I notice that without any of the reflexive second-guessing that would have accompanied it a week ago. My legs ache, but for the first time since my presentation, I trust that some part of me knows what it's doing.
At some point I sit down on the bottom step of the stairs and notice that the light through the front windows has shifted toward noon. I realize I've been moving through this house for hours without stopping, and I'm exhausted.
A knock at the door startles me while I'm still sitting there. I open it to find a delivery driver holding a large paper bag with a receipt stapled to the top. I thank him, take the food, and close the door behind me.
The smell that escapes the bag is so familiar that I just stand there for a second. Then I look at the receipt.
It’s from my favorite restaurant.
A note is tucked beneath the receipt. It's a small square of paper folded once. I open it and immediately recognize the handwriting as Bash's, but the signature simply saysyour alphas, plural, which means they arranged it together.
Eat. Drink water. Rest. The lamp looks better in the nest room anyway. (Adrian noticed. Don't ask how.)
At the bottom, in different handwriting and smaller script, is afinal addition:
We'll be home before dinner.
I stand in the kitchen doorway holding the bag while my chest does something I don't have clean language for.
It's not just that they ordered food.
They thought about me while they were spending their last day on set.
Somehow, they'd known exactly what I needed.
I set the note on the counter and try not to cry.
I almost fail.
Once I've composed myself, I eat on the couch with the throw from the armchair draped across my legs. The scent of my alphas settles something inside me as I happily work my way through the food I've been craving for days.
I read the note twice more before folding it carefully and slipping it into the pocket of Adrian's hoodie, which I'm currently wearing, because that's where it belongs.
The exhaustion catches up to me properly after I finish eating. It's not like last week's bone-deep depletion or the crash that follows a heat flare. This feels different.
My body is telling me it has done what it needed to do today. The restless energy that kept me moving through the house allmorning is fading, replaced by a growing certainty that it's time to stop.
My eyelids feel heavy. The couch is comfortable, but the pull of my nest is stronger so I head upstairs.
Upstairs, my nest is perfect.
The new lamp in the corner casts a gentle glow across the nest. The blankets are arranged the way I want them. The decorative pillow from the living room sits in exactly the right spot. The candle on the side table is unlit but perfectly placed. All four of our scents are layered throughout the room.
After taking a moment to appreciate it, I crawl into the center of the nest.
Bash's hoodie is already there where I folded it, and I pull it close, pressing my face into the fabric. The spiced bergamot scent floods my senses. Next, I reach for Adrian's blanket, the heavy one carrying cedar and amber, and pull it over my shoulder. Elias's is the last thing I reach for. The cool mineral thread of his scent sits beneath everything else, grounding me as I pull the blanket closer. The combination of all three scents settles over me, and my entire body relaxes.
I miss them.
The depth of the feeling catches me off guard.
The house isalmostperfect. I've spent the entire day shaping it into exactly what I needed, and yet it still feels incomplete because they aren't here.
I thought I would feel relieved to have the space to myself today.
This morning, when the front door closed and the silence settled over the house, for one moment it felt good.
But only one.
