4. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Alice
B y the time evening finally dragged itself around, I felt like I'd been scraped across sandpaper and left out to dry. Classes had blurred together. I barely remembered walking back to my apartment — just the familiar autopilot of sidewalks, stairwells, and my key turning stiffly in the lock.
The second the door swung shut behind me, I didn’t even bother dropping my bag properly.
It slid from my shoulder with a heavy thud onto the floor.
I kicked off my shoes, peeled out of my jacket, and stumbled straight toward the corner of my bedroom — the one spot that had been slowly overtaken by a mess of blankets, pillows, and old hoodies over the past month.
My nest.
Not a proper one, not a perfect, textbook nest like you'd see in Omega guides. Just mine.A chaotic heap of softness, faintly smelling of my laundry soap and lavender candle wax, worn in all the right ways.
I burrowed deep into it, dragging a fluffy blanket over my head and curling around one of the thicker pillows like a lifeline.
My body exhaled before I could even think about it, tension bleeding out of me in slow, reluctant drips.
The walls of my nest muffled the distant sounds of the city — the low hum of traffic, a siren wailing two streets over, the sharp clatter of someone's skateboard hitting the pavement.
The familiar noises seeped into the edges of my awareness and dissolved there, harmless.
Everything smelled faintly of lavender and me and safety. It didn’t fix the ache clawing at my chest, but it softened it. Made it bearable. A chipped mug of lukewarm tea balanced precariously on the floor near the nest’s edge, forgotten from the previous day.
I turned my face into the pillow and let myself just exist for a little while, tucked safely away from the world. Still, a gnawing restlessness clawed underneath the surface. I couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t let my brain spin itself into oblivion either.
I grabbed my phone from where it had landed somewhere between the folds of blankets. A few messages blinked back at me: a reminder about an assignment, a meme from Mara, and of course — the inevitable text from my mom:
Mom: Just a reminder about the mixer on Saturday! It’s important for Omegas to put themselves out there, sweetheart! Can’t wait to hear about all the nice Alphas you meet!
I locked my phone without answering, pressing it against my chest like maybe that would keep the words from sinking in. The mixer. The endless parade of expectation.
Find a mate. Find someone to claim you. Find a purpose.
My chest tightened until it was hard to breathe. My nest, usually the one place that softened everything, suddenly felt too small. Too close.
I needed out. Needed air.Needed someone who didn't make me feel like a walking disappointment wrapped in soft Omega skin. Before I could talk myself out of it, I thumbed out a quick message to the one person who didn’t see me that way:
Me: Hey. You busy?
Her reply was almost immediate:
Mara: Define "busy."
I let out a soft, breathless laugh into the blankets.Without hesitating, I typed:
Me: I’m going crazy. Come save me?
The pause that followed was just long enough for doubt to creep in — maybe she was busy, maybe she had better things to do — but then my phone buzzed:
Mara: On my way.
Warmth bloomed under my ribs, stubborn and bright.
I stayed curled in my nest until the knock came at the door.
I untangled myself from the blankets and padded barefoot to let her in.
My hair stuck out wildly in every direction from being curled in my nest. I opened the door and was greeted with a smirking Mara.
"Rescue mission, reporting for duty," she said, her voice a low, teasing rumble.
"You didn’t have to actually rush," I said, stepping back to let her kick off her boots and wander inside as I shut the door behind her.
"I figured if you were calling for backup, it was serious," she said, flashing a quick smile. "Plus, Art History homework was slowly killing my will to live. You're basically saving me ."
She took in the room with a glance — the cozy disarray of the nest visible through the open bedroom door, the half-finished tea, the muted wolves still flashing across the TV screen.
"Still smells like lavender and questionable life choices," she teased.
"I like to keep things consistent," I muttered, retreating back toward the pile of blankets.
I sank down onto the edge of the nest without really thinking, pulling one of the pillows into my lap.
Mara dropped into the battered armchair across from me with a comfortable sigh, one arm slung lazily over the backrest.
"You wanna tell me what’s got you burrowed six feet into your blankets?" she asked after a few seconds of silence, her voice gentler now.
I shrugged, tracing slow, absent-minded circles on the pillowcase. "Everything," I admitted. "School. Expectations. My parents pushing about that stupid mixer this weekend."
Her mouth twisted into a grimace. "The Omega meet-and-greets?"
I nodded, picking at a loose thread, "They make it sound like if I don't find someone soon, I’m defective. Like my worth’s got an expiration date."
Mara’s whole posture shifted — not stiff, exactly, but suddenly charged with something protective and sharp. It made my throat tighten.
"You’re not defective," she said, voice low and certain. "You're not a racehorse being sold off to the highest bidder." I glanced up. Her gaze pinned me there — steady, unwavering.
"You’re allowed to want more than being somebody’s checkmark on a list," she said. "You’re allowed to want yourself first." Something in my chest cracked, fragile and aching.
I hugged the pillow tighter to myself, blinking hard. "Thanks," I whispered.
Mara smiled — small, a little crooked — but it bloomed warmth through my whole chest, like someone striking a match inside my ribs.
"For what it's worth," she said, drumming her fingers lightly on the arm of the chair, "if anyone ever made you feel like you had to shrink yourself to fit their checklist, I’d personally punch them."
A startled laugh broke out of me — cracked and breathless. I pressed the sleeve of my hoodie against my mouth to smother it, heat rising to my cheeks.
"You’d get arrested," I mumbled.
Mara only shrugged, her mouth twitching at the corners. "Worth it." She shifted in her seat, resting her elbows loosely on her knees. Her gaze flicked briefly to the open bedroom door, where my nest was still visible — a chaotic monument to exhaustion and needing. Then back to me.
"Wanna get out of here?" she asked, her voice lighter now, pitched like an invitation and a promise all at once.
I blinked at her, caught mid-thought. "Like... go where?"
Mara shrugged her jacket"Anywhere. Waffle House at midnight. That gross diner that serves pancakes bigger than your head. Or we could just drive around and roast rich people’s terrible lawn sculptures. I'm flexible."
The offer hung between us, fizzing slightly in the charged air.
The thought of leaving my apartment — my little cocoon of crumpled safety — should’ve made my stomach knot with anxiety.
I worried the inside of my cheek between my teeth for a second, considering the fatigue coiled deep in my bones — but the restlessness, the itch to move , was worse.
Finally, I gave a small nod. "Okay," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. "Yeah. Let’s go."
"Good," she said, pushing to her feet with a loose stretch that made the seams of her jacket groan. "Come on, nest goblin. Let’s find the world's worst cup of coffee."
I groaned, dragging myself up, "You say that like it's something to brag about."
"It is," she said seriously, tossing my jacket at me. I caught it against my chest, huffing out a laugh. "You haven’t lived until you’re questioning your life choices over a cup of dishwater coffee at two in the morning."
I stuffed my phone and keys into my pockets, crammed my feet into sneakers, and followed her out into the hallway.
The night outside hit face — sharp and cold, smelling faintly of wet concrete, distant food trucks, and the damp promise of rain.
Streetlights buzzed overhead, painting the cracked sidewalk in puddles of gold and shadow.
Mara’s truck was parked half-on, half-off the curb, as crooked as always.
She shot me a sheepish look over her shoulder as she unlocked the passenger door.
"What?" she said, mock defensive. "You try parallel parking after back-to-back lectures on sociological theory.
" I snickered, climbing into the passenger seat.
The interior of the truck smelled like her — leather, pine soap, the faint metallic tang of old cologne lingering in the cracked upholstery.
I sank into the seat, tugging the seatbelt across my chest, letting the smell and the low rumble of the engine wrap around me like another blanket.
Mara threw the truck into gear, her hand easy and sure on the gearshift, and pulled away from the curb with a lurch that jolted us both into laughter.
The city blurred past the windows — glowing convenience stores, crooked rows of apartment buildings, alley cats slinking across side streets.The radio murmured low between us, some indie band with too many guitars and a singer whose voice sounded like he was half-drowning in nostalgia.
For a while, we didn’t talk. We just were — two girls in a battered truck, chased by the glow of streetlights and the smell of rain. It was enough.
Eventually, Mara glanced over at me, her face limned in passing pools of orange and white. "You okay?"
I nodded, twisting the hem of my hoodie between my fingers. "Better now," I said, meaning it. She smiled, giving a nod.
We ended up at a Twenty-four-hour diner three neighborhoods over — the kind of place with flickering neon signs, duct tape patching the vinyl seats, and windows so grimy you could barely see the parking lot through them.
It was perfect.
Mara parked like she was abandoning ship — diagonal across two spaces — and threw me a mock-salute as she hopped out.
"Come on," she called over her shoulder.
"I can already smell the burnt coffee from here.
" The bell above the door jangled when we stepped inside, releasing a gust of greasy air that smelled like frying oil and powdered sugar. Inside, the diner buzzed with a handful of night owls — students cramming textbooks under the yellow light, a cluster of truckers hunched over mugs, a man in a bathrobe and slippers quietly eating pancakes in the corner like he didn’t have a single care left to give.
Mara led us to a battered booth in the back, sliding in with the casual sprawl of someone who belonged everywhere she went.
I followed, tugging the cracked menu toward me and squinting at the faded print.
A waitress with tired purple hair shuffled over, plunking down two chipped mugs and a pot of coffee without waiting for an order.
"Starting a tab for you two," she said, her voice rough but not unkind.
Mara grinned and poured for both of us, sliding a mug across to me. The coffee steamed weakly, already sloshing around the rim like it was trying to escape.
"Cheers to questionable life choices," Mara said, raising her mug.
I snorted, clinking mine against hers. The ceramic clack was sharp and bright in the hum of the diner.
I took a sip — it was watery, bitter, and scalding — and immediately made a face.
Mara burst out laughing, tipping her head back against the cracked booth seat.
"See?" she said, triumphantly. "Experience unlocked." I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help grinning back at her. And sitting there — in a sticky booth under flickering lights, with Mara’s knee bumping mine under the table and the smell of burnt toast thick in the air —I felt something ease inside me.
Something small and tender and scared finally letting out a breath.
Maybe I wasn’t broken. Maybe I was just still finding my own shape. And maybe….just maybe I can figure out my life myself.