But for now, for tonight, I let myself just be. Let myself be held. Let myself feel safe. Let myself enjoy the comfort of an Alpha who doesn't cuddle cuddling me like I'm something precious.
I fall asleep properly this time, knowing in the morning I'm going to have to confront all of this. Knowing reality is waiting. But for now, wrapped in cedar smoke and dark chocolate and safety, I can rest.
CHAPTER 18
Mistletoe & Medicine
~REVERIE~
"You're all clear."
Those three words make my entire body sag with relief so powerful I actually feel dizzy with it.
All clear. No brain damage. No internal bleeding. No catastrophic injury that's going to ruin my life more than it's already semi-ruined by poverty and bad decisions and terrible ex-packs.
I was so worried.
Spent the entire car ride here catastrophizing about worst-case scenarios. What if I had bleeding on the brain? What if I needed surgery I couldn't afford? What if there was permanent damage and I couldn't work and lost my apartment and ended up homeless?
But I'm okay. I'm actually okay.
The universe decided to cut me a break for once.
Dr. Eloise Chen smiles at me from behind her desk, her warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that makes you immediately trust someone. She's in her forties, Omega basedon her lavender-honey scent that's subtle and professional, with black hair pulled back in a neat bun that doesn't have a single strand out of place. Her white coat is crisp and clean, somehow managing to look both authoritative and approachable at the same time—like she could discuss serious medical issues or your favorite TV show with equal ease.
Her office is surprisingly cozy for a medical space. Soft lighting from desk lamps instead of harsh overhead fluorescents that make everyone look half-dead. Comfortable cushioned chairs instead of those awful plastic ones that make your butt go numb after five minutes. The walls are painted a warm cream color instead of institutional white, with framed degrees and certifications arranged tastefully between watercolor paintings of flowers.
There are Christmas decorations tastefully arranged on the shelves between medical textbooks with intimidating titles and anatomical models that look vaguely creepy. A string of colored lights frames one bookshelf. Small ornaments dangle from a decorative tree branch in a vase. There's even a small potted Christmas tree in the corner—maybe two feet tall—with twinkling white lights and tiny silver ornaments.
It makes the space feel less clinical. Less scary. Like you're visiting a friend who happens to have a medical degree instead of going to the doctor which is always stressful even when nothing is wrong.
"Just continue to take the prescribed medicine for the migraines," she continues, writing something on a prescription pad. "Anti-inflammatories twice daily with food. And if you notice any changes in your personality, mood swings, confusion, sensitivity to light or sound—anything out of the ordinary—I want you to come back immediately. Head injuries can be tricky."
"Thank you," I say, grabbing my purse from the chair beside me. Relief is flooding through me so strongly I feel light-headed. "Thank you so much."
She hands me a small paper bag with the medication inside. "You're very welcome. You were lucky—the bump is significant but no concussion symptoms beyond the headache. Your vitals are strong. Just take it easy for a few days."
Take it easy. Right. I'll just tell my landlord that I need a few days off from worrying about the flooded apartment. I'll tell my bank account that bills can wait. I'll tell my boss that I can't work shifts this week because I need to rest. Sure. Easy.
But I don't say any of that. Just smile and nod like a normal person who doesn't have constant financial anxiety.
Dr. Chen leans back in her chair, studying me with a look that's too knowing for comfort. "I didn't know you had a pack, Reverie. You never mentioned it in your previous visits."
Previous visits. Right. I've been here before—for my yearly checkup, for prescriptions, for that time I had the flu and couldn't afford urgent care. But I've always been alone. Always just me filling out forms with 'no pack' checked in the appropriate box.
"Oh, um. It's... new?" I offer weakly, feeling heat creep up my neck.
Her smile turns knowing—maybe even a little amused. "They seem very protective of you." She gestures toward the window that looks out into the waiting room.
I slowly glance that direction through the window that looks out into the waiting room and immediately want to laugh at what I see.
The three of them are sitting in the waiting room like gargoyles guarding a medieval cathedral from invaders. Like they're personally responsible for the safety of every person in this building and taking that job very, very seriously.
Theo is leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his olive eyes tracking every person who walks past with military precision. He looks like he's ready to fight anyone who comes too close to Dr. Chen's office door. His posture screams 'trained killer on high alert' and I'm pretty sure he's made three separate people change their walking paths to avoid him.
Nash is sprawled in his chair with deceptive casualness—one ankle crossed over his knee, arms folded across his chest—but his eyes are locked on the hallway like he's tracking every movement with laser focus. He's doing that thing where he looks relaxed but is actually coiled to spring into action. I've seen guard dogs with less intense protective energy.
Grayson is trying to look casual and failing spectacularly. He's sitting in the corner with a magazine—one of those generic waiting room magazines about gardening or home improvement—but he's holding it upside down and hasn't turned a page in the five minutes I've been watching. His knee is bouncing with nervous energy and he keeps glancing at Dr. Chen's door like he's seriously considering just barging in to check on me.
