Chapter 117: A Feast

NORA’S POV

Fifteen minutes after Richard Arse stormed off campus in defeat, Bear’s truck pulled into the driveway of the SinBin.

The mood in the truck had been practically vibrating with adrenaline. The second the engine cut, the boys tumbled out of the cab like a pack of unruly golden retrievers, yelling and laughing into the Sunday morning air.

"Kitchen duty, right now!" Bear bellowed, kicking open the front door with his work boot. "The Captain stays, the lawyers are dead, and we’re eating like kings!"

I kicked off my sneakers in the hallway and unbuttoned my coat. "I can whip up some scrambled eggs and toast..."

"You will do no such thing," Jake interrupted, snatching my coat and hanging it on the hook for me. "You and Priya just fought off corporate litigation. You’re off the clock, Bennett."

Bear marched into the kitchen and grabbed a ridiculous floral apron from the back of the pantry door. It barely covered the middle of his massive chest, the faded pink ties knotted precariously around his six-foot-five frame.

"Sit," Bear ordered, pointing a thick spatula toward the kitchen island.

He grabbed a high-top wooden stool, wiped the seat down with a dish towel with dramatic flair, and bowed deeply toward Priya. "Your throne, Madame Chief Justice."

Priya tossed her dark hair over her shoulder, completely unfazed, and climbed onto the stool like an empress accepting tribute. "Orange juice, please, Kowalski. And make it quick."

"Right away, your Honor," Bear said with a wide grin, hustling over to the fridge.

Jake hauled two massive cast-iron skillets onto the stove, while Milo dragged a blender and three cartons of eggs out of the refrigerator.

"Protein smoothies for everyone!" Milo declared, cracking eggs straight on the counter edge.

"Milo, do not put raw eggs in that blender, you lunatic!" Jake yelled, swatting Milo’s wrist away with a wooden spoon. "Cook them like a civilized human being!"

I stood in the center of the kitchen, watching the chaos with an amused shake of my head.

Before I could say anything, a pair of warm, strong hands gripped my waist from behind. Knox pulled me back against his chest, tucking his chin over my shoulder.

He had ditched his suit jacket in the living room and loosened his tie, rolling his white dress shirtsleeves up his forearms. Even with the faint purple bruising along his jaw and the lingering exhaustion in his gray eyes, he looked thoroughly relaxed for the first time all weekend.

"Let them cook, Bookworm," Knox murmured against my ear, his warm breath fanning against my skin. "They’ve been waiting for an excuse to burn bacon all morning."

I tilted my head back, looking up at him with a smile. "Are you feeling okay? Head pounding?"

"A little," he admitted, his uninjured right arm wrapping firmly around my stomach. "The room stopped spinning, though. Having you here helps."

"Smooth talker," I teased, leaning back into his solid warmth.

Knox chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to the side of my neck before guiding me over to the dining table in the corner. He pulled out a chair for me, then pulled his own chair right up beside mine, leaving barely an inch of space between us.

For the next twenty minutes, the kitchen was a war zone of sizzling grease, popping butter, and loud trash talk.

Milo managed to turn the blender on without securing the rubber lid properly, sending a spray of crushed strawberries and peanut butter across the white backsplash. Bear chased him around the island with a soapy sponge, threatening to bench him for Friday’s game, while Jake flipped a golden pancake so high it slapped the ceiling before landing neatly in the pan.

Priya sat perched on her stool, sipping her orange juice, laughing so hard she had to wipe away tears.

Finally, the feast arrived.

Bear and Jake loaded the wooden dining table until the legs practically groaned.

There were three platters of scrambled eggs loaded with melted cheddar, two mountains of extra-crispy bacon, links of breakfast sausage, a towering pyramid of fluffy blueberry pancakes, and a pitcher of warm maple syrup.

"Behold," Bear announced proudly, dumping a bowl of buttered sourdough toast in the center. "The breakfast of champions."

Jake poured juice and coffee into everyone’s mugs, then raised his glass high.

"To Captain Sheridan staying where he belongs," Jake called out, looking around the table with genuine affection. "To Priya for terrorizing a sixty-year-old corporate partner. And to Nora for keeping this whole damn house from falling apart."

"Hear, hear!" Bear and Milo cheered, clinking their glasses together with a loud ring.

Priya tapped her glass against mine with a smirk. "Just doing my civic duty, boys."

We dug in with an appetite born of pure relief.

Knox ate with his good right hand, his left arm propped comfortably on his thigh. Halfway through the meal, he reached across the space between us, cut off a fluffy, syrup-soaked corner of pancake, and held the fork out to my lips.

"Open up, Bookworm," he murmured.

I glanced across the table. Bear was making exaggerated kissing noises into his coffee mug, and Jake was rolling his eyes with a grin, but Knox didn’t give a damn.

I laughed, leaning forward and taking the bite off his fork. "Delicious, Captain."

Knox smirked as he reached for my hand under the table and loosely intertwined his fingers with mine.

By one o’clock, the platters were scraped completely clean.

Jake and Milo were sprawled across the living room carpet in a deep food coma, groaning at the television highlights, while Priya was already packing her laptop to head back to our dorm for a much-needed nap.

Bear was rinsing the last skillet in the sink, humming cheerfully to himself.

At the table, Knox let out a quiet sigh, rubbing both palms over his face. He leaned his head back against the wooden chair, his eyes shutting against the midday glare coming through the dining window.

I noticed the tight lines of strain around his temples. The adrenaline of the boardroom victory had finally burned off, leaving behind the heavy fatigue of his concussion.

I stood up, gently taking his good hand and tugging him upward. "Come on, Sheridan. Celebration’s over. Time for bed."

Knox opened one eye, looking up at me with a tired, sleepy smirk. "You putting me on house arrest, Bennett?"

"I’m putting you on brain rest," I said firmly. "Upstairs. Now."

Knox didn’t argue.

He pushed himself up from the chair, towering over me, and let me lead him out of the kitchen and up the quiet wooden stairs to his bedroom.

I pulled the horizontal blinds shut, plunging the room into cool, soothing shadows. Knox kicked off his dress shoes, unbuttoned his collar, and fell onto the mattress with a soft groan of pure relief.

"Stay," Knox murmured in a voice thick with sleep as he reached blindly for my hand, pulling me down toward the bed.

"I’ll be right here," I whispered, bending down to brush his rumpled dark curls off his forehead. "Just resting your eyes."

"Don’t leave," he mumbled, his grip on my fingers loosening as sleep claimed him within seconds.

I pulled the spare wool blanket up over his shoulders, ensuring his bruised left arm was propped comfortably on a pillow. He looked so young and peaceful in the quiet room, the sharp edges of his usual swagger completely smoothed away.

I sat down in the armchair beside the bed, feeling the deep, sweet contentment of knowing we had protected what mattered.

Then my phone buzzed on the armrest.

I picked it up, unlocking the screen.

It was an email from Professor Hastings, my Honors Economics thesis advisor.

I tapped it open.

Subject: Honors Senior Capstone – Progress Milestone.

Nora,

Please be reminded that the initial econometric data model and methodology draft for your honors thesis is due in exactly three weeks. The departmental review committee will be evaluating all candidates for the senior honors stipend based on this submission. Given your recent tutoring responsibilities, please ensure your research remains on schedule.

Best,

Professor Hastings

The air left my lungs in a slow, sharp hiss.

Three weeks.

Between the State game, Knox’s concussion, the diner shifts, and fighting off corporate lawsuits, I hadn’t opened my statistical datasets in days.

I looked over at Knox sleeping peacefully on the bed, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm.

The hockey crisis was finally over.

But my own real world was just beginning to catch up.