Alpha's Regret: Mommy, Daddy, We Want to Be Together!
We stood like that for a while, wrapped in quiet, holding onto something neither of us wanted to lose again.
About an hour later in the kitchen, we were barefoot, side by side, making grilled cheese like two awkward teenagers after a first kiss.
Grace had raided my fridge, laughed at my pretentious selection of cheeses, and insisted that if we were doing this, it had to be real.
“None of this imported truffle nonsense,” she said, wiggling a slice of cheddar. “You want to win a woman’s heart? You do it with basic, reliable, artery clogging American cheese.”
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