“Let them,” Connor grins. “They can cry about it early.”
Beau brushes past them, fingers briefly catching the back of my jacket, grounding me with a touch so casual no one else notices. He’s calmer now than he was an hour ago, the sharp edge ofgame-day adrenaline worn down into something warmer and deeper. Still buzzing—but settled. Like he’s finally let himself land.
The house fills with noise and movement quickly. Someone puts music on—too loud at first, then adjusted down when Theo winces. Jackets are shed, and boots kicked aside. Beers appear, then soda for Theo, then a mug of tea for me that Beau presses into my hands without comment.
I watch them from the edge of the kitchen for a moment, heart full in a way that feels almost surreal.
Connor sprawls across the couch, recounting the last five minutes of the game like he’s narrating an epic saga. Theo corrects him calmly every time he exaggerates, which is often. Beau listens with half a smile, arms crossed, occasionally interjecting with a quiet, pointed observation that reins Connor back just enough to keep things honest.
They’re glowing. All of them.
At some point, Connor notices me watching and grins.
“Hey. You’re awful quiet for someone who kept us alive tonight.”
“I did not keep you alive,” I protest.
Theo lifts an eyebrow. “You iced my knee in thirty seconds flat and told me I was being dramatic.”
“You were being dramatic.”
“I was injured.”
“You were dramatic about it.”
“She’s brutal,” Connor laughs. “I love her.”
Beau’s hand lands at my lower back then—firm and possessive in the quiet, settled way that doesn’t demand attention. Our bond hums warmly in my chest, answering his touch before I even think about it.
Later, the night softens. The music gets lower, the buzz of celebration giving way to something lazier, more intimate. Plates of half-eaten food litter the coffee table, and the house smells like victory and sex and alpha.
Theo stretches out carefully, ice pack resting on his knee—courtesy of Connor, who handed it over without being asked. Beau tosses a throw blanket over all of us, second nature to him now, since this isn’t the first time we’ve collapsed in a heap of sore muscles and tangled limbs and bitten-back moans.
We end up upstairs not long after.
Beau’s bed—which is thankfully massive—is warm with the leftover scent of the night: sweat and slick and the unmistakable imprint of everything they did to me after the win. Of how they stripped me bare and took their time celebrating. Of how Connor made me beg with my mouth full, how Theo didn’t care about his leg when he had me riding him slow, and how Beau didn’t stop until I was wrung out and trembling, again and again and again.
Now, in the hush that follows it all, I find myself nestled between them. Connor’s sprawled on one side, arm slung over my waist, lazy and smug. Theo lies on the other, careful with his leg, but his fingers trace gentle patterns on the back of my hand, still touching me in his own way.
And Beau’s behind me, skin-to-skin, breath warm against my neck, his steady presence grounding everything.
“You okay?” he murmurs near my ear.
I nod, smiling into the pillow. “More than okay.”
It’s strange, how quickly this has become normal. Not routine, exactly, butright. The way they check in without hovering, the way no one feels left out or forgotten, even after a night like that.
The way they each made space for the others to touch me, to claim me, and still made me feel singular—wanted.
I think about how different this feels from anything I’ve known before.
“I like this,” Connor says suddenly, voice softer than usual. “Us. Like this.”
Fuck.So do I.
Theo hums in agreement.
“Feels balanced.”
