Ivan – POV
The kitchen is small, homey, and smells like garlic, citrus, and grilled fish. There's an old ceiling fan overhead creaking slightly with the rhythm of the evening breeze. The windows are cracked open, letting in that distinct island air—salt, earth, and something sweet I can't name.
I'm not the best cook, but I know my way around the basics, and Jeremy is endlessly patient, never rushing or correcting too harshly.
His presence is just… calming.
Like a gentle tide lapping at your feet.
We move around each other in easy rhythm, chopping vegetables, seasoning the fish, plating with care. The kind of ease I rarely get to experience in my life.
As I carry the grilled fish to the dining table—a small round one, half-covered by a slightly faded checkered cloth—I catch sight of something tucked between two worn recipe books on a nearby shelf.
A photo frame.
Drawn by curiosity, I set the dish down and move closer. The frame is chipped, clearly old, and the photo inside it just slightly sun-bleached from years of sunlight.
But even with the faded edges, I can tell what it is instantly.
A family portrait.
Zander as a baby—maybe two or three years old, perched on the knee of a man I instantly recognize as his father. Tall, broad, dark-haired, with a striking, intense gaze and sharp cheekbones. The same brooding expression Zander wears when he's thinking too hard or trying to pretend he doesn't care about something.
It's uncanny.
The resemblance is so strong that it steals my breath.
His alpha father holds the child carefully, one arm around him with subtle protectiveness, while Zander clutches a tiny plush animal, eyes wide but unreadable even at that age.
Next to them is Jeremy, radiant and smiling, with a hand gently resting on both of them. He looks so soft, so proud, and so full of love.
It looks like a picture-perfect family.
My fingers brush the edge of the frame, careful not to smudge the glass.
Then, a voice from behind me startles me from my thoughts.
"My dad's genes didn't even try, did they?"
I jolt slightly, my hand flying back to my side as I spin around, eyes wide.
Zander stands there, holding a bowl of grilled vegetables, his expression unreadable but laced with amusement. The corner of his mouth twitches upward at the sight of my flushed cheeks.
Caught.
"I—I wasn't trying to pry—" I start, fumbling, clearly guilty.
But he just walks past me and places the bowl on the table, waving off my embarrassment.
"It's okay. I don't mind you looking."
He glances at the photo. "I always thought I looked like a clone of him too."
I join him at the table, still feeling warm in the face, but grateful he doesn't press.
Dinner is quiet after that. But not in a heavy or uncomfortable way.
It's the kind of quiet that comes from peace, from being known.
***
Jeremy – POV
I chew slowly on a mouthful of seasoned vegetables, watching the two young men across from me with quiet curiosity and a fondness that creeps up unexpectedly.
Ivan is beautiful—striking, really. The kind of beauty you see on billboards in cities I'll never visit, the kind that turns heads and sparks whispers. He's the kind of omega whose face belongs on magazine covers, wrapped in silk and shadow, surrounded by bright lights.
So when he introduced himself as a model, I wasn't surprised.
Not at all.
I was more surprised by the fact that Zander brought him home.
Not just to the island.
But here.
To me.
And as I sit across the table, eating a modest dinner in our small kitchen—watching Zander chew through grilled fish with a streak of sauce on the side of his mouth—I feel a strange ache settle in my chest.
I reach for a napkin without thinking, years of instinct pulling me toward that familiar motion. But before I can wipe the sauce from my son's face, Ivan beats me to it, his fingers moving gently to dab at Zander's lip.
Zander startles slightly, then goes still. And then—blushes.
Actually blushes.
It's not dramatic, but I know my son's face. That faint dusting of red across his cheekbones, the subtle way he keeps chewing without meeting Ivan's eyes, pretending to be casual.
He's flustered.
I choke on a laugh. It escapes my chest before I can catch it.
Both heads snap toward me, eyes wide and blinking.
"I'm sorry," I say quickly, coughing into my fist. "Food went down the wrong pipe."
Ivan is the first to react, reaching across the table and pouring me a glass of water with practiced care. Zander watches intently, the crease between his brows deepening in concern.
I feel a little bad, lying. But what else can I say?
"Sorry, I was laughing because my emotionally constipated son blushed like a schoolboy after his boyfriend wiped his mouth"?
I sip the water, the moment of panic passing, and offer them both a reassuring smile.
"Much better. Thank you."
And it's in that small pause, in the silence between conversation, that it hits me.
He loves him.
Maybe it's not all the way there yet. Maybe he hasn't said the words out loud.
But it's close.
Closer than I ever imagined possible for a boy who spent most of his life building walls around his heart.
I feel something inside me ease—something that's been tense for too many years. A father's fear that his son might go through life untouched, unseen, unloved in the way that matters most.
But now…
Even if I'm gone someday, I won't have to worry about him. Not anymore.
I smile to myself, small and content, letting the warmth bloom quietly inside my chest.
And, well, maybe a little mischief too.
"That's a suspicious smile you have, Dad," Zander says suddenly, eyes narrowing with practiced suspicion. Damn. So quick. Just like his father.
"Oh? Was I smiling?" I ask innocently.
He doesn't buy it.
No one at this table buys it.
I let the smile grow a little wider, just to tease.
"I was just thinking about how I might not have to wait long for grandchildren, is all."
Ivan chokes so violently on his water that I half stand in alarm, but Zander is faster—rushing to pat his back, murmuring hurried reassurances in that rare, soft voice he saves for the people he loves.
"Dad!" he groans, glaring at me with pink cheeks and an expression that's far more embarrassed than angry.
I hide my smirk behind my napkin.