"You're composing a sentence. I can see it forming. Don't."
Oliver grins and returns to the cocktail he's been building for the last three minutes. He muddles a lime with vicious precision, twisting the wooden pestle as if extracting a confession. The waiting customer watches Oliver work, sighing once before settling back on his stool, knowing from experience that whatever emerges will burn beautifully going down.
My fingers trace the mark on my lip where scar tissue rises slightly from the surrounding skin. Nicholas's teeth left an impression my tongue knows intimately from within. Under the healed surface, our bond vibrates continuously, merging his heartbeat with mine in a steady rhythm I feel in my bones.
The mirror behind the bar catches my reflection as I pass. A man in a black shirt stares back, collar hanging open, top two buttons undone. Light from the bar glints off jagged ridges of scar tissue visible above the fabric. I continue walking, hands steady at my sides. Years ago, I would have yanked that collar higher, hidden what marked me as different. Now the old wound breathes in the open air.
My phone vibrates against my hip. During a quiet moment at the far end of the bar, I lean against the wall by the stockroom door and pull it out.
Luca has sent a photo. The Keller pack fills a worn couch surrounded by scattered toys and colorful chaos. Luther balances a dark-haired baby girl on one knee, her tiny curls framing her face. Their other Omega, I think that’s who he is,Blake, sits opposite with identical boys squirming on his lap, their small hands reaching toward something unseen.
Between them sprawls Luca, cross-legged and grinning, his eyes crinkled with a joy so complete it radiates from the screen. His other Alpha is lounging on the floor, head resting against Luther's knee, mouth open in laughter at some shared joke, their Beta on the other side looking slightly terrified of the scene unfolding around him.
The caption reads:Sunday chaos. Baby puked on Luther's shirt twice. Blake is handling it better than anyone. Thank you, Wilson.
My thumb traces the worn border of the photograph, the joy wafting off the picture finally feeling like something I’ve earned. I tore into the first one in my old apartment, the scene of rosy-cheeked toddlers at the Keller house feeling like it was ages ago but I slipped the envelope into a drawer without replying.
This year, I’ll send something but for now, I can do one better.
I hunt through my camera roll until Oliver's shot from last week appears. His arm arcs over the four of us tangled in our nest. Nicholas lies on his back, one leg tucked under my feet. Lorenzo props himself against the headboard, eyes fixed on a battered novel as he balances my other leg across his thigh. My face is turned to the side on a velvet pillow, the bite on my lip just visible against the fabric and the edge of my scar showing above my collar.
Without a word, I send the image to Luca. Silence grips until his reply flickers on screen. A cascade of ruby hearts unfurls, then a lobster struts into view, ending with a face cracked by laughter.
That response alone was all I needed, letting Luca know that I’ve finally found my place, my happiness, myhome. The night passes in a blur, the last call coming before I realize it. Nicholas arrives at the counter and leans forward, forearms settlingagainst the polished surface. His face tilts upward, eyes finding mine.
"Good night?"
My cleaning rag lies forgotten on the counter as my hands hang loose at my sides. "Yeah. Good night."
My hand slides across the smooth surface and captures Nicholas's fingers. Warmth radiates from his skin into mine, his calloused palm rough against my touch. Behind his glasses, his eyes widen as his lips part around a soft intake of breath. My other hand reaches for his shirt, bunching the fabric between my fingers as I pull him toward me.
My mouth finds his, hand fisting in his shirt to hold him against me. The bite on my lip presses into his lower lip while our bond pulses between us, humming warm and alive through every point of contact.
He cups the back of my head, fingers tangling in my curls as he kisses me back. The bartenders watch. The remaining staff watches. Anyone still in Vice & Virtue on this Friday night watches Wilson Ashford initiate a kiss with his Alpha over the bar, his mouth carrying the mark of a man he chose.
A whoop splits the air from across the room. Oliver's celebratory sound bounces off the walls of the empty club, followed by the rapid clatter of his shoes against hardwood. He launches into some victory dance behind me while I keep my eyes closed, focused on the sensation of Nicholas's mouth.
Lorenzo stands in the office doorway, his mouth twitching upward. I sense his presence without looking. These three exist in my awareness like cardinal directions, orienting me through spaces that once felt unmapped and dangerous.
Nicholas pulls back slowly. Fog clouds his glasses from our shared breath. Blood rushes to redden his ears. His thumb traces along my jaw, leaving a trail of heat beneath my skin. "You kissed me first," he says.
"You all keep saying that a lot lately."
"It's worth noting."
"Note it quieter."
His laugh warms my face as his hand lingers on my jaw. "Ready to go upstairs?" he asks, voice low enough that only the four of us can hear.
"Yeah," I whisper, releasing my grip on Nicholas's shirt, twisting around to find Lorenzo and Oliver already waiting. "Yeah, let's go home."
35
Epilogue
Six Months Later
Wilson
