If Only (GxG)

Chapter 18 Chosen Family

A/N
🎶 Love Me Do by The Beatles 🎶

『 °*• ❀ •*°』
Alison's POV

The apartment was absolute chaos—but the good kind. The kind that buzzed with warmth, like the hum of a busy café or the loud, overlapping voices of a packed pub on a Friday night.

"Who let Ron be in charge of the garlic bread?" Olivia groaned, arms crossed as she leaned against the counter, watching the scene unfold like a mother who already knew her child was about to fail.

"I am fully capable of handling bread, thank you," Ron shot back, standing on his toes to check the oven.

He was small and broad, built like a terrier, all scrappy energy and dramatic flair. The sheer determination in his stance made him look like a knight about to slay a dragon—except in this case, the dragon was slightly overdone garlic bread.

"That's debatable," George quipped from the couch, where he was sprawled out like he was posing for a Renaissance painting. His long red hair was still damp from his post-workout shower, curling slightly at the ends as he stretched his legs onto the coffee table like he owned the place. He probably thought he did, considering he'd lived here longer than any of us.

Next to him, Emily—his girlfriend of six months—was scrolling on her phone, clearly listening to everything despite not looking up. She was the opposite of Olivia in nearly every way, with blonde hair, pale skin, and blue eyes, but she had the same sharp, perceptive energy. It was no surprise they were cousins.

"Your opinion doesn't count, Pickle Boy," Ron shot back, grabbing the oven mitts.

Emily snorted, still not looking up. "He's got a point, babe. You do have a problem."

George sat up dramatically, placing a hand on his heart. "Pickles are a way of life, thank you very much."

"Pickles are disgusting," Olivia said with such conviction it could have been a legal ruling.

"That is a heinous opinion, and you should be ashamed," George fired back.

Ivy, sitting on a stool by the counter, tilted her head. "Wait, are we talking about actual pickles, or is 'Pickle Boy' some kind of weird nickname I should be concerned about?"

That did it.

Olivia burst into laughter. Ron doubled over, cackling. Even I had to cover my mouth to keep from choking on my drink.

George looked scandalized. "Ivy. Ivy."

She grinned, her blue eyes twinkling despite her blindness. "What? I'm just saying, I wouldn't put it past you to have some bizarre secret identity."

"Oh, you mean like Ron, a.k.a. 'The Bread Menace'?" Emily finally put her phone down to survey the oven situation.

Ron gasped, clutching his chest. "Excuse you! This bread is perfection." He pulled it out with a flourish—only for everyone to collectively groan when they saw the edges. Just a little too brown.

"I told you not to trust him," Olivia sighed, grabbing a plate to transfer the salvageable pieces.

"At least it's not raw," Ron argued.

"That's not the flex you think it is," I muttered, and Ivy elbowed me lightly, grinning.

George, ignoring the culinary disaster, sat up and stretched. "Alright, I've got some questions, because you've been dodging us all week, Al. First, how's Ross? He still drowning under his dissertation, or has he finally accepted his fate?"