When I gave Kit his beanie, I noticed Thatcher watching a little too closely and offered to make him his own thing. He tried to refuse at first, but nothing is going to stop me when I’ve set my mind to something, and the way he’s watching me as I create this sweater is nothing less than appreciative and warm.
I move the hook through the yarn, the gray pattern morphing as the movie plays in the background. Sam had a few things to take care of tonight, so we’re sitting as a trio, basking in the quiet comfort of each other. Jemma sits in Kit’s lap, getting lazy scratches as he watches the movie with firm attention. It’s become normal for us now, and that fact has left me reeling in the best way possible.
When my heat ended, I could barely believe it. Despite some soreness, everything went perfectly. It made me a bitemotional, knowing that I had these men around to take care of me at my most vulnerable. I finally got to experience it the way every other omega did, and it was worlds better than I could have ever imagined.
No wonder other omegas look at people like me with pity. Not experiencing your first heat with unending love and proper aftercare must be horrifying to them. I wouldn’t want to think about our existence either if I knew I was avoiding that horrible fate.
But now I have it, and I’m not letting it go anywhere.
A few moments later, Sam comes in with bags in his hands. When he walks in, he pauses. “Thatcher,” he says, his face unreadable. “Can you help me for a second?”
“Oh, yes,” he says, his voice unnatural and monotone. He gets up, walking stiffly to Sam, and they both turn and head upstairs. I narrow my eyes at them before looking over at Kit, who is giving them the exact same expression.
“That was suspicious,” I say.
“Fuck, I thought so!” Kit exclaims. “Like, what was that walk Thatcher was doing? Who are they kidding? They can’t keep secrets from us to save their lives.”
I snort. “He looked like a robot.”
“Oh my god,” Kit gasps loudly and grabs my arm. “What if he is a robot?! What if we’ve been watching a movie with a robot and we didn’t even know?”
“I’d guess that the old grumpy Thatcher would be a robot, but do you see how much he’s been smiling today?”
“That’s exactly what the robot wants you to think!” Kit says dramatically.
“You’re right.” I put down my hook and look at him seriously. “Maybe they’re staging a kidnapping right now!”
“Now you’re getting it! We have to be prepared.” He looksat Jemma. “Jem, if they try to take us, you have to bite themreallyhard.”
She just looks up at him, bored and slightly irritated that he stopped giving her scratches.
“Maybe we should defend ourselves,” I tell him, changing the tactic. “I have my crochet hook, what do you have?”
“Besides a lazy cat? Nothing.”
“Shoot. What about this?” I pick up the candle on the coffee table and hand it to him. “I bet that would hurt if you hit someone with it.”
Kit nods. “You’re right. This would definitely pack a punch.” He pretends to hit someone with it, testing out its weight. “Yeah, this will work.”
Our alphas come back then, their scents morphing together as they travel toward us. Even with our suspicion, their scents are heavenly, which lets me know that these are really our mates, despite our paranoia getting the best of us.
“We have something to show you,” Sam announces, but his brow raises a little at the sight of us huddled together. “Are you two okay?”
“We’re fine!” I say a bit too loudly.
Thatcher looks nervous, but is practically skipping in one place as he watches us. “Can you two come upstairs with us?”
We both stand up, but I catch Kit’s eye. “I think we’ve been watching too much sci-fi,” I whisper to him.
He speaks out of the side of his mouth. “I think so, too, but let’s take our weapons just in case.”
We follow the—not—robots up the stairs and to Sam’s room. When we get there, we both gasp at the sight before us.
There are candles lined up on every surface, causing the room to shine even in the darkness. Bright red rose petals dust the floorboards and the covers to the point that there’s no blank space left. And a tiny bucket full of ice, champagne sticking out of the top, waiting for its moment.
“What the hell?” Kit blurts out.
“We, uh—we wanted to give you a formal proposal of sorts,” Thatcher says, his cheeks bright red.
