"It's part of their charm." He leans in and kisses me--soft and sweet, tasting faintly of the hot cocoa we'd shared on the drive home, his hands finding my waist and pulling me close for amoment of quiet intimacy. When he pulls back, his amber eyes are warm. "Go check on the boys. I'll put the frozen stuff from the market in the freezer and come join you."
"If they're playing video games, we need beer," I point out. "It's practically a rule."
His grin widens into something mischievous. "Beer for the boys. Luxury wine for the Omega of the house." He winks, grabbing the bags of market goodies and heading toward the kitchen with Sasha trotting hopefully at his heels. "Go on. I'll be right behind you."
The Omega of the house. It still sends a little thrill through me every time one of them says it like that. Like it's already true. Like it's already permanent. Like I'm not just a temporary arrangement anymore but something real, something lasting.
I skip toward the stairs, still riding the high of the past two days. Everything about this trip had been perfect--the surprise of it, the romance of it, the way Elias had looked at me across candlelit dinners like I was the most precious thing he'd ever seen. I'm giddy in a way I don't think I've ever been before, light and happy and full of a warmth that has nothing to do with the heating system and everything to do with finally, finally feeling like I belong somewhere.
The stairs creak softly under my feet as I climb, the familiar sounds of this house that's started to feel more like home than anywhere I've ever lived. Tank's place is beautiful in that understated masculine way--dark wood and clean lines and furniture that's built to last generations--but it's started to feel like mine too. My things are scattered throughout now: a cardigan draped over the back of a living room chair, a stack of romance novels on the coffee table, my favorite mug with the chipped handle taking up permanent residence by the coffee maker because I refuse to drink my morning coffee from anything else.
I belong here. I actually, truly, genuinely belong somewhere. After all those years of feeling like a guest in my own life, I finally have a place that feels like home.
"Are you guys in Tank's room?" I call out as I reach the top of the stairs.
"Down the hall, Sweet Ditzy," Julian's voice responds from somewhere to my left.
I huff, striding toward the sound of his voice. "I swear we agreed, Sweet Queen is bett--"
The words die in my throat.
I've stopped in the doorway of a room I don't recognize. A room that definitely did not exist--or at least, did not look anything like this--the last time I was in this house two days ago.
It's... it's a Pinterest board come to life. No--it's better than a Pinterest board. It's every cozy aesthetic dream I've ever saved on my phone, every screenshot of "dream room" inspiration I've hoarded in secret folders, every whispered wish I thought no one was listening to manifested into physical reality.
The walls are painted a soft lavender that catches the light from the fairy lights strung in delicate cascades across the ceiling like captured starlight. Those fairy lights--they're everywhere, warm and twinkling, transforming the space into something magical and intimate, the kind of ethereal glow that makes everything look soft and dreamlike. Against one wall sits an enormous bean bag chair, easily big enough for three or four people to sink into together, draped with the most gorgeous knitted blankets I've ever seen in varying shades of pink, purple, black, and cream. The textures are luxurious even from here--chunky cable knits, soft fleece, something that looks like it might be cashmere.
A bookshelf dominates another wall--not just any bookshelf, but a floor-to-ceiling masterpiece painted in matte black and filled with books I recognize. Books from my TBR list. BooksI've been saving up to buy for months, dog-earing pages in my mental catalog of "someday when I can afford it." Cozy fantasies and slow-burn romances and atmospheric thrillers and everything in between. They're all here. Every single one, arranged with care and obvious attention to aesthetic--some stacked vertically, some horizontally, interspersed with candles and small decorative objects.
And the decorations. Oh god, the decorations.
Melody and Kuromi plushies are arranged artfully on floating shelves that line the walls. Not just a few--an entire collection, ranging from tiny keychain-sized figures to plushies as big as my torso. A Kuromi lamp sits on a small bedside table, its purple glow adding to the ambient lighting, casting soft shadows in the shape of the mischievous character. My Melody pillows are scattered across the bean bag and the bed--because there's a bed too, a daybed with an ornate white frame that looks like it could expand into something larger, piled high with the softest-looking blankets and more character pillows than any adult should reasonably own.
The color scheme is perfect: black and white and pink and purple, all woven together in a way that's cohesive and cozy and utterly, completely, unmistakably me. Someone paid attention. Someone noticed what I liked, what made me happy, what kind of aesthetic made my heart sing--and then they built it for me.
A TV is mounted on the wall opposite the daybed, sleek and modern, and beneath it sits a Nintendo Switch with what appears to be an entire tower of cozy games stacked beside it. I spot familiar titles--Stardew Valley, Animal Crossing, Spiritfarer, Cozy Grove, A Short Hike, Coffee Talk, Unpacking--games I've mentioned wanting to play, games I've talked about streaming with Mila when we'd discussed maybe starting a cozy gaming channel together to give us both new hobbies and something to bond over.
I talked about that once. One time. In passing. While making dinner, chatting about random things, not even thinking anyone was really listening.
And they remembered. They remembered and they did something about it. They took a throwaway comment and turned it into this.
My eyes are burning. My vision is blurring. I'm dimly aware that my mouth is hanging open, that I've frozen in the doorway like a statue, that Tank and Julian are watching me from inside the room with expressions somewhere between nervous and hopeful. Tank's massive arms are crossed over his chest in that defensive way he gets when he's unsure of himself. Julian is adjusting his collar repeatedly, which I've learned is his tell for anxiety.
"It's--" I try to speak, but the words won't come. My throat is too tight. Everything is too much and not enough all at once, overwhelming in the best possible way.
Arms wrap around me from behind--Elias, having followed me upstairs faster than I expected. His scent envelops me, campfire smoke and pine and that underlying sweetness that's uniquely him. His chin rests on my shoulder, his voice warm and soft against my ear.
"The only way to officially cement a pack bond," he murmurs, "is by making sure our Omega has a proper nest before Valentine's Day. Don't you think?"
A nest.
They built me a nest.
A real, actual, beautiful, perfect nest that's everything I ever wanted and never thought I'd have. Every Omega dreams of having a nest--a space that's entirely theirs, built with love and care by Alphas who understand their needs. I'd given up on that dream years ago, resigned myself to the idea that I'd neverhave a pack who cared enough to create something like this for me.
Tank and Julian rise from where they'd been crouched near a display in the corner--a display I hadn't even noticed yet because I was too busy trying not to drown in the sheer overwhelming perfection of everything else. Tank brushes his hands off on his jeans, looking uncharacteristically uncertain, the big scary ex-military bodyguard suddenly appearing almost shy. Julian adjusts his collar again, then forces his hands to his sides, visibly fighting the nervous habit.
"Come look at this part," Julian says, gesturing toward the corner display. His voice is attempting casual and landing somewhere closer to anxious. "It was that Ruby woman's idea, mostly. We're not... we're not particularly good at this kind of thing."
