Chapter 72: Eat your eggs, McCoy

​Ten minutes later, I walked back into the living room holding a plate of scrambled eggs, heavily buttered toast, and a fresh glass of orange juice.

​I stopped right at the edge of the sofa, looking down at him. Reid was still staring at the wall, but his nostrils flared slightly as the scent of hot food hit his face.

​"Sit up," I ordered flatly, holding the plate out. "And don’t even think about making a dirty joke, or I’m dumping this right on your good leg. And in case you’re wondering which good leg, it’s the one in the middle."

Reid’s head snapped around so fast I heard the leather of the pillow protest.

​For a second, the sheer shock on his face completely wiped away his grumpy, defensive scowl. His smoky grey eyes widened, tracking from the steaming plate of eggs down to my deadpan face, and then—slowly, inevitably—a dark, wicked glint sparked behind his pupils.

The snobbish, perverted prodigy was officially back online.

​A low, rough chuckle tore from his throat, though he winced mid-laugh as the vibration traveled straight down to his throbbing ankle.

​"Wow, Cap," Reid drawled, his voice dropping into that smooth, insufferable register that always made my blood boil.

He carefully dug his elbows into the cushions, gritting his teeth as he pulled his massive upper body up against the backrest of the sofa.

He breathed through his nose for a second, waiting for the sharp spike of pain in his leg to subside, before locking his eyes onto mine. "I didn’t know you thought about that one so highly. Good to know it’s still considered functional in your playbook."

​"Eat your eggs, McCoy," I gritted out, my jaw locking so tight the bone clicked. I stepped forward and ruthlessly dropped the heavy ceramic plate straight onto his lap, not caring if it jarred his position just a little.

​"Ah—careful with the merchandise," he muttered, though he quickly stabilized the plate with one hand, his fingers surprisingly steady despite the exhaustion rolling off him.

​I handed him the glass of orange juice next, making sure my fingers didn’t even scrape against his as he took it.

Once his hands were full, I stepped back, reclaiming my spot on the edge of the opposite armchair and crossing my arms over my chest.

I watched him like a hawk, keeping my face a perfectly flat, untouchable captain’s mask to counteract the heat I could feel creeping up the back of my neck.

​Reid didn’t hesitate. The absolute starvation won out over his pride, and he picked up a piece of the buttered toast, taking a massive bite.

He chewed quickly, his eyes closed for a brief fraction of a second as if the simple taste of real food was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. The territorial, aggressive spikes in his frozen pine scent completely melted away, replaced by a heavy, quiet, and deeply satisfied warmth that filled the space between us.

​My inner Omega gave a stupid, soft flutter at the change, entirely too pleased by the sight of a fed, settling Alpha. I dug my fingernails into my forearms, violently crushing the biological reflex before it could register on my face.

​"Delicious," Reid murmured after swallowing his first few bites of the eggs. He didn’t look up from the plate, using the fork with a sort of lazy, elegant efficiency that practically screamed old money. "You know if I didn’t taste your casserole at your place, I would’ve never known that the rigid, by-the-books Captain knew how to handle anything that didn’t involve a whistle and a clipboard."

​"I know how to survive, McCoy," I said coldly, my voice cutting through the quiet hum of the penthouse. "Something you clearly don’t know how to do without a staff of servants scraping you off the floor."

How does he even live?

​Reid paused, his fork hovering over the plate. He lifted his head, his smoky grey eyes tracking my face through the messy blond strands falling over his forehead. The mocking smirk was gone, replaced by a quiet, unreadable intensity that felt entirely too heavy for the room.

​"I can survive just fine," he said, his voice dropping into a low, serious rumble. He took a slow sip of the orange juice, his eyes never leaving mine. "I just prefer having you around to watch me do it."

"Yeah, real mature," I muttered, rolling my eyes so hard it practically hurt.

​I leaned back into the armchair, deliberately breaking the heavy, suffocating eye contact he was trying to lock me into. If he thought a few smooth lines and an intense stare were going to make me forget that he was a blackmailing, boundary-crossing menace, he had another thing coming.

​Reid let out a soft, low chuckle, completely unbothered by my dismissal. He went right back to attacking the plate, tearing through the rest of the toast and scrambled eggs with the kind of ravenous appetite only a top-tier athlete could manage.

​I sat in silence, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his broad shoulders as he ate. Without his usual snobbish armor or the high-and-mighty posture he held on the ice, he just looked like a recovering winger. A stubborn, perverted winger, but a vital piece of my first line nonetheless.

​When the plate was completely clean, he set it down on the coffee table with a satisfied sigh, leaning his head back against the mountain of pillows. His smoky grey eyes drifted back over to me, the lazy, victorious glint returning to his pupils.

​"So, Captain," he drawled, his voice dropping into that smooth, old-money register. "Are you going to sit there and watch me sleep next, or are you finally satisfied that your line partner isn’t going to wither away on the couch?"

​"I’m satisfied that you won’t starve to death before Tuesday," I said coldly, standing up from the armchair and grabbing my jacket off the backrest. I shoved my arms through the sleeves, keeping my movements stiff and professional. "Jax will be back on Friday to check the swelling. If I hear from Marcus that you’ve been hopping around this apartment trying to play hero, I’ll personally ensure you’re practicing with the third-string lines until your contract expires."

​Reid just smirked, shifting his weight slightly under the blanket. "Threats don’t suit you when you’ve just cooked me breakfast, Evans. It ruins the nurturing Omega aesthetic you’ve got going on."

​My jaw clenched so hard the bone ached. "Keep talking, McCoy. See if I ever bring you anything but a bag of frozen peas next time."