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Natasha stretches her arms up over her head as she wakes, rolling from her side to her back with a sigh. The comforter’s been drawn up to her chest to keep her warm — with her boys in bed, the blankets are always kicked down to her ankles. Even before she opens her eyes to blink up at the ceiling, she knows Jake and Bradley have already gotten up.
A quick glance to the clock on her nightstand has her sitting up slowly, brushing the sleep out of her eyes and rolling her neck to ease the ache there. Flying a jet for a living is one thing. Flying commercial to head home from her latest deployment is another, an entirely different kind of ache that’ll need more than one night in her own bed.
Their bed.
It’s the first time she’s come home to this — Bradley and Jake all moved in, fully committed in a way they’d only ever talked about for years. Now, though, it’s real. She brushes her teeth at a sink decorated with two other toothbrushes, a jar of Jake’s hair pomade and Bradley’s deodorant.
With most of her belongings still packed up, exhaustion still heavy in her bones, she borrows Bradley’s deodorant and then tugs on one of Jake’s burnt orange sweatshirts. The smell of coffee hits her as she makes her way down the stairs, but the sound of their voices doesn’t register until she’s nearly to the kitchen.
They’re quieter in the mornings than she thought they’d be.
For all the noise they surround themselves with, all the bickering and laughter and life, her boys are better now at settling down. Dialing in. She watches for a moment from the doorway — leans against the frame with a grin on her lips as they manage a maddeningly fluid dance. Jake gets three plates out, one by one to keep the porcelain from clattering too loudly, and sets them on the counter for Bradley to serve up their breakfast.
(His momma’s egg casserole recipe. He makes it every time she comes home.)
Bradley steps around Jake to grab three mugs from their ever-growing collection, his feet silent against the tile and a hand curled around Jake’s hip to keep him still. He’s humming to himself, she thinks, entirely focused on filling two mugs with coffee and one with hot water. Jake drops the teabag into the water just as Bradley reaches to shut the stovetop off, and she’s so focused on their rhythm that she starts a bit at the sound of Bradley’s voice.
“You think she’s awake yet? Or is she still up there snoring loud enough to wake the neighbors?”
Natasha rolls her eyes, grinning. She knows they know she’s here. Jake breathes out a long-suffering sigh, taking their plates and setting them on the table, very clearly pretending not to notice her. “The snoring, Bradshaw. I mean, how am I supposed to keep this pretty face of mine if I can’t get my beauty rest?”
“Guess you’ll just have to let our girl be the prettiest instead, babe,” Bradley says, walking two mugs of coffee to the table.
Jake huffs, setting the third plate on the table and then grabbing his mug of tea. “The sacrifices we’ve got to make. She’s lucky she’s worth it.”
Bradley steps toward the table like he’s going to sit down, but then turns and tugs Natasha into his arms instead, hugging her tight as she laughs. “So worth it. Hey, you. G’morning.”
“Welcome home, darlin’,” Jake greets, kissing her forehead with a grin. “Our boyfriend made breakfast. I seem to remember it bein’ your favorite.”
She tips her head up until Jake gets the hint, leaning down to brush a kiss against her lips. When she pulls back, Bradley’s watching them with a grin, his arms still loosely wrapped around her waist.
“Thanks for letting me sleep in,” she says quietly, squeezing Bradley’s arm. “Missed you.”
Jake’s grin softens. He shares a quick look with Bradley, head tilting, and then Bradley’s smirking. They’ve spoken without saying a damn word and she’s able to see it clearly.
Quieter than she thought they’d be.
Bradley looks down at her, grinning brightly. “You talking to us or the casserole, Tash?”
“The food, obviously,” she insists, twisting Bradley’s nipple though his shirt. He yelps and Jake laughs, the sound quickly turning into an equally high-pitched yelp when she pinches his side. “Outta my way, boys.”