Chapter 19

Brandon's POV 

Waking me up at 4.am became our thing after that first night. This was two nights after and guess who woke me up for eggs and pancakes yet again.

Freya.

I never really considered myself a morning person—especially not the type to be in the kitchen before sunrise, whisking eggs and flipping pancakes. But Freya had a way of making the strangest things feel normal. Even sacred.

The soft light over the stove cast a golden hue across the counters as I stirred the pan, the scent of garlic butter and eggs filling the kitchen. A comfortable silence hung in the air behind me where she sat at the bar, occasionally sipping from the mug of warm tea I had made for her.

“You really call this breakfast?” she asked, amusement lacing her voice.

I looked over my shoulder with a smirk. “It’s eggs, toast, sautéed tomatoes. That checks the boxes, doesn’t it?”

She made a face, one eyebrow raised. “Brandon, it’s 4:45 a.m. This is just a meal. Breakfast comes with sunlight and actual coherence.”

I laughed, flipping the egg over in the pan. “Says the girl who dragged me out of bed claiming she was starving by the way you wanted this meal. You can’t complain now.”

Her soft chuckle made the kitchen feel even warmer. “I didn’t drag you. I just woke you nicely.”

“Uh-huh. With puppy eyes and talk of pancakes and toast. Completely innocent.”

I turned back to the stove, but I could feel her eyes on me. Again.

It wasn’t the first time I had caught her staring lately, and every time she did, it sparked something in me—curiosity, maybe even a quiet pride. But mostly, it just made me want to stop what I was doing and kiss her.

I glanced over, catching her gaze. “You’re doing it again.”

She blinked. “Doing what?”

“Staring. Drooling, actually. Want me to grab you a napkin?”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the slight blush on her cheeks. “Please. You wish.”

I turned off the burner, setting the spatula aside and crossing my arms as I leaned against the counter. “Alright then. What’s got that look on your face?”

There was a brief pause. Her smile faltered, just slightly. “I wanted to tell you something.”

My body went still—not tense, but alert. “Okay.”

“Rachelle was here earlier... Like two days ago.”

The room felt like it lost a few degrees in an instant.

I stared at her, trying to keep my voice even. “She came to this house?”

Freya nodded, her fingers curling around the handle of her mug. “Security called about her. I didn’t even answer yet, but Lucy… she let her in.”

A frown tugged at my lips. “Wait, Lucy let her in?”

“She wanted to talk to me, apparently. And well… Rachelle didn’t take it well when she saw me.”

Of course she didn’t. I could already imagine the mess—Rachelle’s usual barrage of accusations and drama, especially now that Freya and I were… whatever we were. Closer than before. Too close for Rachelle’s comfort, I was sure.

I stepped forward. “Did she say anything? Did she do anything?”

Freya shook her head and—surprisingly—smiled. “She tried. She came in hot, calling me a gold digger, saying I married you for spite and money. But before I could even react…”

She paused, clearly amused by the memory.

“Lucy jumped her,” she finished, eyes twinkling. “Like, literally tackled her. Security pulled them apart, but not before Lucy handed her a full serving of karma.”

I blinked. Then blinked again. “Lucy fought Rachelle?”

“Oh, yeah. It wasn’t even a fight. It was a beatdown, giving WWE.”

For a second, all I could do was process the image of Lucy—five foot four, sugar-sweet Lucy—body-slamming Rachelle in the foyer.

And then I laughed. Hard.

“I need to get that woman a job,” I said between chuckles. “Freya, I’m serious. Personal bodyguard. Full-time. Custom uniform. Benefits.”

Freya giggled, biting into a piece of pancakes I had placed in front of her just moments ago. “She might actually take you up on that.”

I watched as she took another bite, closing her eyes in exaggerated pleasure. “Mmm. Okay, this is amazing.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re a really good cook, Brandon.”

That glow I always got when she complimented me came creeping in again. I tried to brush it off, but it was impossible not to feel something when she looked so damn happy with something I made.

I stood across the counter and just… watched her for a moment. The way she hummed as she chewed, the way she licked a bit of butter off her fingertip, the way she smiled to herself like the food had just fixed everything wrong in the world.

She looked like art. Like peace.

And I was completely and utterly gone for her.

“You know,” I said quietly, “this right here? You, eating pancakes in my kitchen at 5 a.m.? It’s officially my favorite thing.”

She tilted her head, looking at me through a few loose strands of hair. “Really?”

“Yeah. And not just because you’re giving me the ego boost I desperately needed.”

She laughed again, softer this time. “You don’t need an ego boost. You need sleep.”

I leaned on the counter, eyes still on her. “Maybe. But I think I needed this more.”

Another beat of silence passed. She kept eating, slower now, as if drawing out the moment. And I let myself enjoy it too—the quiet, the soft clinking of her fork against the plate, the way the early light painted her features with something close to gold.

“You’re handling everything so well,” I said, not quite sure where the words were coming from. “The chaos, the attention… even Rachelle. I know this wasn’t what you signed up for.”

She glanced at me, her expression unreadable for a second. “I didn’t exactly plan it, no.”

“Still. You’re here. You’re calm. You’re you. And I… I admire the hell out of that.”

There was something in her eyes then—something that shifted, softened. She set her fork down and rested her chin in her hand, looking at me like she saw something in me worth staying for.

“I’m here because I want to be,” she said simply. “Not for spite. Not for money. Just… because I want to be.”

My heart did a thing I wasn’t ready for. A stutter. A leap.

And before I could think better of it, I reached across the counter and brushed a thumb gently over her cheek.

“I’m glad you are,” I murmured.

Her eyes fluttered shut for the briefest second, leaning into the touch just a little, and when she opened them again, there was something quieter there. Deeper.

We didn’t kiss. Not then. But the moment hung between us like something sacred, full of all the things we weren’t quite saying yet.

Eventually, she picked up her fork again and took the last bite of her food, smiling in that way that made my chest ache.

“Still think this counts as breakfast?” I asked.

She gave me a look, playful and tender all at once. “Fine. I’ll allow it. Honorary breakfast. Because you earned it.”

I laughed, sweeping her empty plate away and dropping a kiss to the top of her head before heading toward the sink. “Guess I’ll have to keep earning it, then.”

“You do that,” she said. “But next time, I’m making the pancakes.”

“Oh, we’re having a cook-off now?”

“We are,” she said smugly. “And I will win.”

I grinned, rinsing her plate beneath warm water as the sun finally peeked through the windows behind us.

If this was what mornings looked like with her—messy, funny, unexpected, and full of heart—I’d happily wake up at 4 a.m. every day for the rest of my life.