"I—" My voice cracks. "Okay."
His expression softens, but he doesn't step forward again. Doesn't pull me in. He's careful with the line between correction and comfort.
"Go to your nest. We'll talk in the morning."
Dismissed.
The little omega inside me bristles at being sent away. The rest of me is too tired to fight.
I go.
In the dark of my room, curled in my nest, the humiliation burns hot. The worst part isn't that he corrected me.
It's that some part of me likes that he did.
Likes that he saw the spiral and not only named it but stopped it. That he didn't let me hurt Drake more than I already had. That he refused to let me keep painting myself as disposable.
"I hate you," I whisper into my pillow, meaning myself more than any of them.
The pillow smells like Eli and sugar.
I cry until the scent is damp.
***
If it was just me, maybe we could stabilize.
But it's not just me.
Marie watches all of this. Feels all of this. Her instincts have their own opinions about attention and hierarchy.
I see it a few days later.
It's Friday. Official card night.
Before Marie, Fridays were sacred. The guys rotated hosting a small crowd from work—fellow nurses, other ER docs, a random paramedic or two. Sometimes poker. Sometimes some arcane tabletop game Eli and his nerdy friends dragged in.
The constant was me in the kitchen, apron tied around my waist, oven humming, counters dusted with flour. Baking was my lane. My ritual. My coping mechanism when the week scraped me raw.
I used to joke that card night was an excuse to try new recipes on a captive audience of hungry medical professionals.
Drake called it "Vee Night." I pretended not to care how my chest swelled every time he said it.
Now, when Friday rolls around, I wake up early without an alarm. My body knows the rhythm. I pull my blonde hair into a messy bun, dig out my favorite scratched-up mixing bowl, and start pulling ingredients from cupboards.
Sugar. Butter. Flour. Chocolate chips. Vanilla. Cinnamon.
The textures and smells soothe me. Whisking eases the restless energy in my hands. The sound of the mixer drowns out the echoes in my head.
By the time the coffee machine finishes its first pot, I've got cookie dough chilling in the fridge and brownies in the oven. The kitchen smells like sugar and chocolate and home.
Eli wanders in, rubbing his eyes. "Smells like a bakery."
"Card night prep."
His gaze softens. "Ahh, first one in a while. I missed this."
"Me too."
