Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Mia
By the time the sun goes down, my house is half-organized and my stomach is empty in the way it gets when I forget to eat because my brain is on a mission.
I make a grilled cheese and eat it standing at the counter. The silence in my house is almost… loud. A hollow quiet that makes every sound, even my chewing, feel amplified.
Next door, the noise continues.
The occasional loud laugh. A shout. The deep thud of something heavy being moved. A string of words that are definitely not appropriate for a family neighborhood.
At seven, I open my laptop and finally face my deadline.
The article is supposed to be: “Five Signs You’re Ready to Open Your Heart to a Pack.”
I stare at the blinking cursor.
It’s ironic. I can write fifteen hundred words on emotional readiness, and the importance of shared values. I can outline the perfect theoretical relationship.
But looking at the blank page, all I can think is: Step one, find neighbors who don’t make you want to hide under the bed.
I crack my knuckles and force myself to type.
I stare at the screen until the white glare burns my retinas. Then, purely out of spite for the deadline, my fingers start moving.
When looking for a pack, I write, stability is key. You want partners who lower your cortisol, not raise it.
A crash from next door makes me jump.
“Damn it,” I mutter.
I delete lower your cortisol and replace it with make you feel safe.
Safe. Soft. Quiet.
I type until my eyes blur, building a description of a love that is polite and predictable. A love that asks permission. A love that follows the rules.
I try very hard not to think about burning sugar and dangerous smirks.
I try very hard to believe my own advice.
I’m halfway through a paragraph about why stealing his favorite hoodie is actually a valid love language when the sound starts.
A drill.
Not a small drill. Not a polite, considerate drill. A drill that sounds like someone is trying to tunnel to the center of the earth.
My fingers freeze on the keyboard.
The drill stops.
I exhale, eyes closing for a second before I type: “A true pack provides peace, not heart palpitations.” Lies. Absolute lies, considering I’m currently fantasizing about strangling my neighbors.
The drill starts again.
The sound is high and grinding, making my eye twitch.
“No,” I say, because apparently my house is the place where I talk to myself now.
I try to ignore it. I put in earbuds. I turn on white noise. I turn on a playlist called Deep Focus that is ninety percent ambient sounds and ten percent me wanting to throw my laptop out the window.
The drill chews through all of it.
It’s like it’s inside my skull.
I move to the kitchen table. Same.
I move to the couch. Same.
I go into the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed with my laptop balanced on my knees. Same.
The drilling pauses, then resumes, like they’re doing it on purpose to test me.
My words dry up. My thoughts scatter. Every time I start a sentence, the noise yanks me out of it like a leash.
At ten-thirty, I’m still only three-quarters done and my editor’s “friendly reminder” is starting to feel like a threat.
At eleven, the drill gets louder.
Eleven.
PM.
I stare at the clock on my laptop like it’s lying.
Next door, the drill screams again.
Something in me snaps. An exhausted, stressed, deadline-driven crack that has nothing to do with being an omega and everything to do with being a person who needs sleep and quiet.
I slam my laptop shut so hard it rattles.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
I reach for my phone, because I’m not a monster; I’m going to be polite. I’m going to text. I’m going to look up their number…except I don’t have their number because they’re strangers.
I could use the neighborhood app, but that feels passive-aggressive.
I could call the non-emergency line, but that feels drastic.
So instead I do what every woman who has ever reached her limit does.
I march.
I throw on my slippers and make it three steps toward the front door before I realize I’m wearing sleep shorts and a tank top. I pause at the hallway mirror.
Do I change?
I glance at the clock again. 11:07 PM. My article is due in the morning. My brain feels like it’s vibrating.
I’m too tired to care.
I smooth a hand over my hair, which is in a messy bun, and then immediately regret it because now I’m aware of how exposed I feel. Bare arms. Bare legs.
My omega whispers, Not safe. Not safe. Not safe.
I ignore her and step onto my porch.
The night air is cool, and for a second it clears my head. The street is quiet. No cars, no voices. Just the steady hum of distant traffic and the bright, intrusive cheer of porch lights.
Next door, light spills from the windows. The sound of the drill still unmistakable.
I cross the small stretch of grass between our houses, my slippers scuffing the sidewalk. With every step, my irritation builds.
I’m not going to scream. I’m going to be calm. I’m going to say, Hi, sorry, I’m your neighbor, could you please stop drilling at eleven at night?
I stop at their front door and lift my hand.
The drilling stops.
I freeze, fist hovering in the air.
Then I hear voices inside.
“Hold it—”
“—no, you’re off by half an inch—”
“—I told you—”
I knock. Three short raps that scream I have a deadline and zero patience.
Inside, the arguing cuts off. Heavy footsteps vibrate through the floorboards, followed by the decisive clack of a deadbolt sliding back. The door swings open, and suddenly my view of the porch light is gone.
It’s the ash blond.
Up close, he’s even taller than he looked from my window.
He fills the frame, a solid wall of broad shoulders and…
and…and shirtless, sweaty, dust streaked across his forearms like he’s been wrestling drywall.
He’s holding a drill in one hand, expression wincing and apologetic before I even speak, as if he knows exactly why I’m here.
And his scent hits me. Soft. Barely there.
He’s a beta and he smells like warm oats and fresh bread.
The smell of a kitchen on a Sunday morning. Yeast and golden grains and a steady, grounding warmth that feels like a heavy blanket being draped over my shoulders.
My mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
Behind him, the house is chaos. Boxes, tools, a half-built shelving unit against the wall. The twins are there, both in t-shirts that are damp with sweat. The strawberry-blonde is leaning against the newel post of the stairs, holding a roll of tape like he’s been caught doing something illegal.
Four men.
Four scents.
Three alphas and a beta.
My brain, which was ready to launch into a speech about noise ordinances, completely forgets how language works.
The beta’s gaze drops, just briefly, to my bare legs then the curve of my shoulder where the tank top strap sits. His eyes flick back up to my face fast, like he’s making himself be respectful.
He clears his throat. His voice is rough, tired, and unfairly intimate in the quiet.
“Hi,” he says. “Can I help you?”
My heart stutters.
He doesn’t know who I am. Oh God, Mia, why would he?
I swallow. “I…yes.”
Why did that come out like a question?
The beta’s brows pull together. “Is something wrong? Did we—” He glances over his shoulder, checking the chaos behind him, then back to me.
“The drilling,” I manage, finding my voice. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to be that neighbor, but I work from home and I’m on deadline and it’s…it’s really loud.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I cringe. I sound whiny. I sound like the kind of omega who complains about everything and expects the world to cater to her.
The beta’s face softens immediately, like I’ve just told him my dog died.
“Oh,” he says. “Shit. You’re the neighbor. The one in the window.”
My face goes hot. “Yes.”
“No, you’re not being that neighbor. That’s…yeah. That’s on us.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking exhausted. “We’re scaling the private servers. The app went viral in Europe last week, traffic is pinging off the charts, and we’re still playing catch-up with the load. We lost track of time.”
App. Viral. Scaling.
My gaze flicks to the expensive equipment in the hall. The sleek metal, the flashing lights. So they’re not just moving in with servers for fun. And they’re not struggling startup guys eating ramen in a garage, hoping for a break.
They’re the other kind.
Wildly successful.
And loud.
The strawberry-blonde pushes off the banister and flashes me a grin like we’re old friends. “Hi again.”
I attempt a smile and nearly choke on my own saliva.
One of the twins doesn’t smile at all. He just looks at me, slate gray dark and intent, like he’s listening to things I’m not saying.
The other twin’s gaze (Smirk Twin, I think) drops to my throat for a fraction of a second.
My pulse is hammering there, and I know he can see it.
The strawberry-blonde steps forward. “We’re so sorry,” he says, earnest now. “We thought we could finish this one section. We’ve been building custom shelving for equipment and—” He gestures vaguely inside like the house itself is the problem. “We’ll stop. Right now.”
One of the twins grunts, low. “We should’ve checked the time.”
The beta looks like he’s been awake for two days straight. His light-blue eyes are kind.
“Hey,” he says, voice calm, “we’ll keep it down. Promise.”
His presence makes me exhale, shoulders relaxing as his gaze holds mine. Something about him feels…contained. Like he’s holding himself together by sheer force. He looks like the sort of beta who carries everyone else’s mess and never complains.
My omega does something stupid and tender.
Protect him.
Which is insane. He’s huge. He could probably lift my couch with one hand. And yet my chest tightens with the urge to tuck a blanket around his shoulders and tell him to go to bed.
The beta shifts his grip on the drill. “We’re really sorry. Can we make it up to you?”
The question lands in the quiet like a pebble dropped into water.