I open my mouth and let him feed me the strawberry.
Okay. This is... actually really nice. Weird, but nice. There's something deeply intimate about being cared for like this, about letting someone else take control of something as basic as nourishment.
We fall into a rhythm—Julian selecting pieces of fruit and feeding them to me, occasionally taking bites himself, while I tear off sections of croissant for us to share. He drinks his coffee between bites, and I watch the tension slowly drain from his shoulders with each sip.
"Better?" I ask after he's finished about half the cup.
"Much." He sets the cup down and wraps both arms around my waist, pulling me more firmly against him. "You know me too well."
"It's not exactly a mystery. You without coffee is like a bear without hibernation—technically functional, but dangerous to be around."
He huffs a laugh against my shoulder. "I wasn't that bad."
"Julian, three different people have asked me if you're always this difficult, and one of them was crying."
"...I'll send an apology fruit basket."
I laugh, leaning back into his warmth. "Speaking of difficult—why are you being so stubborn about the other Omega? I mean, I appreciate it, but you almost walked off a major campaign."
Julian is quiet for a moment. When I turn my head to look at him, his expression is almost vulnerable—a rare sight that makes something in my chest clench.
"I don't want to be pictured with just some average Omega," he says finally, his voice low enough that only I can hear. "It would create speculation. People would assume she's the one I'm with, when the real one is right here." His arms tighten around me. "On my lap. Willing to wake up before dawn to bring mecoffee and homemade croissants because I didn't get a chance to eat this morning."
My heart does something complicated in my chest.
"It's insulting," he continues, a hint of indignation creeping into his tone. "I wasn't told that would be part of the shoot. If they had informed me, I would have declined from the start. I don't care how much they're paying me—I'm not going to be photographed with someone I'm not comfortable with. Someone who isn't you."
"And if they don't want to work with those terms?" I ask softly.
He shrugs, the movement shifting me slightly in his lap. "Then they shouldn't pay me. I have other income streams. I don't need to compromise my integrity—or my commitment to my pack—for a single campaign."
My commitment to my pack. He says it so easily, like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like we're already permanent, already official, already forever.
I turn in his lap—an awkward maneuver that involves a lot of careful shifting—until I'm facing him. His silver hair is perfectly styled, his makeup flawless, his designer clothes immaculate. He looks every inch the model he is, polished and professional and probably worth millions in advertising revenue.
And he's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the room that matters.
I lean in and kiss him. Soft, gentle, just the barest press of my lips against his. Nothing demanding, nothing hungry. Just connection. Just gratitude.
When I pull back, there's a hint of color on his cheekbones. Julian North, international model and devastating Alpha, is blushing.
"Thank you, Alpha," I murmur, giving him my best doe eyes. "For thinking about my feelings."
The blush deepens, spreading down his neck. "Hush," he mutters, looking away. "Eat your grapes."
I grin, delighted by his flustered response, and pop a grape into my mouth. "Did you know," I say conversationally, "that before the holiday, I went under the table and ate twelve grapes? It's a tradition—you make a wish for each grape, and if you eat all twelve before midnight, your wishes come true."
Julian raises an eyebrow. "And what did you wish for?"
"A pack," I admit, feeling suddenly shy. "I wished for a pack that would actually want me. Twelve times."
His expression softens for a moment before skepticism reasserts itself. "That's a myth. Grapes don't grant wishes."
"It's not a myth! It's a real tradition. Very old, very legitimate."
"It's delulu."
I choke on my grape. "I'm sorry,what?"
