And then they left. And I was alone in that big house with my father’s sharp words and sharper disapproval, with no brother toshield me and no Charlie to make me laugh. The loneliness had been crushing, a weight I carried for years.
A soft chuckle escapes me as I run my fingers over the carving, the wood smooth with age. I wonder if he ever found it. Wonder if he knew that the little girl who followed him around like a shadow was already half in love with him, her Omega recognizing something in his Alpha even before either of us presented.
Wonder if he’d laugh at twelve-year-old Willa and her foolish heart.
Or if he’d understand that some part of me has been waiting in this room ever since, defending my tower, hoping my knight would come back.
I close the little door and move to the center of the room, sinking down onto the floor in one of those pools of light. The warmth soaks into my skin, and I close my eyes, tilting my face towards the sunlight streaming through the windows.
When my father’s voice got too sharp, when I needed to escape, I’d sit in this exact spot and pretend this was my room. My house. My life.
I remember the last time I came here. The week I presented as Omega. The week everything changed.
I’d cried on Mrs. Holt’s shoulder as she tried her best to comfort me, her Beta warmth doing little to soothe the overwhelming rush of newness at my designation, the sudden sharpness of scents, the terrifying awareness of my own vulnerability in a world that saw Omegas as less than.
I’d piled up blankets and pillows I’d stolen from the linen closet, and I’d curled up in the sunlight, making a nest before I understood the need or what a real Omega nest was. And I dreamed of a life that felt less heavy. Less hard. And far, far away from my father and his machinations when he found out what I’d presented as.
To him, I was a tool, a resource, a weak, emotional asset.
His words still echo sometimes. And the memory of what he had planned for me.
But then little girl Willa had to grow up. I never came back after that day, even though Mrs. Holt had always said I was welcome. But I couldn’t. I quickly realized that fantasy only accomplished one thing—it made a shitty life that much harder to bear. Hope hurt more than resignation.
So instead, I leaned into the wild side of my nature. I became the girl who rode harder, fought dirtier, laughed louder than anyone expected. I chased bulls, climbed fences, and dared anyone to tell me I couldn’t. I wore my ferocity like armor, all bravado and sharp edges, preferring to hide in plain sight rather than in tiny rooms where my vulnerabilities could catch up to me.
It worked for a while.
If I were wild enough, reckless enough, maybe no one would see how desperately I wanted to curl up in a nest and be taken care of. That’s the fucked-up part about being an Omega—we’re genetically wired to need care, to crave it like oxygen, and society punishes us for it. Calls us weak for wanting what our biology demands.
I rub at the old familiar ache in my chest.
Desire and hope are funny things. Neither is easy to deny forever, no matter how hard you try. And sitting here now, in this room full of ghosts and girlhood wishes, I can feel that soft, secret part of me stirring. The part that wants to build a nest. The part that wants to be soft. The part that’s tired of pretending I don’t need anyone.
The part that’s maybe, possibly, ready to stop running.
What would it be like now? To have a real nest? To build it here, in this house, with this pack?
The thought makes a sudden burst of longing bloom in my chest so intense it steals my breath.
I could see it so clearly—soft blankets in shades of blue and cream, pillows scented with pine and bergamot and chocolate, a space that’s entirely mine but also entirely theirs. A place to feel safe. To be soft. To let my guard down completely.
“There you are.”
I jump, my eyes flying open. Charlie’s standing in the doorway, wearing only sweatpants, his hair adorably mussed from sleep. He’s holding two mugs of coffee, steam curling up between us.
“Sorry,” he says, stepping inside. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s okay.” I accept the mug he offers, wrapping my hands around it. The warmth seeps into my palms, and I hope the guilty flush of what I was just thinking about isn’t too bright. “Thank you. How did you know how I take it?”
“Three sugars, splash of cream.” He settles down beside me in the sunlight, close enough that our shoulders touch. “I remember.”
Of course he does. Charlie always remembered the little things.
“What are you doing up here?” he asks eventually.
I consider deflecting, making a joke, but something about this moment—the quiet morning, the sunlight, the way he’s looking at me with genuine curiosity—makes me want to be honest.
“Do you remember…?” I pause. “When we were kids, we’d come up here and play war games or hide and seek. We’d build forts…”
