Chapter 16 Afterglow
I woke up to the sound of Jake humming.
Soft. Off-key. Comforting.
The loft was bathed in gold, late afternoon light spilling across tangled blankets and discarded clothes. My limbs felt heavy, my body loose and warm. I hadn’t moved in what felt like hours.
I stretched, slowly turning my head toward the sound.
Jake lay beside me, one hand behind his head, the other tracing lazy circles on my thigh. His hair was a mess, his lips swollen, and his eyes half-lidded and smug.
“Hey,” he said, voice rough and sweet. “Still breathing?”
“Barely.” I winced. “Everything hurts.”
His grin turned wicked. “You’re welcome.”
I swatted at his chest. “That wasn’t a compliment.”
“It absolutely was.”
I rolled my eyes, but smiled, letting him pull me closer. His fingers brushed my hip with a kind of casual possessiveness, like he wasn’t ready to let me drift too far.
We didn’t speak for a while. Just lay there in the quiet glow, tangled together, hearts still syncing up.
Then Jake shifted to kiss my forehead. “This was nice.”
I hummed. “Yeah. Really nice.”
He was quiet for a beat. “You good?”
I nodded. “Better than.”
His smile softened. “Not trying to claim you, Em. I just… really fucking like being yours. Even when I’m sharing.”
I looked up at him.
There it was. No tension. No jealousy. Just that open, steady Jake energy—devoted and easygoing and completely okay with what we were.
“I like being yours, too,” I said honestly. “All of yours.”
He kissed me again—soft, slow, still smiling.
And then, like the universe had impeccable timing, a thud echoed from downstairs, followed by Mike yelling, “I swear to God, if no one answers me, I’m sending a search party!”
Jake groaned into my shoulder. “We were so quiet.”
I laughed. “We were not quiet.”
Another voice—Josh this time: “They’re probably up there tangled in each other again. Give them a minute.”
Jake sighed. “See? This is why I liked being an only child.”
“You were never an only child.”
“Let me have the fantasy.”
There was a creak on the stairs. Too late.
Patrick stepped into view at the top, took one look at the scene—Jake shirtless, me in nothing but a blanket—and nodded calmly.
“I’ll make more coffee.”
Jake blinked. “That’s it? No snide comment?”
Patrick shrugged. “Didn’t seem like you needed one.”
But Mike’s voice floated up a second later. “What, you tapping out, Pat? Weak.”
Patrick didn’t even turn around. “You’re just mad it wasn’t your turn.”
A pause.
Then Mike again: “Okay, that’s fair.”
I buried my face in Jake’s chest, laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe. Jake just muttered, “We’re never going to hear the end of this.”
Ten minutes later, I sat at the table wearing Jake’s shirt and Drew’s sweatpants, hair still damp from a quick rinse. The kitchen smelled like coffee and toast. Josh slid a plate toward me, his usual easy smirk playing on his lips.
“You look wrecked.”
“Thank you.”
He winked. “Anytime.”
Jake dropped into the seat beside me and grabbed a piece of toast like nothing had happened.
Drew was across from us, pouring syrup over waffles like this was just any other morning.
Patrick handed me a glass of water. “Hydrate.”
“I’m fine,” I said, cheeks still flushed.
Mike dropped into the seat across from Jake, staring him down. “You gonna share?”
Jake blinked. “What?”
“Tips. Strategies. Endurance exercises?”
I choked on my coffee.
Josh leaned in helpfully. “He’s asking for technique pointers.”
“Or a live demonstration,” Mike added with a grin. “Strictly educational.”
Jake groaned. “You’re all feral.”
“You love it,” Patrick said, sliding eggs onto my plate.
Drew raised an eyebrow. “So do you. Clearly.”
Jake just grinned around his coffee mug.
Josh slung an arm around the back of my chair. “You good?”
I smiled at him. “Very.”
His gaze softened. “Good.”
The teasing kept coming—gentle jabs, not a trace of jealousy in sight. Just warmth. Familiarity. Like this was always part of the rhythm between us.
Because it was.
They weren’t competing for me.
They were mine.
All of them.
And as Jake reached over to steal something off Mike’s plate while Mike swatted at him, I leaned back in my chair, full and warm and still humming from everything we’d just shared.
No guilt. No tension.
Just… home.
Patrick passed behind me again and let his hand skim my shoulders, slow and deliberate. Just a brush, but enough to make my pulse skip.
I glanced up at him.
His eyes met mine—dark, steady, knowing.
Not possessive.
Just… patient.
I felt the promise in that look, even if he didn’t say a word.
Drew caught it, too. He didn’t comment. Just gave me a slow, almost imperceptible smile before turning back to the waffle iron like he hadn’t just watched one of his brothers look at me like he was going to have me next.
God.
Sometimes it felt impossible that I could be wanted like this—held, seen, craved by all of them. And yet, sitting here wrapped in stolen clothes and bruised in the best way, I didn’t feel pulled in too many directions.
I felt whole.
Because each of them gave me something different.
Jake was warmth and reckless tenderness, all tangled limbs and soft smiles. Josh was grounding—solid, steady, endlessly patient, with a quiet protectiveness that ran deep. Patrick moved like he was waiting to strike, but every time he touched me, it was with that slow-burning control that lit me up from the inside. Drew was calm but cutting—he could undo me with just a look if he wanted to, and I suspected he would soon.
And Mike?
Mike would be the firestorm. That sharp, cocky mouth. That grin that said he’d wreck me and enjoy it. I wasn’t sure if he’d tease me to the edge or throw me over it without warning. Probably both.
He caught me looking at him then and raised a brow. “Planning something, baby?”
I took a sip of my coffee, doing my best to look innocent. “Just wondering when you’re finally gonna make a move.”
He blinked, clearly not expecting that.
Josh grinned. Drew didn’t even try to hide his laugh.
Jake choked on his toast.
Mike leaned forward on his elbows, eyes glinting. “Oh, sweetheart. You don’t want me to make a move. You’re not ready.”
“Try me.”
He stared at me for a long second, then shook his head with a wicked smile. “Soon.”
Patrick’s hand brushed the small of my back in passing again. “You’re not getting her next, Mike.”
“Like hell I’m not.”
And just like that, the kitchen lit up with layered voices—bickering, teasing, and laughter mixing with the clatter of plates and the warm scent of waffles.
I didn’t say a word.
I just smiled to myself, leaned back in my chair, and let it all wash over me.
Because I didn’t have to choose.
They already had.