And accurate.
Devastatingly accurate, in the way that Oakley’s observations tend to be—delivered with the gentle packaging of a man who looks like a rookie and operates with the emotional intelligence of a therapist.
I pout.
The expression is involuntary—the defensive, lower-lip-forward gesture that my face produces when the question has bypassed my defenses and hit something I didn’t want to examine.
“Because that’s how I’ve always had to do it,” I admit.
The words come out flat. Factual. The tone of a woman delivering testimony rather than sharing feelings, because testimony is something I know how to do and feelings are a skill set I’m still auditing.
“Nothing ever came to me just because. There was always a cost. Always a transaction. My pack didn’t do things for me—they did thingsatme, and the invoice arrived later.”
I look at the window.
At the October light that has no opinion about any of this.
“I always had to pay them back for their ‘aid.’” The air quotes are audible even without my hands making the gesture. “Thoughaidwas rare to begin with. Help came with conditions. Generosity came with interest. And if I couldn’t pay in currency, I paid in…other ways.”
I don’t specify.
I don’t need to.
The three of them are quiet for a moment.
The silence carries a specific texture—the controlled, carefully-managed stillness of three men processing information that makes them angry and choosing not to express that anger because the woman providing the information doesn’t need their rage right now. She needs their consistency.
Roman’s jaw tightens.
Alaric’s eyes close for exactly one second—the duration of a man resetting his emotional calibration before reopening to the professional warmth that is his default interface.
Oakley’s hand, still on my shoulder, squeezes.
Once. Briefly. The physical equivalent of a sentence that doesn’t need to be spoken:That’s not how it works here.
“With us,” Alaric says, and his voice is level, steady, carrying the particular gentleness that large men deploy when they understand that gentleness is the most powerful thing they can offer, “you don’t need to worry about that. We don’t keepledgers. We don’t track debts. We do things because you’re our Omega and your comfort is not a negotiable line item.”
Roman nods from the chair.
The motion is minimal—the confirmation of a man who endorses the statement without needing to add to it because Alaric said it correctly and Roman’s energy is better spent staying awake.
I nod.
Slowly.
The acceptance settling into my chest with the unfamiliar, slightly uncomfortable weight of a garment that fits correctly but wasn’t purchased by me. The understanding that these three men are operating from a fundamentally different framework than the one I was conditioned to expect. That their generosity is not a trap. That their aid is not a transaction. That the kindness I’m receiving is not the opening move of a negotiation but the baseline of a relationship that considers my comfort a default rather than a luxury.
It’s going to take time.
To stop calculating the debt. To stop bracing for the invoice. To stop flinching at generosity like it’s the first stage of a hustle.
But maybe time is what the two weeks are for.
“Okay,” I say. “So…what now?”
Oakley’s grin returns.
The full, bright, slightly dangerous expression that transforms his face fromearnest deputy officertoman who is about to suggest something he finds extremely entertaining.
