Julian then left the three of us alone in the kitchen. As Julian disappeared up the stairs with the tray, I began cleaning up the remaining baking supplies, my hands finding comfort in the familiar ritual.
"We need to be more careful," Nicolaus said, his voice low and measured. "There are likely countless triggers we don't know about yet."
Miles leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. "How do we prepare for things we can't anticipate? Every normal interaction could be laced with trauma for her."
"We can't anticipate everything," I admitted, putting the flour container back in its place. "But we can create an environment where mistakes aren't catastrophic. Where she feels safe enough to tell us when something triggers her."
"And we document what we learn," Nicolaus added, his analytical mind already cataloging the morning's events. "Each trigger we identify helps us understand what she's been through and how to help her heal."
I nodded, grateful for Nicolaus's methodical approach. "Should we tell her about our documentation? Or would that make her feel like she's being studied?"
"Transparency is essential," Nicolaus replied without hesitation. "If she discovers we're keeping notes without her knowledge, it could destroy the trust we're building. But if we explain that understanding her experiences helps us avoid causing her pain..."
"It shows we're invested in her comfort," Miles finished, his expression brightening slightly. "That we care enough to remember what hurts her."
I wiped down the counter again, my thoughts racing. Today didn’t go how I’d planned. I sincerely hope this won’t deter her from trying to bake again.
Chapter Twenty
Lilianna
I'm not sure how long I stayed on the floor with the door at my back, crying until my throat was raw and my chest ached. The exhaustion from the panic attack had settled into my bones, making everything feel heavy and distant. When the tears finally stopped, I remained curled against the door, staring at nothing.
A soft knock made me jolt, my heart racing again.
"Lilianna?" Julian's voice was muffled through the wood, gentle and patient. "I'm leaving some things outside your door, just some tea and a few other items. No pressure to take them—but they'll be there when you're ready."
I heard his footsteps retreat down the hallway, and after several minutes of silence, I slowly opened the door. A tray sat on the floor with a steaming mug of tea, some pastries, a soft blanket, and a slim book of poetry. Tucked beneath the mug wasan envelope, I picked it up and inside was a handwritten note in Julian's careful script.
I read over the words, they were simple words, but the note was reassuring me.My eyes blurring with fresh tears, not tears of panic this time, but something else—a mixture of gratitude and disbelief that such kindness could exist without conditions attached.
I gathered the tray carefully, bringing it inside and settling on my bed with the soft blanket wrapped around my shoulders. The tea was warmed perfectly, fragrant with chamomile and something that might have been honey. Each sip seemed to ease the tightness in my chest, the warmth spreading through me like a gentle wave. I picked up the book of poetry, running my fingers over its worn cover. It was clearly beloved—the spine creased from frequent opening, a few pages marked with thin ribbons. I opened to one of the marked poems, finding a gentle verse about healing and second chances.
I wondered if Julian had chosen this specific book for me, if these marked pages held meanings he thought might resonate. The care in the gesture made my throat tighten again.
How strange it was to be comforted after a breakdown instead of criticized. In my parents' home, displaying emotional weakness was unacceptable—a failure of proper Omega decorum. If I'd had a panic attack there, my mother would have been mortified, concerned only with how my "hysterics" reflected on her parenting.
But these men... they had responded with nothing but kindness. I closed my eyes trying to push back the voice of my mother and how she taught me. I still feel like I messed up, today was only the second day I was here and I was already starting up trouble.
I took another sip of tea, letting the warmth soothe my raw throat. Part of me wanted to hide in this room forever, avoidingthe inevitable awkwardness when I faced them again. What would they think of me now? Would they see me as damaged, unstable, too much work?
A soft knock interrupted my spiraling thoughts.
"Lilianna?" It was Christopher's voice this time, hesitant and gentle. "May I speak with you for a moment? It's completely fine if you'd prefer to be alone."
I froze, clutching the blanket tighter around my shoulders. The instinct to pretend I wasn't here, to avoid a confrontation, was overwhelming. I didn’t want to see them right now, not when I’m sure they decided that I’m too much work and have changed their minds. I gave a small whimper trying to make the voices from my insecurities shut up.
Another soft knock followed. "Lilianna, I just want to make sure you're okay. You don't have to open the door."
I drew a shaky breath, warring with myself. The tea had calmed me somewhat, and Christopher's voice carried nothing but concern. Still, the thought of facing him after my breakdown made my stomach clench.
"I'm... I'm okay," I managed, my voice sounding small even to my own ears.
"May I come in?" he asked. "I brought something for you, but I can leave it at the door if you prefer."
I bit my lip, “Can you leave it at the door please.”
There was a brief pause, then Christopher's gentle voice replied, "Of course. I'll leave it right here. It's just a little note and something I thought might help."
