Page 66 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1

“I will,” Gabe says.

My pulse hammers so loudly in my ears I can’t hear anything else. I suddenly need to not be standing in the hallway eavesdropping like a total creep.

I school my expression, force my steps to stay slow, and make it to the end of the hall before pulling up short in awe.

The sight that greets me makes me pause, bitingback a smile.

Hank is at the stove, shirtless, a spatula in hand as he flips bacon with all the precision of a man trained to dismantle weapons in the dark. Across from him, Gabe leans against the counter, sipping his coffee and watching him with a kind of focus that borders on amusement.

“Tell me again why you don’t let me cook?” Gabe muses, tapping a finger against his mug.

Hank doesn’t glance up. “Because I like living, and you nearly burned the place down last time.”

Gabe snorts. “One grease fire, and you never let it go.”

“Because one grease fire was one too many.”

I shake my head, stepping into the kitchen. “Should I be worried about breakfast?”

They both turn, and something shifts in the room—a tangible change in the air as their attention fixes on me. Gabe grins, lazy and pleased, his gaze skimming over my bare legs beneath his T-shirt. “Morning, sweetheart.”

Hank’s eyes soften at the edges, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Sleep well?”

I nod, watching as he returns to the bacon, flipping it with flair. “Better than I have in months.”

I move toward the coffee pot, but Gabe is already there, reaching for a mug. “I’ve got it.” He pours, adds cream without asking—he already knows how I take it—and passes the cup to me, his fingers brushing mine deliberately.

“Thanks,” I murmur, taking a sip. The warmth spreads through me, settling in my chest alongside something else—a sense of belonging I’m not sure I’ve ever felt.

Hank glances over his shoulder. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” I admit, settling onto a barstool. I watch them move around each other, a choreography built on years of partnership.

Hank nods toward the stove. “I’ve got bacon going, about to make eggs. How do you want yours?”

I hum, tapping a finger against my lips as I pretend to give it serious thought. “Soft scrambled. Not burned.”

Hank lifts a brow but doesn’t respond to my jab. “Of course. Princess eggs.”

I narrow my eyes. “Excuse me?”

“Soft and delicate.” He smirks. “Like you.”

I roll my eyes, but there’s no heat behind it.

As he turns back to the stove, I lean against the counter, casually swiping a crispy strip of bacon from the plate beside him.

A sharp smack lands against my ass.

I gasp, more from surprise than anything else, spinning to glare at him.

“No stealing,” Hank says smoothly, flipping an egg like nothing happened, but his gaze flicks to mine, dark and assessing, waiting to see how I react.

Heat licks up my spine. A delicious, shivery thrill spreads through me.

I take my sweet time biting into the bacon, chewing slowly, deliberately, letting my lips curve into a wicked little smirk.

“What’s the punishment for repeat offenders?” I muse, licking a bit of grease from my thumb.

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