I nod, drawn into the moment despite myself. “They’re my favorite,” I say, the words coming out in a rush. “Since I was a kid. I used to have books—” I stop abruptly, suddenly aware of what I’m revealing. Not the polished, capable version of myself I show everyone else, but the person underneath it. The one with favorite animals and childhood memories and all the small, ordinary details that make someone real.
But no one pushes the moment into something heavier. The admission is met with easy acceptance and the unspoken understanding that any version of me is welcome here.
“That makes sense,” Bash says after a moment. “You’ve got the same... I don’t know. Grace, I guess. The way you move through a space. Like you’re part of it rather than moving through it.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I’m not—that’s not—“
“It’s a compliment,” Adrian says quickly. “A really good one. Bash doesn’t give those out often, so you should definitely take it.”
A faint flush touches Bash's expression before he schools it away. “I give compliments,” he mutters, the words roughened by faint embarrassment. “When they’re earned. Which isn’t that often, if we’re being honest.” My omega responds immediately to the easy affection woven through the exchange, warmth unfurling low beneath my skin. “Thanks,” I say finally, warmth lingering beneath the words. “Both of you.” They nod once and let the moment settle naturally, their attention returning to thedocumentary. Still, I catch the subtle shift in Bash’s expression—a softness that sends warmth curling low in my stomach.
The documentary moves deeper into the open-ocean ecosystem, the screen filling with drifting schools of fish and sunlight filtering through impossibly blue water. I force myself to focus on the narrator’s voice as he explains the delicate balance of the ecosystem and the migration patterns that connect it all. Anything besides the constant awareness of my own body and the three alphas surrounding me.
But I can’t. Not completely. Because my body’s still responding to their presence, to the occasional brush of fabric as someone shifts position, to the simple fact of them sitting close enough that I could reach out and touch them easily.
Two hours in, the documentary reaches its conclusion—the narrator’s voice taking on that particular tone that signals the end is near. I should be relieved. Should be ready for this moment to end, for the distance I insisted on before to return, for things to go back to whatever passes for normal these days.
But I’m not. I want to stay here a little longer, wrapped in the warmth of the blankets and the layered presence surrounding me instead of returning to the restless tension waiting outside this room. Whatever this is becoming, my omega is already reaching for it.
I’ve spent days resisting this pull toward them, but sitting here now, all I want is for them to stay close.
The credits begin to roll, names drifting across the screen beneath the soft glow of the television. Still, no one moves to end the night. No one reaches for the remote or pushes the momentinto something different. We simply remain where we are, and something about the normalcy of sitting here with them feels unexpectedly right.
“Dinner?” Adrian asks casually. “We could order in. Or I could make those sandwiches Bash likes. The ones with the weird mustard.”
Bash makes a wounded sound from somewhere to my right. “It’s not weird, it’s artisanal. There’s a difference.” A laugh slips out and something in the room shifts with it. The tension I’ve been carrying at the thought of leaving eases. Adrian settles back into the couch beside me, his arm lifting to rest along the back behind me.
I go still immediately.
“You can relax,” he says lightly, his attention still half on Bash. “No one’s grading your posture over there.”
Heat crawls up my neck despite myself.
I shouldn’t.
The thought comes fast, automatic, but it doesn’t stop me. My body shifts before my mind catches up, leaning just enough that my shoulder brushes his side. The contact is barely noticeable, but my omega reacts like the small point of contact means everything, warmth blooming low in my chest as my body instinctively eases toward him instead of away.
I tell myself that’s enough, that I can stop there, that I can hold the line if I just stay aware of it.
But I don’t.
The warmth of him draws me closer, my body responding before my mind can catch up. My focus narrows instinctively to the space beneath his jaw, pulled there by scent and heat and something deeper my omega recognizes immediately. I don’t consciously decide to move closer. I just do, following the instinct until my breath ghosts across his skin and the reality of what I’m doing hits all at once.
I freeze.
Adrian doesn’t move beneath me. He just stays still, giving me room to retreat without making the moment feel awkward or exposed.
Heat floods my face.
I ease back carefully, suddenly hyperaware of how instinctively my body moved toward him and how impossible it feels to pretend otherwise now.
But I can feel the shift in the room anyway. There’s a split second when I expect someone to pull back, to reset the moment the way we do on set when something goes too far off-script.
But no one does. No one calls attention to it or treats it like a mistake that needs correcting.
Adrian's expression softens almost imperceptibly before he looks back toward the others. "Dinner?" he asks lightly. "Because I'm still making the sandwiches unless someone stops me." The silence that follows only lasts a beat, but my omega notices the shift immediately, awareness curling tighter through the room as the space between us changes in a way I can’t quite undo now.
Three sets of eyes settle on me, patient and focused in a way that makes my pulse stumble.
