She's quiet for a moment, processing.
Then she looks at each of us in turn with those expressive eyes that show every emotion she's feeling.
"What did you normally do for Christmas?" she asks. "Before me. Before this contract thing. What would you three do?"
Nothing. We do nothing. Work. Watch TV. Avoid the whole holiday spectacle happening around us. But admitting that out loud feels pathetic somehow.
But Reverie is looking at us expectantly, waiting for an answer.
And something about her openness makes me want to be honest.
"Nothing," I admit. "We work. Order takeout. Maybe watch a movie if we're feeling festive."
She looks genuinely horrified. Like we just told her we kick puppies for fun.
"That's...that's tragic," she says. Then her expression brightens with that bubbly energy she has. "Okay, well. New plan. You're getting the full Christmas experience this year whether you like it or not."
Oh no. I recognize that look. That's the look of someone who's about to make our lives interesting. Possibly chaotic. Definitely overwhelming.
"What do you normally do?" Grayson asks, genuine curiosity in his voice. "For Christmas, I mean."
Her entire face lights up. It's like watching the sun come out from behind clouds.
"Oh, plenty of things!" She's animated now, hands gesturing as she talks. Her whole demeanor changes when she discusses things she loves. "Baking—like, so much baking. Cookies and cakes and pies and hot chocolate from scratch with real cocoa powder, not that powdered mix stuff. Shopping for gifts, though I don't really shop much because I have no money, but buying cards for a dollar is nice. The cheap ones from the dollar store work just as well as the fancy ten-dollar ones from Hallmark."
The casual way she mentions having no money makes my chest tight.
Like it's just a fact of life she's accepted without bitterness or resentment. Not something that should bother her or us. Just reality. But it does bother me. Because she shouldn't have to worry about whether she can afford Christmas cards.
"I love to cook during the holiday season," she continues, eyes bright with enthusiasm. "Make everything from scratch using my grandma's recipes. She wrote them all down in this old recipe book—the pages are stained and falling out but it's my most treasured possession. Traditional stuff like sugar cookies and gingerbread, but also experimental things. Peppermint bark with dark chocolate and crushed candy canes. Gingerbread houses that actually stay standing because I figured out the right royal icing recipe. Hot cider with real cinnamon sticks and fresh orange slices that you simmer for hours until the whole house smells amazing."
The way she talks about it—with such genuine love and excitement—makes me want to taste everything she makes. Experience Christmas through her eyes. See what we've been missing all these years.
"Did your pack eat what you made?" Theo asks.
Her expression falters.
Just slightly. Enough that we all catch it.
"No," she says, trying to keep her tone light. "They never ate them. Just gave them away to neighbors or coworkers or whoever. None of them liked sweets, apparently."
None of them liked sweets. What kind of pack doesn't eat their Omega's baking? That's... wrong on multiple levels.
"They didn't even try them?" Grayson asks, his voice careful.
"Nope." She pokes at her remaining pancakes with her fork. "They ordered from this really expensive bakery in the city instead. You know those commercial companies that make billions putting a hundred grams of sugar in each cookie instead of supporting local small businesses?"
So they wouldn't eat what their Omega made with love and care, but they'd pay premium prices for mass-produced garbage.
Every new detail about her ex-pack makes me angrier.
She's quiet for a moment.
Then…
"I haven't really celebrated properly in years. My pack was never the celebratory type unless it meant getting laid or showing off at parties."
Getting laid. The way she says it—casual, matter-of-fact—sends up red flags in my lawyer brain.
