"Back off, Zero." Bane's voice is quiet. Measured. The boardroom voice, but with teeth underneath. "You're crowding him."
"I'm not touching him." Zero's breath is still on my neck. His grip tightens on the chair. "Funny how you don't seem to have a problem with that yourself."
"Because he doesn't flinch when I touch him."
The air between them crackles. I'm sitting in the middle of it—Bane's hand on my left shoulder, Zero's white-knuckled grip on my chair, their voices passing over my head like weather.
"That's enough." Atlas. Still across from us. He hasn't moved, hasn't raised his voice, but the authority in it cuts through both of them. "Both of you."
"Stay out of this, Atlas." Zero's voice drops. Dangerous. "You don't get to referee when you've got your own hands in the game."
"I'm not in any game."
"No?" Zero leans forward. I feel his chest almost graze the back of my head. "You’re the only one who has had him in your bedroom, in your bed." A pause. The words landing like dropped knives. "How greedy of you to act like you haven't been thinking about him in your bed every night since."
Atlas's jaw locks. The composure holds but I can see the fractures—his fingers pressing harder against the table, his eyes going flat for a half-second before recalibrating.
"That's different."
"How?" Bane now. His hand still on my shoulder, his voice still low, but there's an edge I haven't heard since the facility. "How is what you did different from what either of us is doing right now?"
"Because I'm not marking territory at a dinner table like a dog."
"No. You do it behind people's backs. Which is worse."
Silence. The kind that vibrates. I can feel all three of them—Bane's hand tightening on my shoulder, Zero's grip creaking on the chair, Atlas's stillness across the table. Three alphas in a room with one omega and the thin veneer of brotherhood stretched to breaking.
"Can you all stop talking about me like I'm not sitting right here?" My voice comes out sharper than I intend. They go quiet. All three. "I'm not a territory. I'm not a game piece. I'm a person sitting in a chair while three grown men argue over me in whispers like I'm the last slice of pizza."
Nobody speaks for a beat.
"There's actually pizza left," Zero says from behind me. Deadpan. His grip loosening on the chair by a fraction.
I don't laugh. Almost. But I don't.
"He's right." Atlas's voice has softened. His eyes find mine. "This isn't the time or the place."
"When is?" Bane asks. Not combative. Genuine. As if he’s been ready to lay all this out since the beginning. "Because we can't keep doing this. The three of us circling him at dinner tables, sneaking touches, pretending we don't—" He stops. His hand flexes on my shoulder. "This isn't sustainable."
"I know." Atlas barely above a whisper. His eyes move from Bane to Zero to me. "I know it isn't."
Zero exhales behind me. Long. Controlled. His hands release the chair. He steps to the side—still close, still present, but no longer looming. Arms crossed over his chest.
"Then figure it out," Zero says. To Atlas. "Before we break something that can't be fixed."
Atlas opens his mouth.
Footsteps. Margot's voice from the kitchen: "Who wants coffee?"
We scatter. Bane's hand lifts from my shoulder. Zero turns toward the window, arms crossed, face blank. Atlas picksup his wine glass and takes a sip like he's been drinking this whole time. I sink down in my chair and grab a napkin and start wiping the table because I need something to do with my hands.
"I'd love some," Atlas calls back. Not a crack. Not a tremor.
How does he do that?How does he switch personalities and smooth over moments so easily?
Margot appears in the doorway. Reads the room—four people who are very clearly not doing anything suspicious. Decides to believe it.
"Decaf okay? Richard bought the wrong beans again."
