Ragon plates the eggs with his usual efficiency and sets them on the table. His dark hair is pulled back in his usual man bun, tattoos stark on his forearms, blue eyes sharp as he glances at me. "Eat first."
I roll my eyes but obey, stabbing a forkful of scrambled eggs. They're perfect—fluffy, seasoned just right, the way he always makes them. He watches until I take a bite, then nods, satisfied.
An hour later, we're in the car.
Drake drives with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping out a rhythm on his thigh. Eli sits beside me in the back, reading something on his phone. Ragon rides shotgun, scanning the road like he's expecting trouble.
I watch the scenery pass—familiar streets, then less familiar ones. We're heading into the nicer part of town, where the shops have actual window displays instead of just sale signs taped to glass.
And then I see it.
Nest & Comfort.
My breath catches.
It'stheomega supply store. The one I've been eyeing for months, the one I bookmark on my laptop and scroll through late at night when I can't sleep. The one with the beautiful displays and the luxury materials and the prices that made me close the browser tab before I could start wanting things I couldn't ask for.
"Drake," I say slowly. "What—"
"Surprise," he says, pulling into the parking lot with a flourish. "You're getting new nest things."
My heart does something complicated. "I don't need—"
"You've had the same six blankets for almost five years," Eli says gently, putting his phone away. "You deserve an upgrade."
"The budget—"
"Is fine," Ragon says, turning in his seat to look at me. His voice is firm. "This isn't charity, Vee. This is us taking care of our omega."
The words settle over me like a blanket—warm, heavy, complicated.
Our omega.
Five years next month.
Is this a sign they’re about to make good on their promise?
I shove the thought down and let Drake open my door, let him tug me out of the car with that bright grin that makes his hazel eyes crinkle at the corners.
The store smells like lavender and vanilla and fresh cotton when we step inside. Soft lighting bathes everything in a warm, golden glow. The displays are arranged to showcase different nest aesthetics—minimalist whites and greys, maximalist jewel tones and patterns, cozy cottagecore florals, sleek modern neutrals.
My omega instincts immediately purr, wanting to touch everything, to burrow into the softness.
A beta woman approaches with a welcoming smile. "Good morning! Are we looking for anything specific today?"
"Full nest refresh," Drake says, gesturing to me like I'm a prize. "She's been making do with scraps. We're fixing that."
I elbow him. "They're not scraps."
"They'reold," he counters. "There's a difference."
The woman's smile warms. "Well, you've come to the right place. Let's start with the basics—are you thinking weighted blankets, traditional layering, or a hybrid approach?"
I blink. "I... don't know?"
"Let's look at everything," Eli suggests, already gravitating toward a display of high-thread-count sheets. "We'll narrow down from there."
Ragon settles into one of the chairs near the entrance—the kind of chair clearly meant for waiting alphas. He crosses his arms, watching the door with that ever-present vigilance, but his scent is relaxed. Content, even.
