"Heis," they say in unison, then glare at each other again.
"See? You're already finishing each other's sentences. Next thing you know, you'll be wearing matching sweaters."
"I would literally rather die," Plague says with feeling.
"Same," Whiskey agrees, then pauses. "Wait, are we agreeing on something?"
"Don't get used to it."
But there's less venom in Plague's voice now, and when Whiskey steals a piece of bacon from his plate, Plague just sighs instead of fending him off with his fork. Progress.
The bell above the door chimes as a new customer enters, and I instinctively tense. It's just habit now, that constant awareness of who's around me, who might be a threat. But it's just an old man in paint-stained coveralls, probably heading to an early job.
Whiskey notices my reaction though. His entire demeanor shifts, going from playful to protective in about half a second. "You okay?"
"Fine. Just... jumpy."
"Understandable," Plague says, and there's a gentleness in his voice that makes my chest warm. "You've been in survival mode for months. That's not something that just switches off."
He's right, of course. Even sitting here, relatively safe, surrounded by two alphas who've sworn to protect me, I can't fully relax. Part of me is always waiting for Wade to walk through that door. For everything to come crashing down.
"Hey." Whiskey's voice pulls me back. "You're safe. We've got you."
"I know." And I do know. These two might bicker like an old married couple, but they'd both throw themselves between meand danger without hesitation. I don't know them yet, but I can tell. "It's just... weird. Being out in the open like this."
"We can leave if you want," Plague offers immediately.
"No, I'm good. I like it here." I gesture around the diner with its cracked vinyl seats and ancient coffee machine that probably hasn't been cleaned since the Clinton administration. "It's normal. I've missed normal."
"This is your definition of normal?" Plague looks around with barely concealed horror. "The health code violations alone?—"
"Not everyone needs five-star restaurants to be happy," Whiskey interrupts. "Some of us appreciate the simple things. Like waffles that don't cost thirty dollars."
"Quality has a price."
"So does pretension."
"I'm not pretentious."
"You alphabetize your spice rack."
"That's organization, not pretension."
"You have seven types of salt."
"They have different uses!"
I let them bicker, content to work on my breakfast and watch them. There's something almost soothing about their dynamic now that I'm getting used to it. The way Plague's pale blue eyes light up when he's arguing, how Whiskey leans in when he's making a point. They're completely focused on each other, and neither of them seems to realize it.
Or maybe theydorealize it, and that's the problem.
I decide to take pity on them. "So, what's the plan for today? We can't stay at the hotel forever."
The subject change works. They both look relieved to have something else to focus on.
"We should check in with Thane," Plague says, already pulling out his phone. "See how things are with Valek."
"Fuck that guy," Whiskey mutters. "Creepy bastard, prowling around our house like he owns it."
