There are boxes on the floor—one with folded blankets, one with bathroom stuff, one with random things Drake clearly thought "looked omega-ish."
"I thought you were only coming in here with supervision," Drake says from the corner, where he's trying to hang a curtain rod and failing spectacularly. His voice is wary, but his scent brightens just a little when he sees me, hazel eyes hopeful.
"Eli is supervising," I say. "Apparently he's my emotional parole officer."
Drake snorts. "Makes sense."
Ragon is there too, of course. He's standing by the closet, adjusting the shelves inside with that same controlled precision. His eyes flick to me briefly, then back to his task.
"Welcome back," Ragon says. Neutral. Careful.
I bite back three different sharp responses. "Eli said there were pillows."
"In the box by the bed," Eli says, nudging it with his foot.
I kneel beside it and flip the flaps open. Inside are a mix of things we bought earlier in the week—beforeRagon announced my punishment—plus a few that must have been added since.
There's a pale blue throw pillow with stitched stars, a soft gray one, a ridiculous fuzzy heart-shaped one I know Drake picked.
"What do you think?" Eli asks.
"I think she's going to suffocate under all of these," I mutter, but my hands are already sifting through them, testing texture, weight, give.
Instinct is instinct. Another omega is coming into this space, whether I want her or not. If her nest is wrong, if her things are harsh or scratchy or cold, my own body rebels at the idea.
"Not this one," I say, tossing aside a pillow with sequins. "That's a crime against skin."
Drake makes a wounded noise. "I thought it was pretty."
"You also thought flamingos are the alpha of birds," I say. "Your taste is suspect."
Drake looks relieved anyway, that easy smile breaking through. "Nice to have you back, sassy edition."
Ragon watches us from the closet, saying nothing. His scent has eased a little. Not soft, exactly, but less razor-edged.
I choose a simple combination: the blue pillow for visual comfort, the gray for actual head support, the fuzzy heart against the wall where it's less likely to annoy anyone's face.
Eli nods approval like we're doing rounds on a patient. "Looks good."
"Stop grading my nesting choices," I say, but there's no real heat in it.
Drake finally gives up on the curtain rod and calls over his shoulder: "Ragon, can you help with this? I think I'm doing it backwards."
Ragon crosses the room in a few long strides. They bicker quietly about brackets and studs and measuring twice, Drake's athletic frame dwarfed slightly by Ragon's muscular build.
I stand back and look at the room, arms crossed.
It's nice.
Not as cozy as mine. Not yet. It still smells too much like paint and cleaner and a faint hint of the alphas. But it's a good start. Safe. Neutral.
A place for someone to land.
My chest aches.
"She's really coming tomorrow?" I ask quietly.
"Yeah," Drake says, his voice going soft. "Her brother's dropping her off. She doesn't have many people. We offered to pick her up, but she said she'd feel better arriving on her own terms."
