“Five minutes.”
“This is omega abuse.”
“You’re not an omega.”
“This is alpha abuse, then.”
I’m sitting at the kitchen table, wrapped in Elijah’s flannel, watching them bicker. Elijah sits beside me, quiet and watchful, his hand finding mine whenever I’m close enough to touch. Through the bond, his satisfaction hums steady and warm.
He built this table too, I realize. The chairs. The kitchen cabinets. This entire house, piece by piece, for a pack he wasn’t sure he’d ever have.
Now he has one.
“So,” Ben says, sliding into the seat across from me with a plate piled high with food. “Living arrangements.”
“What about them?”
“You’ve got your apartment. I’ve got the cabin. Milo’s above the bar.” He gestures around us. “Elijah’s got this place. Four separate residences seems inefficient for a pack.”
“Here,” Elijah says.
We all look at him.
“This house.” His cheeks flush, but he holds my gaze. “It’s built bigger than I needed. Four bedrooms. Room for all of us.”
Through the bond, I feel his vulnerability. How much he wants us to say yes. How afraid he is that we’ll say no.
“I want that,” I tell him. “Living here. With all of you.”
Ben and Milo exchange a look.
“The cabin’s fine,” Ben says, “but it was always just a place to sleep. This could be a home.”
“And I could use the commute time to actually see my packmates,” Milo adds. “Instead of just smelling them on my sheets.”
“Then it’s settled.” I reach across the table for Elijah’s hand. “We’ll move in here. Make it ours.”
His fingers tighten around mine. Through the bond, his joy is incandescent. Bright and overwhelming and pure.
“Gonna have to build more closet space,” he says finally. “For Tessa’s color-coded organization systems.”
Ben chokes on his coffee. Milo laughs so hard he nearly drops the pan.
I just smile. “Damn right you will.”
After breakfast,after dishes, which involves Elijah washing, Ben drying, and Milo putting away because he knows where everything goes, we migrate to the living room.
I should call Mayor Bradley. Check the fundraiser numbers. Send follow-up emails and thank-you notes. There are a dozen loose ends that need tying, a hundred details that need managing.
I should do a lot of things.
Instead, I curl up on Elijah’s massive sectional with three alphas arranged around me, and I let myself rest.
Ben pulls my feet into his lap and starts rubbing circles into my arches. Milo plays with my hair, separating strands, weaving them back together. Elijah sits close enough that our shoulders touch, solid and warm.
“I could get used to this,” I murmur.
“Good.” Ben presses his thumb into a knot in my arch, and I groan. “Because we’re not going anywhere.”
