Jude
"And then he knotted me in a twin XL."
Benji chokes on his beer. Milo covers his face with both hands. Soren looks like he's trying to melt into the couch cushions, and Shay just stares at me with the flattest expression a human being has ever produced.
"A twin XL," Shay repeats.
"A twin XL." I take a sip of my drink. "With his roommate sleeping three feet away."
"Was the roommate awake?" Milo asks through his fingers.
"I'm choosing to believe he wasn't."
"Oh my god." Benji is wheezing now, his combat boots kicked up on our coffee table, blue streak in his hair catching the lamplight. He's got a sharpie doodle of something obscene on the back of his hand that he did during his graphic design lecture today. "Was it at least good?"
"The knotting or the existential crisis afterward?"
"Both."
I pretend to think about it. Tilt my head, purse my lips, really commit to the bit. "The knotting was a solid six. He finishedin like four minutes and then wanted to cuddle, which, you know. No. And his dorm room smelled like Axe body spray and depression, so I got dressed while he was still swelled up and told him I had a study group."
"You left while he was still knotted?" Soren asks from his corner of the couch, looking genuinely distressed on this stranger's behalf. He's got his notebook in his lap and a pen tucked behind his ear, which means he was probably writing something soft and beautiful before I corrupted the room.
"His knot went down! I didn't leave him stuck. I'm not a monster." I pause for timing. "I'm just not a cuddler with someone whose sheets smell like a middle school locker room."
The laugh I get is worth the whole terrible hookup. This is my favorite part. Not the sex, not even the swiping. This. Sitting cross-legged on our shitty couch with my four favorite people, turning a mediocre Tuesday night knotting into a comedy set. I live for the reactions. Benji's cackle. Milo's horrified but amused little headshake. Even Shay's disgusted eye roll, which is basically his version of a standing ovation.
Shay hasn't blinked. "This is why I keep saying KnotMe is a dumpster fire."
"It's not a dumpster fire, it's abuffet." I gesture broadly with my glass. "Sometimes you get shrimp cocktail. Sometimes you get gas station sushi. Either way, you ate."
"That's the worst analogy you've ever made," Benji says, "and you once compared Milo's banana bread to a religious experience."
"Itisa religious experience. Milo's banana bread fucks."
Milo goes pink from his neck to his ears. "Can we not use that word about my baking?"
"Your bakingfucks, Milo. Accept it. Embrace it. Put it on a business card."
This is us. Five omegas crammed into a two-bedroom apartment that smells like Milo's stress-baking and Benji's nag champa incense and whatever artisanal body oil Soren ordered off Etsy this week. The Swipe Squad, as Benji named us sophomore year after we all downloaded KnotMe the same drunk Tuesday night. We've got one couch that sags in the middle, a kitchen table buried under textbooks and Soren's zine supplies, and a group chat with four thousand unread messages at any given time.
It's the kind of apartment where the hot water runs out if more than two people shower in a row, the AC makes a sound like it's dying every time it kicks on, and someone always left a mug of something in the microwave three days ago. It's also the safest place I've ever been, but I don't think about that part too hard because that's the kind of thought that leads somewhere soft and I'm not doing soft tonight.
Tonight is KnotMe night.
I pull out my phone and open the app. That hot pink and black interface hits my screen, the little knot logo winking at me like an old friend.Looking for something fun tonight?the home screen asks. Obviously. Always.
"Okay, someone help me." I flip my phone around so they can all see. "I need a palate cleanser after Twin XL Guy. Something better. Someone who at least has sheets that don't smell like a gym bag."
Shay doesn't even look up from his own phone, where he's doing something that's probably a spreadsheet. Because Shay makes spreadsheets for fun. We don't talk about it. "A palate cleanser implies you tasted something worth cleansing."
"Shay, I love you, but your commitment to being a hater is genuinely impressive."
"It's not hate. It's realism."
"It's a lifestyle is what it is."
Benji scoots closer to me on the couch, tucking his legs underneath him and leaning into my space to peer at my screen. His nose ring catches the light. "Okay, what about that one? Big arms. Look at those arms."
