"So," I say, spearing a piece of waffle, "how long have you two been doing this dance?"
"What dance?" they ask in unison, then glare at each other like it's the other's fault they're synchronized.
"The one where you pretend you hate each other while eye-fucking across the table."
Plague makes a sound like he's being strangled. Whiskey just laughs, loud and genuinely delighted.
"I like you," Whiskey says, pointing his fork at me. "You don't pull punches."
"I've been living in maintenance tunnels and slowly turning feral. I don't have the energy for bullshit." I take another bite of waffle, savoring the way the syrup pools in the little squares. "Besides, after last night, I think we're past the point of pretending nothing's happening here."
The reminder of last night shifts something in the air between us. Plague's carefully maintained composure cracks just slightly, his pale eyes darkening as they flick to Whiskey, then to me. Whiskey shifts in his seat, and I catch the way his breathing changes, just for a second.
Yeah. We're definitely past pretending.
"Last night was—" Plague starts.
"If you say 'a simple response to the scent of omega heat' one more time, I'm going to stab you with this fork," I interrupt, holding up said fork for emphasis.
"I was going to say complicated."
"Everything with you is complicated." Whiskey leans back in the booth, one arm stretched along the back of the seat. His fingers are maybe three inches from Plague's shoulder. Plague is trying very hard not to notice. "You can't just say 'that was hot, let's do it again.' No, you gotta analyze it to death first."
"Some of us think before we act."
"Some of us actually act instead of just thinking about it for years."
"Some of us?—"
"Oh my god." I set down my fork with a clatter. "You two are worse than my parents used to be, and they got divorced."
That shuts them up. They both look at me with matching expressions of concern, like I've just revealed some deep trauma. Which, I guess I kind of have, but not in the way they think.
"Relax," I say, waving them off. "It was a good thing. They were miserable together. Kept trying to make it work for my sake, but sometimes things are just broken, you know?"
Neither of them responds, but I see the way they carefully don't look at each other.
"Of course," I continue, cutting another piece of waffle, "their problem was that they never actually talked about what theywanted. Just kept assuming the other person should know. Like telepathy is a thing that exists."
"Subtle," Plague mutters.
"I don't do subtle. That's your thing." I point my fork at him, then at Whiskey. "And you don't do thinking. Maybe you two should switch for a day. Might learn something."
Whiskey snorts. "Can you imagine this guy just doing shit without planning every step first? He'd spontaneously combust."
"Says the alpha who once microwaved a frozen burrito on max settings while it was still in the foil wrapper," Plague shoots back.
"That was one time!"
"The fire department had to come."
"It was barely a fire. More like aggressive sparking."
I'm laughing now, genuinely laughing, and it feels... good. Normal, even. Like I'm just a regular person having breakfast with two idiots who are clearly in love but too stubborn to admit it. Not an omega on the run, hiding from an abusive ex, navigating the insanity of being scent-matched to an entire pack of alpha athletes.
For this moment, in this shitty diner with its flickering lights and questionable hygiene rating, I can pretend everything's simple.
"You two are ridiculous," I say, still grinning.
