Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Mia
The first thing I’m aware of when I wake up is that my body feels like it drank an entire pitcher of Tom’s crime-against-fruit punch.
The second thing I’m aware of is that I did not drink Tom’s crime-against-fruit punch.
Which leaves…an emotional hangover.
Excellent.
How long did I sleep for? I groan, gaze shifting to the window. The sun is high and bright. Noon, at least.
I stare at the ceiling, eyes unfocused, brain replaying yesterday evening like a highlight reel from a show I absolutely should not have binged.
Knox’s hand warm and solid at the small of my back, the weight of his palm making my knees threaten to go out from under me.
Rhys’s thumb stroking the inside of my wrist, one slow, burning pass that short-circuited my ability to hold on to a wine glass.
Declan leaning against the grill, sunlight striping his shoulders as he joked about mate-bonding me into the pack.
And Eli’s quiet, devastating voice: “We’re very protective of our omega… ”
Our omega.
My stomach flips.
I press my palms over my face and groan into my own skin. I know it was a slip of the tongue, but my stupid omega thinks differently.
“This is normal,” I tell the room. “Perfectly normal neighborly behavior. Everyone calls the girl next door ‘our omega’ in front of the HOA president.”
My omega, unhelpfully, hums.
She liked it. She liked the our more than I wanted to admit last night. More than I want to admit now.
It felt…safe. Claimed. Wrapped.
Very dangerous.
I flop an arm out to the side, feeling for my phone on the nightstand. It buzzes under my fingers like it’s been waiting for me.
A string of messages from Sierra:
9:21 AM – WAKE UP. I need a full debrief. I need details!
9:22 AM – Did you join the cult? Are you currently eating breakfast in a pile of shirtless millionaires? DO NOT LEAVE ME HANGING.
I let the phone fall back to the mattress.
Details.
Yesterday was already too detailed.
That “our omega” sank into my bones and pulled something loose I’ve been keeping bolted down.
The hunger. The stupid, dangerous want for the dream. The steady, reasonable pack that will sweep me off my feet.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Yesterday was a fluke. Adrenaline and grilled meat and too many people. A one-time event.
Today, a new plan.
I inhale. Exhale. Grab my phone, type a quick “Alive. Unpacking. Call later.” to keep Sierra at bay, and toss it aside.
Rules, I tell myself. You like rules. Make rules.
I push myself upright and reach for the notebook on my nightstand. It’s the same one I used to track moving tasks and deadlines. There’s something soothing about the cheap paper and the smudgy lines.
I flip to a new page and write, in all caps:
RULES OF ENGAGEMENT: PACK NEXT DOOR EDITION
Under that, I start a list.
1. Polite Neighbor Only. Friendly, not flirty. No more lingering. No more letting them “rescue” you from anything.
2. No accepting favors. No coffee. No anything else.
3. No more eating their food. Food is bonding. Food is intimacy. Food is…dangerous.
4. Absolutely no shivers when they look at you. You are an adult, not a tuning fork. Your nervous system will not vibrate just because an alpha looks at you like you’re a problem he’d like to have.
My pen hesitates.
5. Do not believe anything they say about “our omega.” That’s just how packs talk. It’s probably cultural. It does not mean what your ovaries think it means.
I underline that one three times.
There.
I close the notebook and set it back down. Plan in place. Walls up. The soft, treacherous part of me that melted yesterday gets shoved into a box and put away.
I pad to the bathroom, toothbrush in hand, and avoid my own eyes in the mirror. My hair is a mess. My skin tingles where they accidentally touched me yesterday. And my lips feel…fuller, somehow. Like they remember being watched.
Nope.
“New day,” I tell my reflection. I give myself a bright, fake newscaster smile. “And in local news, the omega next door has come to her senses.”
I shower, dress in high-waisted jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and my soft gray cardigan. Hair in a low, neat ponytail instead of a messy bun. Sunglasses perched on my head, ready to become something I can hide behind.
I make coffee. It doesn’t taste as good as Eli’s. I drink it anyway.
By the time I rinse my mug and stack it carefully in the drying rack, I’ve almost convinced myself.
I am Stable, Responsible, Professional Mia. I have deadlines. I have rent to pay.
Trash day was Friday. Which means my empty bins have been sitting at the curb for forty-eight hours, violating at least three HOA bylaws.
It’s a chore I hate. Dragging the hollow, smelly plastic caverns back up the driveway.
It’s awkward, it’s loud, and the bins smell like old milk from whoever lived in this house before I did. It’s gross.
But doing it is important. Especially before Carol notices.
I slip my sunglasses down over my eyes, take a steadying breath, and head for the front door.
“Independent adult,” I remind myself as I step onto the porch. “Functional. Capable. No help required.”
The air has that bright, Sunday-noon crispness to it. Kids’ laughter drifts faintly from someone’s backyard. Sprinklers tick.
I march down the steps, ready to haul plastic, and turn toward the street. But the curb is empty.
My stomach drops.
Oh no. Did I get cited? Did the wind blow them away?
I spin toward the side of the house, panic rising.
And there they are. Sitting neatly against the side of the house, right where they belong. But they don’t look like my bins.
They are…shining.
I blink, stepping closer.
They’ve been power-washed. Thoroughly. Inside and out. The plastic is gleaming. The faint, sour trash smell is gone. There’s even water still drying on the concrete where someone clearly dragged them, blasted the grime out of them, and lined them up like soldiers.
My recycling bin even has my address number, 124, neatly re-stenciled on the side in white paint.
I frown, looking over the low hedge that separates our driveways.
There, lined up against their garage wall, is a matching set. Four bins. Two for trash, two for recycling. They are gleaming wet in the sun, smelling of the same citrus cleaner, with “126” stenciled on the side in the exact same fresh white paint.
My mouth drops open.
This is gross work. Dirty, domestic work. Cleaning the rotten sludge out of the bottom of a garbage can is something you don’t do for anyone unless you love them or you’re being paid.
And someone erased the chore before I could even wake up.
My fingers tighten on the edge of my cardigan.
I could let it go. I could chalk it up to neighborly over-enthusiasm. To having the power washer out and going, “Hey, why not?”
But the knot in my chest is hot and tight.
I stare at the gleaming bins.
They handled it.
And it is the most dangerous thing they could have possibly done.
Because my omega likes it. She’s already purring, ready to roll over and let them handle everything. Ready to surrender.
And that is exactly why I have to stop it.
I’ve known them for what? Five or six days? And I’m standing here swooning over garbage receptacles because four hot guys did a chore. For all I know, they do this for everyone. For all I know, this is just bored, restless energy with no meaning behind it.
“Yeah, no Mia,” I say under my breath, gripping my cardigan. “You might be a hopeless romantic, but you can’t fall for everything so easily.”
I need to set the line. I need to remind myself that I am a capable, independent adult who does not need rescuing from her own recycling. If nothing else, to keep myself from doing something humiliating, like falling in love with them before I even know their middle names.
I shove my sunglasses up onto my head and march down the driveway, around the hedge, to their side.
Their garage door is up.
And for one eternal, cinematic moment, I wish I’d stayed inside.
The scene hits me like a thirst trap.
Knox is flat on his back on a bench press, hands wrapped around a bar loaded with enough weight to flatten me.
He lowers and presses with smooth, controlled movements, muscles in his arms and chest flexing in a slow rhythm.
He’s shirtless, gym shorts clinging indecently to his thighs, sweat slicking down his torso.
Oh…
Rhys is on the floor a few feet away, in a perfect plank position. Toes dug into the rubber mat, forearms braced. His back is a long, straight line. A laptop is open under him, and he’s typing with one hand, then switching arms every few keystrokes to hold the plank.
I blink, swallowing hard.
He is doing core work and debugging code simultaneously?
It is obscene.
It’s hot.
Declan is on the far side, in front of a heavy wooden crate. He’s doing box jumps, launching himself up, landing soft, jumping down, repeat. His hair is damp, sweat beads glistening on his back. Each time he lands, the muscles in his thighs and calves coil and release.
Eli is standing at the head of Knox’s bench, hands hovering near the bar, spotting. He’s in faded joggers, sneakers planted. He looks faintly bored, like this is routine. Beta calm radiates off him. Solid. Warm.
It’s…a lot.
The garage itself is disturbingly organized. Racks of neatly labeled storage bins. Tools hung on pegboards. In one corner, a row of server towers blinks silently. Another corner holds free weights, mats, jump ropes.
I stop at the edge of the driveway. At the line where the pavement meets their property. My brain screams, Do not step over. This is their den. Stay on your side.
“Mia,” Eli says without looking away from the bar. He’s the first to notice me. His awareness is like a searchlight. “Don’t come any closer. Knox is one miscount away from decapitating himself.”
“I heard that,” Knox grunts, pushing the bar up again. “And I only miscounted that one time.”