"And in those days, has he done anything to make you feel unsafe?"
I think about it. The way Jasper knocked before entering shared spaces. The way he asked permission before moving furniture. The way his scent stayed controlled, never pressing.
"No," I admit.
"Then trust that." Eli finishes the last shirt and moves to sit beside me on the bed. "Come here."
I don't hesitate. I unfold and crawl into his lap like I've done a thousand times, tucking my face against his neck and breathing him in. His arms come around me immediately, one hand sliding up to cup the back of my head.
"There we go," he murmurs. "Better?"
"Getting there."
He holds me while my breathing evens out, his thumb rubbing slow circles against my scalp. My instinctsgradually stop screaming, soothed by his presence and his scent and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under my ear.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"Nothing to thank me for." He presses a kiss to my hair. "Iwantto help."
Dinner is a carefully orchestrated dance of six people trying to fit around a table meant for six.
Jasper ends up in the extra chair we pulled from the office. He doesn't complain about the squeeze, just settles in and accepts the plate Marie hands him with a quiet thanks.
I sit between Eli and Drake, which feels safest. Marie is across from me, flanked by Ragon and Jasper. The symmetry is almost deliberate—two omegas, separated by the table, each with their alphas nearby.
Conversation is stilted at first. Polite questions about Jasper's old apartment, his work, whether he needs anything for his room. He answers with the same economical precision he does everything—enough information to be helpful, not enough to overshare.
I pick at my food and try to ignore the way Marie keeps glancing at me.
Halfway through the meal, I notice something's missing.
"Where's the hot sauce?" I ask.
"Oh!" Marie brightens. "I moved it to the lazy Susan. It makes more sense there with the other condiments."
My fork pauses. "I had it by the stove."
"I know, but that seemed inefficient? Like, why walk across the kitchen when you could just spin the lazySusan?" She demonstrates helpfully, turning it so the hot sauce faces me. "See? Better."
It's not better.
It's my system, reorganized without asking, again.
"Right," I say flatly. "Better."
Eli's knee presses against mine under the table. A quiet warning.
I ignore it.
After dinner, Marie offers to help me clean up.
I'm elbow-deep in soapy water when she picks up my favorite wooden spoon—the one with the worn handle that fits my grip perfectly—and opens the wrong drawer.
"That goes in the other one," I say, pointing.
"Oh, I reorganized these too." She smiles. "Cooking utensils on the left, serving stuff on the right. More logical."
Something in me snaps.
