Page 44 of Pin My Alpha
He glances over his shoulder, catches me staring, and the corner of his mouth softens.
“You hungry?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“That means yes.” He turns back to the coffee maker without waiting for an answer. “Eggs?”
“I can make my own breakfast.”
“I know.”
There it is again. That quiet refusal to play the game. I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms. “You saying that every time I object doesn’t make it less annoying.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, and the sound does something to the air in my lungs. “You want to cook, the kitchen’s yours.” He gestures with the spatula. “It’s not a trap. It’s eggs.”
Declan turns around fully, his eyes tired but warm, green catching the sunlight. He takes in the whole picture: the defensive posture, the sharp tone, the fact that I’m standing in his kitchen wearing his shirt. Again.
He doesn’t comment on any of it. He just waits.
The quiet offer deflates the fight in me, which is infuriating.
“Scrambled,” I say, the word coming out softer than I intended.
“Toast?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
“Are you conducting a formal survey?”
He meets my eyes. “I like knowing what you want.”
It’s such a simple thing to say. A nothing question. But my brain flashes on an image of my mom, making herself smaller in a dozen different kitchens for a dozen different alphas. Her saying she didn’t care what they ordered, she could eat anything. Her pretending leftovers were a real meal because someone promised he’d be home and just… wasn’t.
I clear my throat. “Toast is fine.”
Declan’s scent shifts—just a flicker of woodsmoke, a subtle change in the air—and I know he caught it. He knows something just landed hard. But he doesn’t ask. He just turns back to the stove.
“Toast is fine,” he repeats, his voice even.
So, Declan makes breakfast. I stand there, pretending I’m only in the kitchen for coffee, but when he reaches for the cabinet, I’m already pulling out plates. I know where they are now, which is its own kind of alarm. White plates on the second shelf, next to the bowls with the little blue rims. He has matching silverware. Not the random collection of stolen forks and mismatched spoons that passes for a cutlery drawer in my apartment.
“You own things,” I say, setting two plates on the counter. “Like, for a kitchen.”
“I live here.”
“That’s not what I mean. You have a whisk.”
He glances at it, sitting in a ceramic crock next to the stove. “It’s a whisk.”
“Jude has one fork and a mug that says ‘World’s Okayest Omega.’”
A faint smile touches Declan’s mouth. “I’ve seen the mug.”
“Of course you have. He probably left it here.”
“He did.”
