Epilogue
Six Months Later
Wilson
The Tuesday night crowd at Vice & Virtue is thin enough that I can hear Oliver complaining from across the building.
"I can't reach the top shelf, nobody will help me, my ankles are swollen, this baby is sitting on my bladder like a throne, and if one more person tells me to sit down I'm going to burn this club to the ground."
Oliver is six months pregnant and has been banned from the step stool since month four, when Lorenzo caught him climbing it to rearrange the premium bourbon display and nearly had a cardiac event in the middle of the Tuesday staff briefing.
The ban covers any elevated surface, heavy lifting, running on the club floor, and every activity Lorenzo deems "unnecessarily vertical," a category Oliver disputes on philosophical grounds roughly nine times a day.
"You could sit down," I tell him from behind the bar, reviewing the week's schedule.
"I will end you, Wilson Ashford."
"Just a suggestion."
"A terrible suggestion from a terrible person, and I'll remember this when I'm in labor and you want to hold my hand."
His belly rounds the corner of the bar, the bump visible beneath the oversized t-shirt he stole from Nicholas's drawer this morning.
His face is flushed from the exertion of yelling.
Glitter clings to his cheekbones because he stopped wearing it for exactly one day during the first trimester before declaring that pregnancy wasn't going to steal sparkle from him on top of everything else.
The nest has consumed the entire bedroom. What began as a corner installation has metastasized into something requiring a building permit and possibly an engineering degree to navigate.
Oliver adds to it daily with the focused intensity of someone building a shelter against a storm only he can see coming. Nicholas's jackets form the outer wall. Lorenzo's undershirts line the floor. My pillow sits in the center because Oliver insists my scent has to be the foundation.
The weighted blankets he ordered arrived in a box big enough to sleep in and Lorenzo carried them upstairs while Oliver directed placement from the doorway with the authority of a general marshaling troops.
"The baby needs layers," Oliver told me last week when I pointed out that the nest now occupied more square footage than the kitchen. "And textures. And scent variety. The books say an Omega nest during pregnancy should contain items from every pack member to establish the baby's sensory baseline."
"How many books did you read?"
"Eleven. Also three podcasts and a forum thread that got really weird around page forty but had some valid points about pillow density."
I push through the office door and cross to Lorenzo’s chair, my growing confidence pushing me towards my mates whenever I deem their touch necessary.
Lorenzo's pen stills when my hand finds his jaw, tilting his face up.
The kiss is brief, warm, tasting like the coffee he's been nursing for the past hour.
His free hand catches my hip and holds me there a beat longer than the kiss requires.
"What was that for?" His voice carries the particular temperature it reaches when I touch him without being prompted.
"Felt like it."
"You felt like kissing me."
"Is that a problem?"
"It's the opposite of a problem." His thumb traces the bone of my hip through my shirt. "It's just new."
"It's been months."
"And every time is still new." His eyes hold mine above the reading glasses. "Get back to work before Oliver starts climbing things."
Two steps out of the office and Nicholas intercepts me.
He's coming through the front door from a late meeting, jacket over his arm, glasses fogged from the temperature change.
His eyes find me before the door closes because Nicholas's eyes always find me first. The amber of his scent fills the space between us as he crosses the floor.
The pack mark is visible above his collar where the top button of his shirt sits open. Lorenzo designed it, the geometry carrying Lorenzo's particular eye for structure. Four interlocking shapes that represent each of us, rendered in black ink by the tattoo artist Lorenzo chose.
It tells anyone who sees it that this Alpha belongs to a pack and that pack has a Beta at its center who drew the design on a napkin during a Tuesday night shift and handed it to Nicholas without a word.
Nicholas wears it the way he wears everything Lorenzo gives him. With pride that borders on reverence.
"Hey, Will."
"Hey."
His hand finds the back of my neck. The kiss is different from Lorenzo's. Slower, deeper, his mouth lingering against mine, the bite on my lip pressing between us. The bond hums through the contact, the low pulse that I've stopped noticing the way I've stopped noticing my own heartbeat.
"I brought scones," Nicholas says against my mouth.
"You always bring scones."
"You always eat them."
"I never said I didn't want them. I’m just saying you didn’t have to bring them."
"And yet." He pulls back, eyes crinkling behind the fogged glasses, the bakery bag dangling from his free hand. "Cinnamon rolls too. Don't tell Oliver, they're for you."
"EXCUSE ME." Oliver's voice carries from somewhere near the bar with the volume of a man whose Omega hearing has been heightened by pregnancy hormones.
"I heard the word cinnamon and I heard the word roll and if anyone in this building thinks they're eating pastry without sharing with the person who is GROWING A HUMAN—"
Nicholas winces. "He heard that from forty feet away?"
"He can hear a candy wrapper from the parking lot. It's terrifying."
Oliver rounds the corner of the bar with one hand on his belly and the other extended toward the bakery bag. "Give me the bag, Nicholas."
"There are scones in there for everyone—"
"The bag, Alpha."
Nicholas surrenders. Oliver opens it, extracts a cinnamon roll, and takes a bite that removes a third in one motion. His eyes close. Crumbs fall onto his belly and he brushes them off without opening his eyes.
"Nobody talk to me for thirty seconds. I'm having a moment."
Lorenzo appears in the office doorway with his reading glasses pushed up on his forehead. "Oliver, you're supposed to be resting."
"I'm standing. Standing is not a strenuous activity."
"Standing for four hours is."
"I've been standing for two hours. The other two I was sitting on that stool which Wilson specifically brought for me even though he pretended it was for the bartender." Oliver points the remaining cinnamon roll at me. "I saw you carry it over. You're not subtle."
"I'm incredibly subtle."
“You bought a stool with a back support and a cushion and put it behind the bar at exactly my height. Lorenzo's stool doesn't have a cushion."
"Lorenzo doesn't have a person growing inside him."
Oliver's face softens around the cinnamon roll. His free hand rests on the curve of his belly, fingers spread across the bump where Nicholas's t-shirt stretches over it. The glitter on his cheeks catches the bar lights.
Then his expression changes. His mouth goes slack as the cinnamon roll hovers in the air. His hand presses flatter against his belly and his eyes go wide.
"Oh fuck." Oliver's voice drops to a whisper. "Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck."
We all move closer, my hand reaching Oliver's stomach before either of them crosses the floor.
My palm presses flat against the bump where Oliver's hand was and beneath the warm fabric of the stolen t-shirt, beneath the stretched skin of Oliver's belly, something pushes against my palm. A small, firm pressure. A kick.
Oliver's hand covers mine, pressing it tighter against the bump. The kick comes again, stronger, a tiny foot or fist or elbow asserting its presence against the wall of its universe, and my breath catches in my chest and stays there.
Nicholas reaches us. His hand finds the other side of Oliver's belly, his palm spread wide, the pack mark visible on his neck above the open collar, his face carrying the open-mouthed wonder of a man experiencing something his brain hasn't built a category for yet.
Lorenzo's hand lands on the small of Oliver's back, steadying him.
"That's her," Oliver whispers. His eyes are bright with tears he's not fighting. "That's our girl."
The kick pulses against my palm again. His free hand, the one still holding the cinnamon roll, waves between the three of us. "Okay, I've been thinking about this and I've made a decision."
Lorenzo's eyebrow rises. "Should we be concerned?"
"I want a bite." Oliver takes another bite of the cinnamon roll and chews with the casual authority of a man delivering a proclamation.
"Wilson has one. Nicholas has a tattoo. I want a bite.
On my neck, right here." He taps the spot below his ear with a frosting-covered finger, leaving a sticky smear on his skin.
"Something visible. Something that says Oliver Hendrix belongs to this pack and this pack belongs to Oliver Hendrix. "
"Oliver," Lorenzo says carefully. "Betas can't give claiming bites."
"I know that. I want Nicholas to do it." Oliver grins at the Alpha. "During my next heat. Make it romantic. I want candles."
"You want candles during a heat," I say flatly.
"Scented candles. Vanilla. To set the mood."
"The mood during a heat is already set, Oliver. That's what the heat is for."
"The mood could be enhanced, Wilson. I'm an Omega who appreciates ambiance." Oliver looks between the three of us, his hand on his belly, frosting on his neck, glitter catching the light. "So? What do we think?"
Nicholas is looking at Lorenzo. Lorenzo is looking at Nicholas. The silent conversation between them lasts approximately two seconds and contains more information than most people exchange in an hour.
"After the baby," Lorenzo says. His voice carries the warmth he reserves for moments when Oliver's chaos has landed on something that matters. "When your body is ready. And Nicholas and I will discuss the candle situation."
"That means yes!" Oliver throws his arms around Nicholas's neck, cinnamon roll and all, and Nicholas staggers under the sudden weight of a pregnant Omega launching himself sideways. Frosting transfers to Nicholas's collar. Glitter transfers to everything.
"That means we'll discuss it," Lorenzo corrects.
"That means yes and everyone knows it." Oliver pulls back from Nicholas and grabs my face with both hands, pressing a cinnamon-flavored kiss to my mouth. "I'm getting a bite! Our baby is kicking! Best Tuesday ever!"