Chapter 28 #2
Alfie slumped against the stall wall, chest heaving, face flushed a deep, ruinous red. He looked devastatingly pretty.
"Clean up," I said, unlocking the stall door. "We have a soundcheck."
I stepped out into the corridor.
Kit and Euan were waiting. They looked at me, calm, composed, hair fixed. Then they looked at the bathroom door, where Alfie was just emerging, looking like he’d been put through a spin cycle.
Kit’s mouth quirked at the corner.
"Everything sorted?" he asked innocently.
"Levels are balanced," I said.
We walked toward the green room.
Rowan was there, waiting with her tablet. She didn't look up as we entered, but I saw the ghost of a smirk on her lips. She handed me a tablet with the press metrics.
And Cal, beautiful, reliable Cal, appeared from the kitchenette. He didn't ask questions. He just placed a steaming mug of tea in my hand and slid a vanilla milkshake toward me across the table.
"You'll need the sugar," Cal said mildly. "Adrenaline crash is a bear."
I took a sip of the tea. Earl Grey. Two sugars.
"Thanks, Cal."
Alfie collapsed onto the sofa, staring at the ceiling, looking dazed and happy.
"She's terrifying," Alfie whispered to the room. "She's absolutely terrifying."
"Get used to it," I said, opening my laptop. "Two minutes to soundcheck. Let's go make some noise."
That night, after the show, after the adrenaline had finally bled out into a dull, aching exhaustion, the bubble of the bus felt tighter. Safer.
The transition from "colleagues" to "pack" wasn't a straight line. It was a series of jagged peaks and valleys. We were navigating the bizarre reality of being professionally public and biologically entangled.
I stood in the kitchenette, staring at a pan of scrambled eggs.
"I can calculate the thermal dynamics of a tube amp," I muttered, poking the rubbery yellow mass with a spatula. "Why can I not apply heat to protein without ruining it?"
"Because you're impatient," Kit’s voice came from the doorway.
He wasn't wearing a shirt. He rarely did on the bus after a show. The tattoos on his torso were a map I was just starting to learn.
"I'm efficient," I countered. "Eggs should know what to do."
"Move," he said gently, stepping in behind me. He took the spatula from my hand. He turned the heat down. "You burned them. Too high, too fast."
"Story of my life," I sighed, leaning back against the counter.
Kit chuckled, a low rumble. He scraped the ruin into the bin and cracked three fresh eggs with one hand.
"Sit," he ordered. "I'll feed you."
I sat at the small booth table. Euan was there, typing on his laptop, headphones around his neck. Alfie was sprawled on the banquette opposite, tossing grapes into the air and trying to catch them. He missed most of them.
It was domestic. It was terrifyingly normal.
Kit plated the eggs, soft, perfectly seasoned, and set them in front of me. He didn't leave. He sat next to me, thigh pressing against mine, arm draped along the back of the seat.
I took a bite. They were perfect.
"Thank you," I said.
He just squeezed my shoulder.
I looked at them. Euan, lost in his code but keeping a foot touching my ankle under the table. Alfie, watching me eat with that unnerving, golden retriever energy and devotion. Kit, solid and warm beside me.
The panic flared again. The old instinct. It’s too much. It’s a trap.
I put the fork down.
"Two constraints," I blurted out.
The silence hit instantly. Alfie caught a grape and held it. Euan stopped typing. Kit went still.
"Constraints?" Euan asked, pivoting to face me.
"Project parameters," I said, feeling the flush rise in my cheeks. "If we're doing this. If we're... building."
"We're listening," Kit said.
"One," I said, gripping the edge of the table. "I'm not determining a hierarchy. I'm not picking a 'primary' Alpha. The industry wants me to belong to one of you. They want a couple name."
"Gross," Alfie muttered.
"Exactly. So, no favorites. No competition. If I feel you competing for rank, I walk."
"Agreed," Euan said immediately. "Collaboration over competition. It is the most efficient model."
"Sorted," Kit nodded.
"Two," I said, locking eyes with Alfie. "I want all three of you. I don't just mean in the nest. I mean... I want the pack. Not a pair. Not a rotation of dates. I want the unit."
I took a breath.
"If we do this, we do it as a block. We move together. We sleep together. And when we figure out the... the other stuff..." I waved my hand vaguely, indicating the sex, the claiming, the future. "We figure it out as a four."
Alfie’s face broke into a slow, radiant smile. "You want the whole set?"
"I want the full spectrum," I corrected.
"Copy that," Alfie whispered. "You're our center, fox. We just orbit."
"Confirmed," Euan said, finally closing his laptop. "The geometry holds."
"Right," Kit said, picking up my fork and stabbing a piece of egg. "Eat your protein. We’ve got a schedule to build."
He held the fork to my mouth. I ate it.
Later that night, we built the first true pack sleep.
Not a crisis response. Not a heat-induced crash. A choice.
We stripped the back bunk. We pulled the mattresses from the other bunks onto the floor of the rear lounge, creating a massive, soft island. Cal watched from the doorway, sipping his tea, looking like a proud uncle.
"Don't stay up too late," Cal warned. "We have an early drive."
"Goodnight, Cal," we chorused.
We settled in. It took some maneuvering. Elbows, knees, finding the rhythm.
I ended up in the middle. Alfie was the little spoon, curled against my chest. Kit was the big spoon behind me, a massive wall of heat. Euan took the foot of the bed, draping his legs over ours, his hand resting on my ankle, keeping contact with the pulse point there.
It was quiet. The bus hummed beneath us.
"No sex," I whispered into the dark. "Just... frequency match."
"Just signal," Euan agreed sleepily.
I closed my eyes. I could feel three heartbeats syncing with mine. Indigo. Earth. Slate.
I slept like I hadn't slept in ten years. No white noise machine. No deadbolts. Just the heavy, living weight of the pack.
When I woke up, the bus was stopped. Bright morning light filtered through the cracks in the blinds.
They were still there. Nobody had left to give me "space."
I carefully untangled myself, climbing over Euan’s legs. I padded to the whiteboard in the front lounge, grabbed the black marker, and pulled the cap off with my teeth.
Under FOXTAIL PROTOCOLS, I wrote a new header.
INTIMACY LOGISTICS
I heard movement behind me. They were waking up.
"We're going to need a rotation schedule," I said to the empty room. "Before you kill each other."
"I heard that," Alfie yawned, stumbling into the lounge, hair sticking up in every direction. He wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder. "Put me down for Mondays. I like Mondays."
"Why Mondays?"
"Start of the week," he murmured, pressing a kiss to my neck. "Set the tone."
"Monday," I wrote. Alfie.
"Wednesday," Euan said, appearing with his tablet, looking crisp despite the sleep in his eyes. "Mid-week calibration. I require structure."
"Wednesday," I wrote. Euan.
"That leaves Friday," Kit rumbled, leaning in the doorway with a mug of coffee. "End of the week. Heavy lifting. I'll take the comedown shift."
"Friday," I wrote. Kit.
I capped the marker. I looked at the schedule.
"And Sunday?" Alfie asked.
I turned to look at them. Three Alphas. My pack.
"Sunday," I said, a slow smile spreading across my face. "Sunday is Pack Night."