He opens my door, and I stay seated for a beat longer, just staring. Not at the size of it. Not even at the porch swing swaying in the breeze.
But for the way the place feels. As though it’s waiting for me and I’m finally home.
I step out of the car, and the moment the warm air hits me, I catch it—faint, but familiar.
Carson’s scent. And Hunter’s. The front door swings open, and there they are.
Carson casually leans against the porch post, trying not to smile, arms crossed, sunglasses perched on his head. Hunter steps down onto the top stair, his hands shoved in his pockets, eyes locked on me, obviously waiting for me this whole time.
“What is this?” I ask, my voice barely audible as I climb out of the car.
Graham grabs my duffel from the back seat. “Come see.”
They don’t rush me. They don’t push. They just wait, letting me take it in.
The house looks even bigger up close—solid and warm, sunlight dancing through the tall windows, birds chirping in the distance. But it’s the details that start to catch my eye.
A row of roller derby photos clipped across a bulletin board near the front door—some of them from my last game. One of me mid-jump, hair flying, pure focus on my face.
My favorite brand of green tea sitting on the entryway console, unopened, with a little tag stuck to it: Willow’s.
A soft throw blanket in a chaotic pink-orange hue that is a pop of color in their neutral-colored world—folded neatly over the edge of the couch. Small things. Intentional things.
And then Graham nods toward the hallway. “Come with me.”
I follow him deeper into the house, my chest tightening with every step. The space is open but grounded—wood floors, tall ceilings, light everywhere. But it’s the doorway at the very end of the hall that makes something deep in me ache.
He pauses there, hand on the knob, looking back at me. A smile tugs at his lips, and my heart races behind my ribs.
“This is yours,” he says simply. Then pushes the door open.
I step inside and stop breathing.
It’s a nest.
Not a rushed attempt, not a patchwork of blankets and pillows thrown together in a corner.
This is a room.
A full room built around the nest. Sunlight filters through gauzy curtains. Soft textures in every direction—plush rugs, throw pillows, layered bedding in soft creams, pale pinks, and golds. Familiar scents swirl through the air—mine and theirs, comforting and grounding.
There’s a pile of old books next to a velvet armchair, a tray with my favorite snacks already unwrapped, and a tiny fridge in the corner stocked with bottled water and electrolyte drinks. A speaker system sits tucked into a nook, already queued with my favorite playlist.
There’s even a wall-mounted rack with my name painted above it in swirling letters—ready for any clothing I want to hang, already holding a couple of the oversized hoodies I keep stealing from Graham and Carson.
I don’t move.
I can’t.
My throat tightens so fast it hurts, and the sting behind my eyes comes too quickly to fight.
“You made this?” I whisper, barely managing the words.
Graham steps into the room behind me. “We did. But the nest?” He touches the doorframe. “That was me.”
I swallow hard. “You built me a nest.”
He nods. “Every omega deserves a space where they don’t have to apologize for being soft. Or overwhelmed. Or exhausted. Somewhere that’s just…theirs.”
