Three Doors Away

17. Panna Cotta

“Panna cotta…?”

The sudden, jarring pivot in the room’s gravity was absolute.

As the quiet, trembling words slipped past her lips, the heavy, suffocating aura of the three men instantly fractured, replaced by a sharp, breathless stillness. The towering wall of possessive fury that had defined the past ten minutes evaporated, leaving behind a sudden, heavy ache that hung thick in the air.

At twelve years old, sitting across a sprawling mahogany table laden with silver and crystal, panna cotta had been her sanctuary. It was the sweet, infallible reward that followed the chaos of the adults, the safe harbor where her bright, uninhibited laughter could ring out without a care in the world. Whenever the world felt too loud, whenever the invisible pressures of the four families pressed in too close, she had retreated into the simple, uncomplicated joy of that single dessert, anchored safely between the three boys who watched her like hawks.

And now, at twenty-five, standing cornered in a dimly lit apartment after years of calculated exile, the instinct returned with terrifying clarity. It was a reflex carved deep into her muscle memory—seeking the familiar, comforting ritual of her childhood to shield herself from the overwhelming storm of their return.

Ezren’s breath hitched, the analytical machinery of his brain grinding to a sudden, violent halt. The sharp, demanding edge vanished from his posture, his dark eyes darkening with a sudden, overwhelming wave of realization as he looked at her—really looked at her—and saw the frightened, exhausted twelve-year-old girl still hiding beneath the polished facade of the woman she had fought to become.

Rodyn’s throat tightened painfully, a soft, broken sound catching in his chest. The manic, feverish intensity in his hazel eyes dissolved into a profound, aching tenderness. Without a word, the defensive tension bled out of his frame, his long fingers gently sliding down her arm to wrap around her hand, his thumb tracing her knuckles with a desperate, soothing gentleness.

"Panna cotta..." Rodyn whispered, the rich, honeyed cadence of his voice cracking slightly, soaked in a heavy, suffocating fondness. He leaned in just enough to rest his forehead softly against her temple, entirely surrendering to the weapon she didn't even know she was wielding. "God, little bird... you're still doing it. You're still trying to run back to that table."

Flynn didn't move away, but the iron grip on her shoulders instantly melted into something infinitely softer, though no less inescapable. His broad chest heaved slowly as he stared down at her, the dark, brooding menace in his eyes washing away into a raw, absolute devotion. He knew exactly what she was doing. She was offering up her oldest, most vulnerable defense mechanism—a quiet plea for the safety she had known before the world broke her.

Without breaking eye contact, Flynn reached out with his free hand, his large, calloused fingers gently cupping the side of her face, his thumb softly brushing away the ghost of a tear she hadn't even realized she'd shed.

"Alright," Flynn murmured, his deep, gravelly voice losing all its rough edges, turning into a low, rumbling promise that wrapped around her like warm wool. He pulled her flush against his chest at last, letting her hide against the solid, unyielding wall of his black turtleneck. "We'll get the panna cotta. All you want. But you're eating it right here, with us. No more running, Maddie. You're home."

As she nodded and sits down on the couch, a soft smile touched her lips, as she finally let everything out, a relief sigh escapes her.

“Y’all eat too?…does 28 years old man eats panna cotta?”

Ezren let out a low, breathy chuckle—a rare, unguarded sound that carried the weight of a decade's worth of tightly wound tension finally snapping. He dropped down onto the sofa beside her, his long legs stretching out as he casually tossed his suit jacket over the armrest, his analytical edge completely dissolved into a quiet, victorious warmth.

"Twenty-eight-year-old men who happen to have spent the last nine years cataloging every single variable of your existence will eat whatever is required to keep you from running back to a teahouse across the city, Maddie," Ezren murmured, his dark eyes softening behind his lenses as he leaned in close enough for his shoulder to press firmly against hers. "Though I should update my statistical models. Apparently, childhood comfort foods remain an entirely undefeated psychological anchor."

Rodyn followed them down immediately, sliding onto the other side of the sofa and crowding her space with effortless, honeyed warmth. He tossed one arm casually over the back of the couch, his fingers lightly grazing the dark silk of her hair as he offered a soft, dazzling smile.

"Twenty-eight and holding strong, little bird," Rodyn teased, his voice rich and velvet-smooth, though the raw, aching fondness in his hazel eyes betrayed how deeply her small surrender had affected him. "And if you think we're going to sit here and watch you eat dessert all by your lonesome while you judge our refined, adult palates, you've severely underestimated our dedication. We'll eat a mountain of panna cotta if it keeps that smile on your face."

Flynn didn't sit immediately. Instead, he dropped heavily onto the armchair directly across from the couch, his massive frame completely dominating the space, but his fierce, brooding exterior had completely melted away. He let out a deep, rumbling sigh, his dark eyes never leaving her face as a faint, rugged smirk touched the corner of his mouth.

"Twenty-eight-year-old men will eat whatever you put in front of them, as long as you're the one serving it," Flynn rumbled, his voice a low, steady anchor in the quiet room. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees as he anchored her in his line of sight. "Give me the phone, Maddie. I'm ordering it right now. Vanilla bean, caramel, whatever obsession you've cultivated over the last nine years. Just name it."