Drake bounces toward the blanket section like an overgrown puppy.
"Oh my god, Vee, look at this one." He holds up something that's basically a cloud in fabric form—massive, cream-colored, impossibly soft. "It's got little embroidered moons on it."
"That's beautiful," I admit, reaching out to touch it.
The material is buttery under my fingers, the kind of softness that makes you want to wrap yourself up and never leave. The moons are subtle, stitched in silvery thread that catches the light.
"We're getting this one," Drake declares, draping it over his arm.
"Drake, that's—" I glance at the price tag and nearly choke. "That's expensive."
"And?" He raises a brow. "You're worth it."
My throat tightens. "You don't have to—"
"We want to," Eli says, appearing at my elbow with an armful of sheet sets in soft neutrals—cream, pale grey, the palest blue. "These have excellent scent retention and they're temperature regulating. You mentioned being too hot sometimes."
"You remembered that?"
His green eyes are warm behind his glasses. "I remember everything you tell me."
Drake is already moving to the next display, pointing at weighted blankets. "Okay, so I did some research—"
"You did research?" I echo, surprised.
"Don't sound so shocked. I'm a nurse, research is like half my job." He gestures to the display. "Weighted blankets are supposed to help with anxiety. Something about deep pressure therapy. You've been stressed lately, so I thought—"
He cuts himself off, but the implication hangs there.
You've been stressed. We noticed.
The saleswoman guides us through options, explaining materials and weights and care instructions. Drake asks a million questions, some relevant, some ridiculous ("But what if she wants to build a blanket fort?" "Sir, all blankets are technically fort-capable").
Eli methodically compares thread counts and reviews, building a mental spreadsheet I can practically see forming behind his eyes.
I just wander, trailing my fingers over impossibly soft fabrics, breathing in the clean scent of new things.
At one point, I find myself in front of a display of pillows—not just any pillows, but the kind specifically designed for omega nests. Ergonomic support pillows, scent-lock pillows that hold alpha scents longer, decorative accent pillows in every color imaginable.
I pick up one that's shaped like a crescent moon, silvery-grey with tiny embroidered stars. It's ridiculous and beautiful and something I would never buy for myself.
"That one," Ragon's voice says from behind me.
I jump, nearly dropping the pillow. I hadn't heard him approach.
He's close now, close enough that I can smell the pine-and-smoke of him, see the faint crow's feet at the corners of his eyes when he nods at the pillow.
"You lit up when you saw it," he says simply. "Get it."
"It's silly."
"It's yours," he corrects. "Get it."
I clutch the pillow to my chest, something warm and complicated unfolding in my ribs. "Okay."
His hand comes up, settles briefly on the back of my neck. The touch is warm, grounding. "Good girl."
The words send a little shiver through me—not sexual, just... omega. That deep, primal part of me that purrs when my alpha approves.
