Odin claps his hands together. "Excellent! They're going to love you. Just don’t ask my dad about his veneers.” Odin winces, and Gunnar laughs into his beer.
Tucker and Gunnar finally stand up, gathering empty bottles and takeout containers. "We'll get out of your hair," Tucker says. "But we'll see you Sunday."
After a flurry of goodbyes, brotherly insults, and one last check of Tucker's temporary crown, the three brothers finally leave, and I'm alone with Alder and Gordie.
"Sorry about that," he says, running a hand through his damp hair. "I didn't expect them all to be here still."
"It's okay. They seem... nice."
"They're nosy idiots," he says, but his tone is affectionate. "Let me show you around."
The tour is brief but illuminating. The townhouse is massive by my standards—three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a chef's kitchen, and that stunning view. The guest room is larger than my entire first apartment, featuring a king-sized bed.
"This is where you'll sleep," Alder says, setting my suitcase down. "Clean towels in the bathroom, extra blankets in the closet. Wi-Fi password is on the nightstand."
"It's perfect," I say, overwhelmed by the boundless kindness of this near stranger. "Thank you, Alder. Really."
He shrugs, looking embarrassed. "It's nothing. Come on, I'll show you the kitchen."
I follow him back to the main living area, where Gordie has settled on a plush dog bed by the sliding door to the patio. Alder opens the fridge, which is surprisingly well-stocked for a bachelor pad.
"Help yourself to anything," he says. "I usually meal prep on Sundays, but since the season's over, I'm a bit more... flexible."
"I can contribute to groceries," I offer immediately. "And cook sometimes. I'm not great, but I can follow a recipe."
"We'll figure all that out later," he says, waving dismissively. Then, with a slight flush to his cheeks, he points to a wicker basket on top of the fridge. "That's, uh, the safe and satisfied basket."
"The what?"
His blush deepens. "Family thing. Mom insists all of us kids have one. It's just, you know, protection. Condoms, lube, dental dams. STI testing kits. Whatever you might... need."
I stare at him, heat rising in my cheeks. "Oh."
"Not that you'd—I mean, it's not an expectation or anything. Just, it's there if you... if anyone..." He clears his throat. "Anyway, it's there."
I glance at the basket, then back at Alder, who looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole. "I doubt I'd needanything in there after we do the tests,” I say with a self-deprecating laugh. "Not exactly fighting them off, you know? Especially looking like this."
Alder's embarrassment vanishes, replaced by a frown. "Looking like what?"
I gesture vaguely at myself. "You know. Plus-sized. Not exactly the type guys are lining up to?—"
"No." He cuts me off sharply. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Put yourself down." His blue eyes are suddenly intense. "There's not a damn thing wrong with how you look."
I blink, startled by his vehemence. "I—it's just a fact, Alder. I'm not society's ideal?—"
"Society can go fuck itself," he says firmly. "Brad is an idiot who doesn't deserve you, and his opinions about your body are garbage. Got it?"
Something shifts in my chest—a warm, strange feeling I can't quite name. Alder looks at me as if he genuinely means what he's saying, which makes no sense. He's a professional athlete who could date models and celebrities. Why would he care about my self-image?
"Got it," I say quietly.
He nods once, seemingly satisfied. "Good. Now, are you hungry? I can order something."
As if on cue, my stomach growls loudly, breaking the tension as we both laugh.
