She's standing at my sink, the morning light streaming through the window above the basin and catching the highlights in her dark hair. She's rolled up the sleeves of my borrowed t-shirt—the fabric still drowning her small frame—and there's something impossibly domestic about the image. Something that makes my chest do something complicated.
Her scent fills my kitchen. Cinnamon sugar and roasted coffee and dark vanilla, layered with that soft amber undertone that's been driving me crazy since the moment I first caught it at the mixer. It mingles with the steam rising from the hot water, creating something warm and inviting that settles into my bones.
She looks like she belongs here.
The thought catches me off guard. I've lived in this house for three years, and no one—not a single person outside my packmates—has ever looked right standing in this kitchen. Butshe does. Like she was made to be here, in my space, wrapped in my scent and wearing my clothes.
It should probably concern me how natural this feels. How easily she's slipped into my world. But it doesn't. It feels right in a way I can't explain.
I push off from the doorframe where I've been watching her and walk over, grabbing the dish towel from the counter as I go. "Want me to wash while you dry? Or the other way around?"
She startles slightly at my voice, turning to look at me with those hazel eyes that seem to shift between green and gold depending on the light. The confusion that crosses her features is immediate and unmistakable.
"Why would you help me?" She frowns, like I've just suggested something completely absurd. "Don't you need to, like... work? Or, uh..." She trails off, gesturing vaguely with a soapy hand. "I don't know. Do anything else?"
Interesting. She expected to be left alone to clean up after us. Expected it without question, like it was simply the natural order of things.
"Well, yeah," I say, leaning against the counter beside her. "I do have to work eventually. But I'm not going to let my guest wash the dishes by herself."
She pouts—actually pouts, those full lips pushing out in a way that makes me want to bite them again—and admits, "Well, that's... different."
I arch an eyebrow, waiting.
She turns the tap off, the sudden silence filling the kitchen as the water stops running. For a moment, she just stares at the sink full of dishes, her expression shifting into something more vulnerable. More real.
"The pack I'm running away from," she says quietly, and there's something in her voice that makes my protective instincts flare. "They treated me like a maid, I guess. Maybethat's not entirely fair—maybe 'luxury slave' is a better description." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I was there to be pretty and useful and silent. To serve, not to be served."
My hands curl into fists at my sides. Whoever these people are, I already want to hurt them.
"In all honesty," she continues, still not looking at me, "that breakfast was the first one I've ever had with other Alphas. Even though I was in a whole pack at one point in my life." She shrugs, trying to make it seem casual, but I can see the tension in her shoulders. The way she's gripping the edge of the sink. "I couldn't take it. Feeling like a luxury slave in a pretty cage. Existing just to make them look good."
She laughs again, that hollow sound that doesn't match the warmth of her scent. "It's funny, actually. My family wants me back in that golden cage for the sake of appearances. But that's what you get when you're born into luxury, I guess. Everyone makes it seem like having money is the best thing in the world." She finally turns to look at me, and there's a fierceness in her eyes that wasn't there before. "But money without true freedom is just a pretty gilded cage."
She gets it. She understands what so many people don't—that wealth means nothing if you can't live on your own terms. That comfort isn't worth anything if it comes at the cost of your soul.
I nod slowly, taking my position beside her to dry the plates as she turns the tap back on. The water flows again, warm and steady, and we fall into an easy rhythm—her washing, me drying. The silence between us isn't uncomfortable. It's the kind of quiet that doesn't need to be filled.
"So," she says after a few minutes, her voice casual in a way that tells me the question is anything but. "Do you regret last night?"
I don't answer immediately. Not because I regret it—I don't, not even a little—but because I want to give her a proper reply. One that isn't just a throwaway reassurance.
"No," I say finally, setting down the plate I've been drying. "I don't regret it. I enjoyed every bit of it."
She glances at me, surprise flickering across her features.
"I'm not usually one to do flings at my place," I continue, reaching for the next dish. "I'm private. Territorial. I don't bring people into my space unless I trust them." I meet her eyes. "But bringing you here felt... fluid. Natural. Like it was supposed to happen."
I don't tell her that I've never brought anyone home before. That she's the first person outside my pack to sleep in my bed, to stand in my kitchen, to wear my clothes. Some things are better shown than said.
"And clearly it panned out," I add, letting a smirk curl at my lips. "Because somehow I've got a hot Omega who knows how to brew some epic specialty coffee that has Julian actually manageable for once."
"I heard that," Julian grumbles from the living room, his voice carrying through the open doorway.
"That was the point," I call back, not taking my eyes off Rosemarie. I dismiss him with a wave and continue drying the plates, watching her from my peripheral vision.
"Our pack isn't used to Omegas," I admit, stacking the dry plates on the counter. "As you can probably tell from our ages. Three unbonded Alphas over twenty-nine isn't exactly the norm."
She's quiet for a moment, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn pan. "There's nothing wrong with waiting for the right one," she says softly. "Despite society making it seem like it's wrong to want true, fulfilling love rather than something... contractual."
