Tank laughs—a genuine, full laugh that transforms his usually stern face.
"Yeah, you're loud as fuck," Elias agrees. "Even in the shower. We can hear you through three walls."
Tank shrugs, completely unashamed. "Can't help my Alpha needs."
I giggle despite myself, then realize I should probably figure out my own sleeping situation. "I guess I should head home?—"
"You can stay," Tank says immediately.
"The guest room is always ready," Elias adds.
I shake my head. "I feel like I'm intruding. I have a place. It's fine."
"You're not intruding," Tank says firmly. "You're our Omega. This is your home too. A place of rest, whenever you need it."
Our Omega. Your home too. Words I never expected to hear from anyone, let alone three Alphas I've known less than a month.
"Stay the night," Elias encourages. "Though fair warning—if you sleep in one of our rooms, you're not getting beauty sleep either."
A wicked idea crosses my mind. I smile sweetly.
"Okay. I'll sleep with Julian, then."
Julian, who was halfway down the hall, freezes. "Fuck no."
"Too late!" I'm already moving, slipping past Tank and Elias's stunned expressions. "I'm intruding! It's happening!"
I reach Julian's door just as he does, darting inside before he can slam it in my face. His room at Tank's house is exactly what I expected—meticulously organized, neutral colors, everything in its perfect place. A king-sized bed with crisp white sheets. A small desk with papers stacked in precise piles. A closet that's probably organized by color and season.
"What are you going to wear?" Elias calls from the hallway, laughter in his voice.
I spin toward Julian's closet with glee. "I'll just steal one of his elegant pieces of clothing. And no—" I hold up a hand before he can protest. "—I'm not giving it back. Though I probably couldn't afford whatever brand this is even with two years of bakery money saved up, so someone pay the tab."
Elias loses it, his laughter echoing down the hallway. Tank chuckles and calls out, "Just take it out of his card or some shit."
Julian groans—a sound of pure, distilled suffering—and closes the bedroom door behind us, shutting out the chaos of his packmates.
I take a moment to properly admire the room. It's impersonal in the way Julian's spaces always are—no photographs, no mementos, nothing that reveals who he actually is. But it's comfortable. The bed looks expensive and inviting. The lighting is soft and warm.
Julian points firmly at the left side of the bed. "That side is MINE. Don't move anywhere near it."
"Fine." I skip over to the right side, bouncing experimentally on the mattress. It's ridiculously soft—like sleeping on a cloud wrapped in money. The sheets are crisp and cool, probably some absurd thread count that I can't even fathom. "Hope you don't snore."
He huffs. "Tank snores like a fucking freight train, and that didn't seem to wake you up."
I grin, feeling that boldness rise up again—the version of me that emerges when I'm comfortable, when I'm with people who make me feel safe. "That's because when you're too exhausted after amazing sex, you can sleep through anything. It's like a superpower, really."
I wink at him and skip toward his closet before he can respond. His face does something complicated—part shock, part indignation, part something warmer he's desperately trying to suppress—and I commit the expression to memory for future enjoyment.
The closet door opens to reveal exactly what I expected—rows of designer clothes arranged with military precision, organized by color and style and probably season and occasion. Every hanger is equidistant. Every item is perfectly pressed. It's like a boutique showroom rather than an actual functioning closet.
I run my fingers along the fabric of various shirts, feeling silk and cashmere and cotton so fine it's probably illegal in some countries. My hand stops on an oversized silk button-down in deep navy—the kind of shirt that probably costs more than my monthly rent, possibly more than two months if I'm being realistic.
"This one," I announce, pulling it from the hanger with zero hesitation. "This is mine now."
Julian watches me from the doorway, arms crossed, expression somewhere between exasperated and something softer he's trying very hard to hide beneath all that practiced irritation. The firelight from the living room catches his features through the crack of the door, and for a moment he looks almost... fond.
This is good. This is right. Three Alphas who argue over Uno and throw candy at each other and threaten to commit murder when someone hurts me. Three men who almost set a houseon fire attempting to make dinner and then argued about pizza toppings like the fate of the world depended on it. A pack that feels like it could actually become home.
