"You always bring scones."
"You always eat them."
"I never said I didn't want them. I’m just saying you didn’t have to bring them."
"And yet." He pulls back, eyes crinkling behind the fogged glasses, the bakery bag dangling from his free hand. "Cinnamon rolls too. Don't tell Oliver, they're for you."
"EXCUSE ME." Oliver's voice carries from somewhere near the bar with the volume of a man whose Omega hearing has been heightened by pregnancy hormones. "I heard the word cinnamon and I heard the word roll and if anyone in this building thinks they're eating pastry without sharing with the person who is GROWING A HUMAN—"
Nicholas winces. "He heard that from forty feet away?"
"He can hear a candy wrapper from the parking lot. It's terrifying."
Oliver rounds the corner of the bar with one hand on his belly and the other extended toward the bakery bag. "Give me the bag, Nicholas."
"There are scones in there for everyone—"
"The bag, Alpha."
Nicholas surrenders. Oliver opens it, extracts a cinnamon roll, and takes a bite that removes a third in one motion. His eyes close. Crumbs fall onto his belly and he brushes them off without opening his eyes.
"Nobody talk to me for thirty seconds. I'm having a moment."
Lorenzo appears in the office doorway with his reading glasses pushed up on his forehead. "Oliver, you're supposed to be resting."
"I'm standing. Standing is not a strenuous activity."
"Standing for four hours is."
"I've been standing for two hours. The other two I was sitting on that stool which Wilson specifically brought for me even though he pretended it was for the bartender." Oliver points the remaining cinnamon roll at me. "I saw you carry it over. You're not subtle."
"I'm incredibly subtle."
“You bought a stool with a back support and a cushion and put it behind the bar at exactly my height. Lorenzo's stool doesn't have a cushion."
"Lorenzo doesn't have a person growing inside him."
Oliver's face softens around the cinnamon roll. His free hand rests on the curve of his belly, fingers spread across the bump where Nicholas's t-shirt stretches over it. The glitter on his cheeks catches the bar lights.
Then his expression changes. His mouth goes slack as the cinnamon roll hovers in the air. His hand presses flatter against his belly and his eyes go wide.
"Oh fuck." Oliver's voice drops to a whisper. "Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck."
We all move closer, my hand reaching Oliver's stomach before either of them crosses the floor. My palm presses flat against the bump where Oliver's hand was and beneath the warm fabric of the stolen t-shirt, beneath the stretched skin of Oliver's belly, something pushes against my palm. A small, firm pressure. A kick.
Oliver's hand covers mine, pressing it tighter against the bump. The kick comes again, stronger, a tiny foot or fist or elbow asserting its presence against the wall of its universe, and my breath catches in my chest and stays there.
Nicholas reaches us. His hand finds the other side of Oliver's belly, his palm spread wide, the pack mark visible on his neck above the open collar, his face carrying the open-mouthed wonder of a man experiencing something his brain hasn't built a category for yet. Lorenzo's hand lands on the small of Oliver's back, steadying him.
"That's her," Oliver whispers. His eyes are bright with tears he's not fighting. "That's our girl."
The kick pulses against my palm again. His free hand, the one still holding the cinnamon roll, waves between the three of us. "Okay, I've been thinking about this and I've made a decision."
Lorenzo's eyebrow rises. "Should we be concerned?"
"I want a bite." Oliver takes another bite of the cinnamon roll and chews with the casual authority of a man delivering a proclamation. "Wilson has one. Nicholas has a tattoo. I want a bite. On my neck, right here." He taps the spot below his ear with a frosting-covered finger, leaving a sticky smear on his skin. "Something visible. Something that says Oliver Hendrix belongs to this pack and this pack belongs to Oliver Hendrix."
"Oliver," Lorenzo says carefully. "Betas can't give claiming bites."
