CARLOS
The kitchen smells like burned coffee and bad decisions.
Sergio's been up since God knows when, brewing what I can only describe as liquid regret in our ancient percolator. The stuff could strip paint off a barn door. He drinks it black because of course he does. Our pack leader doesn't believe in cream or sugar or anything that might make life slightly more enjoyable before sunrise.
I'm leaning against the counter by the stove, arms crossed over my chest, trying to look casual when every muscle in my body is wound tight enough to snap. There's sawdust in my hair from the chest of drawers I started sanding at four AM because sleep wasn't happening. My flannel hangs open over a white t-shirt that's got a coffee stain on the hem and probably should've been retired years ago. My work boots are tracking mud across Mom's clean kitchen floor.
She's going to kill me when she sees it. Worth it.
It's seven in the morning. The sun is barely up, painting the kitchen in weak golden light. And Jessica is still asleep in the guest room down the hall, probably wrapped in my henley,definitely smelling everything I've wanted for six goddamn years.
I'm trying not to think about how the henley fits her. How it hangs to mid-thigh. How my scent is all over her now, because we're meant to blend together.
I'm failing spectacularly at not thinking about it.
Nacho sits at the table to Sergio's left. Nacho’s badge catches the morning light streaming through the windows above the sink. The man looks like he hasn't slept either, but you'd never know it from his posture. Spine straight. Shoulders back. Ready to arrest someone at a moment's notice.
He's been like that since he was sixteen. Military straight. Always ready for action. It's annoying and impressive in equal measure.
Pedro is across from him, both hands wrapped around a coffee mug like he's trying to strangle it. The dark circles under his eyes are impressive even by his grumpy standards. His scrubs are wrinkled, suggesting he came straight from the clinic without stopping home first. Pine and mint rolls off him in waves, sharp with exhaustion and something that smells a lot like anger.
We're all angry. We're just expressing it in different ways.
Sergio's brewing coffee that could wake the dead. Nacho's sitting at attention like he's about to issue citations. Pedro's murdering his coffee mug. And I've been sanding furniture since four AM like a madman.
Healthy coping mechanisms all around.
Sergio's phone sits flat on the scarred oak surface of the kitchen table. The same table where we ate breakfast as kids. Where Mom served Thanksgiving dinner for thirty years. Where Dad taught us to play poker and lose gracefully. Where Grandma taught us to respect women and neither of those lessons prepared us for this moment.
"He texted me at three in the morning." Sergio's voice is flat. Controlled. The voice he uses when he's about to bench a player for the rest of the season or tell a contractor they're fired. "While Jessica and I were talking in the kitchen."
My stomach drops like I just fell off a roof. "Callum?"
Sergio doesn't answer immediately. He just picks up the phone, like it might explode in his hand, and reads aloud.
"'Heard Jess is staying with you guys. Take care of her until I get there. She's confused.'"
The words land like a sledgehammer to the chest.
I push off from the counter so fast I knock a wooden spoon onto the floor. It clatters against the tile, loud in the sudden silence. "You're kidding me."
"I wish I was." Sergio keeps reading, and I start pacing because standing still feels impossible. Three steps toward the refrigerator. Three steps back. "You know how omegas can be. Emotional. Irrational. She'll calm down in a few days and realize she made a mistake."
"Are you serious?" I grab the wooden spoon off the floor and throw it at the sink. It misses. Hits the wall instead. "He thinks she's going to calm down? Like she's having a tantrum? Like climbing out a window in a wedding dress is just her being dramatic?"
"There's more." Sergio's jaw tightens. "Tell her I forgive her. And tell her we're still getting married. I've already rescheduled with the venue."
The kitchen goes dead silent except for the percolator burbling its toxic brew.
I stop pacing mid-step and stare at my brother, waiting for the punchline. Waiting for him to crack a smile and tell me this is some kind of twisted joke.
But his face is stone. His dark eyes are hard. And the phone in his hand might as well be a grenade with the pin pulled.
"He rescheduled the venue." I repeat the words slowly, trying to make them make sense in my head. "Without asking her. Without talking to her. She literally climbed out a window to get away from him, and he just decided they're still getting married."
I resume pacing. Can't help it. My boots track more mud across the floor.
"That's Callum." Nacho's hand drifts to his holster, an unconscious gesture I've seen a thousand times when he's processing something that makes him want to hurt someone. "That's always been Callum. He decides how things are going to be, and then he makes them be that way. Reality is just a minor inconvenience."
