for you, Lilianna? I'm usually up early, but we can start whenever you're comfortable."

The question of my preferences still felt foreign, but I was beginning to appreciate how consistently they asked. "I'm normally awake by seven," I admitted. "My parents insisted on early rising."

"Perfect," Christopher said immediately. "We could start around nine? That gives you time to have breakfast and wake up properly."

"And gives Christopher time to organize his baking station," Miles added with a knowing look. "He gets very particular about ingredient placement."

"Organization is key to successful baking," Christopher defended, though his cheeks flushed slightly.

"Everything in its place," Nicolaus agreed, his tone carrying fond amusement. "Though I seem to remember you reorganizing the spice cabinet three times last month."

"The alphabetical system makes more sense than grouping by frequency of use," Christopher protested, but he was smiling. "Besides, you reorganize your legal briefs constantly."

"That's different. Legal documents require precise organization for—" Nicolaus was cut off.

"For the same reason spices do," Julian interrupted smoothly. "Because you both function better with systems." He turned to me, his expression gentle. "Fair warning—living with two people who have strong organizational preferences means occasional debates about the 'correct' way to arrange things."

I found myself smiling at their easy familiarity, the way they teased each other with obvious affection. "What about you and Miles? Do you have organizational quirks too?"

Miles laughed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm the chaos agent in this house. My organizational system is 'I'll remember where I put it,' which drives everyone else crazy."

"Especially when you 'remember' putting your soccer cleats in the oven," Julian said dryly.

"That was one time!" Miles protested. "And they weren't in the oven, they were on top of it. Completely different."

"Still took us twenty minutes to find them," Christopher muttered, shaking his head. "And don't get me started on your gardening tools scattered across three different rooms."

I watched this exchange with growing wonder. The easy way they ribbed each other, the obvious care beneath the teasing—it was unlike anything I'd experienced. My parents never joked, never showed this kind of casual intimacy. Everything had been formal, measured, proper.

As I watched them I couldn’t help but feel my chest warm with affection, and I hoped that this feeling stayed. Yes, I had only been here not even a day but I liked it better than living with my parents and I really do hope one day to be able to fully call it home.