“You’re sure this is okay?” Forsythe asks, likely hating the idea of the Calloways providing anything to our omega. And I can’t say I blame him. It's chafing me, too.
She nods. “Yeah, it’s fine. I don’t want to send anyone out to grab us food, not yet.” The look she gives us tells me she’s feeling a little needy and clingy, and she doesn’t want to be away from any of us.
It makes my heart turn into a puddle of goo.
“Besides,” she says, sauntering into the kitchen and yanking open the fridge door. “I want to make sure the nursery is ready and to prepare some meals and things for them, so they don’t have to even worry about what to eat when they bring back Lyla.”
I could tell her, that’s the whole point of having a pack, thatthey--The Calloways--can divide and conquer. But I know it won’t do any good. Ren’s set on her path.
“I’ll help,” I tell her. “We can place a grocery order for delivery for anything you need.”
The smile she flashes me is warm and a little tired, but still beautiful. “Thank you, dimples.”
She sways just a little and my pack exchange looks and then we break into action. “Why don’t you sit down, killer,” Thayer suggests, already steering her to a stool at the island. “And we’ll get breakfast started?”
Technically it’s more like lunch, but I’m not going to split hairs.
Court posts up next to our omega, cooing over the pictures she snapped of Haven, Lyla and Ren. His job is to keep her occupied while the rest of us feed our omega.
I move first. Of course I do. This is what I do, my love language.
“Alright,” I clap my hands once, already scanning the kitchen. “What are we working with?”
“I’m not sure,” Ren admits, twisting on her stool like she might pop off it to help. “Eggs, some fruit, I think there’s yogurt—”
“That’s plenty,” I cut in gently, as Court grips her thigh to hold her in place “We’ll make it work.”
Grieves huffs but moves to the cupboards, pulling things out with more force than necessary. Thayer claims the coffee maker like it’s a research project, already measuring grounds with precision, while Court keeps up a steady stream of commentary to keep Ren smiling.
Forsythe lingers for a second, watching her like he’s trying to memorize every blink, every breath—then he shakes himself and joins in, rolling up his sleeves. Good.
That’s how it should be. Even though he’s not going to be much help. But I’m not going to tell him that.
I step in close to Ren, brushing my knuckles lightly over her knee. “You stay right there, sunshine. Supervisory role only.”
She snorts softly. “Taking the lead, hm?”
“Someone has to,” I say easily. “And we both know, none of these arseholes know how to cook anything.”
That earns me a tired little smile.
Satisfied she’s settled, I move around the kitchen, slipping into something that feels a lot like instinct—cracking eggs, slicing fruit, whipping up pancake batter, nudging Grieves out of the way before he can overcook something, redirecting Court when he tries to “help” by putting away ingredients we still need.
It’s… easy.
Natural.
Exactly like I always hoped pack life would be.
While the others fall into a rhythm, I duck out of the kitchen for just a moment, padding quietly down the hall toward the nursery. I don’t really have any idea what it should look like, but if I can take another thing off my omega’s plate, I’m going to do it.
The door creaks softly as I push it open.
It’s warm. Calm. Looks ready.
Still, I make a few small adjustments—straightening the crib sheet, setting out a fresh stack of burp cloths, double-checking the monitor is charged and positioned correctly.
Something about all of this--the tiny clothes, the soft stuffies, the mobile hanging over the crib--opens a great well of longing in my chest. I want this. I want to set up a nursery with my omega, with my pack. I want Ren to sit in a rocking chair in the corner with her feet propped up as she tells us what to do, directs the positioning of the crib, and decorations.
