Epilogue
Ibalance a stolen tray of drinks in one hand and Soren’s extra-lime gin and tonic in the other, navigating the Friday night crush at Byrne’s.
I didn't even have to ask what anyone wanted. Rhys gets the IPA. Callum gets the darkest stout on tap. Milo drinks a cider he pretends to hate, and Jude gets a vodka cranberry that he insists is a cocktail, but Rhys calls a juice box. Shay takes his whiskey neat because he’s twenty-one and trying too hard, and Benji drinks a cheap lager he claims is ironic.
I spot Benji in the booth before I’m halfway across the floor.
He’s crammed into the inside seat—my spot is right next to him.
Always is. He’s talking with his hands, mid-roast of Jude, his silver nose ring catching the dim overhead light.
The claiming bite above his collar has faded to a permanent silver-pink.
I can't remember the last time I saw him wear a high-necked shirt to cover it.
I slide into the booth and pass the drinks around. Benji grabs his lager without a word of thanks, which is basically a love letter from him, and immediately reaches across my plate to steal three of my fries.
"Those were mine," I point out.
"Were," he agrees, shoving them into his mouth.
I drop my arm around his waist. His hand finds my thigh under the table. We don't even look at each other; the contact is just automatic now. It's loud as fuck in this booth, and it's exactly where I'm supposed to be.
Sometimes, my brain flashes back to the Fridays before this.
The empty apartment. The sketchbook open to a blank page.
The suffocating quiet. Now, I can barely hear my own thoughts over Jude’s bitching and Rhys’s laugh and Benji’s elbow digging into my ribs.
It’s the loudest, best quiet I’ve ever had.
"Your beanie makes you look like a burglar," Jude announces from across the table. He’s draped over Rhys, completely boneless and already two drinks deep.
"Your vodka cranberry makes you look like a sorority pledge," I shoot back.
Jude gasps in theatrical offense. Rhys hides a smile behind his pint glass, and Benji just watches the exchange with his chin propped on his hand. He gives me a look that I file away as mine.
Soren is sitting at the end of the booth, watching the couples with that soft, faraway look he gets when he thinks nobody's paying attention. I catch his eye. He smiles and looks away. I've learned that Soren sees a hell of a lot more than he says, and I respect him for it.
Callum catches my gaze from the opposite side of the table. He just gives me a single nod. It’s the nod of an alpha who spent weeks watching me like a hawk to make sure I wasn't going to fuck up again, and has finally decided I'm worth keeping around. I nod back.
Milo asks about my dad. I give him the short version between fries. "Outpatient. Doing okay. Benji met up with my mom on Tuesday, and she wouldn't let him leave for three hours."
Milo’s face softens, and Callum’s arm tightens around him.
I don't mention the part where I FaceTimed Benji from the hospital waiting room, propping my phone against a vending machine because my chest felt too tight and I needed to hear his voice. He’d answered on the first ring, told me the fluorescent lighting made me look like a serial killer, and by the time my dad came out of his appointment, I was actually laughing.
"Your grandma texted me a pie recipe," Jude tells Benji. "She likes me better than you."
"Ruth likes everyone better than me," Benji deadpans. "That's her entire personality."
My mom and Grandma Ruth have a group chat now.
I didn't set it up. Nobody even told me about it.
I found out when my mom sent me a screenshot of Ruth calling her "hon" and asking for recommendations on compression socks.
Last week they were swapping slow cooker recipes.
Two women who didn't know each other three months ago, now a unit, tied together by sheer force of will and a shared love for two idiots.
Someone brings up the shop. Benji’s been designing flash for the wall, and Mars pretends to hate every piece right up until he pins them up when he thinks no one's looking. I mention this, and Benji kicks my shin under the table.
"Don't be sappy."
"I'm stating facts."
"Facts can be sappy. Stop it."
Jude stands up, accidentally knocking Rhys's drink in the process. "Okay. It's time."
The table quiets down—or at least as quiet as this group gets.
Jude raises his glass with the solemnity of a priest at a funeral.
"Ladies, gentlemen, and people who've been personally victimized by the algorithm.
We are gathered here tonight to say goodbye to the trashiest app on any of our phones.
" He pauses for dramatic effect. "KnotMe gave us bad dates, worse pickup lines, a suspicious number of fish photos, and also.
.. accidentally, against all odds, the loves of our lives.
So." He lifts his glass higher. "To the app that had no business working as well as it did. Rest in trash."
"Rest in trash," we echo, and drink.
Phones come out. Jude deletes his profile with a massive flourish, showing Rhys the empty screen. Milo deletes his with a soft smile, leaning into Callum’s side. Benji rolls his eyes, opens the app, taps delete with his thumb, and says, "Good riddance."
I pull out my phone and show him my screen. The app has been gone for weeks. Benji glances at it, his mouth twitching, and leans his weight against me.
"Worst hookup app ever," he mutters against my shoulder, quiet enough that the rest of the table can't hear.
"Best swipe of your life," I murmur into his hair, "and you know it."
"It was a spite swipe."
"Mmhm."
His hand squeezes my thigh. I press my mouth to his temple. The table immediately erupts into noises of disgust.
"Get a room!" Jude yells.
Benji flips him off without lifting his head from my shoulder.
Shay holds his phone up. "I'm keeping mine." His screen glows with the active KnotMe interface. "Someone has to represent the single life. I'm still looking for a hookup, thank you very much."
"Famous last words," Jude says.
"We'll be at your deletion ceremony in three months," Benji adds.
"Over my dead body," Shay says, taking a sip of his whiskey like he's never been wrong a day in his life.
Behind the bar, Declan polishes a glass. He doesn't say a word, but I catch the faint smile on his face.
Later, I go back to the bar for another round.
While I'm waiting for Declan to pour, I watch my pack.
I watch the sharp-tongued omega in the inside seat who's currently stealing fries from Soren.
Then I glance at Shay. And I catch it—Declan's gaze, resting on Shay for a beat longer than necessary. It’s the steady, quiet attention of a man who's been looking for a while and hasn't said shit about it.
Declan catches me watching and slides my drinks across the counter without breaking eye contact.
I take the tray. I know that look. I wore it for months, staring at a face in my sketchbook.
On the way out, everyone’s grabbing jackets and settling tabs. Soren picks something up from the edge of the table. A small, carved wooden bird. He turns it over in his fingers, that soft dreamer expression on his face.
"Did someone leave this?" he asks.
Nobody claims it. Benji shrugs. Jude says it probably belongs to the bar. Declan, wiping down the counter nearby, catches sight of it. His expression shifts into a small, private smile. He doesn't explain.
Soren slips the bird into his pocket and doesn't say anything else, but his fingers brush his jacket pocket twice on the walk to the cars. I see it. I don't say anything.
By the time we get back to my apartment, the loud chaos of the bar is a distant memory. Benji kicks his beat-to-hell boots off by the door and heads straight for the bedroom. I follow him. I follow him everywhere now, and I don't have the slightest desire to be anywhere else.
The nest is fully ours now. Blankets tangled, pillows stacked exactly the way Benji likes them, my shirts and his band tees woven into the fabric.
The hoodie I wore the night I sat in the hospital waiting room is still tucked into the pillows on my side.
The scent in the sheets isn't just him or me anymore; it's the heavy, intoxicating mix of both of us.
It smells like the only place I've ever felt completely still.
My sketchbook sits on the nightstand, open to a recent page.
It’s a sketch of the booth at Byrne's. Jude draped over Rhys, Milo tucked under Callum's arm, Shay at the edge, Soren looking out the window. Benji right in the center, chin resting on his hand, the claiming bite visible. Mars is scowling in the corner because I drew him once and he’s never going to live it down.
It's the first page that's full of people instead of just Benji's face.
I leave it open because I like seeing it when I wake up.
Benji is already in bed, wearing my shirt and his boxers, his hair a total mess.
I slide in behind him, and the nest closes around us.
The choreography is automatic. My arm wraps around his waist. My nose finds the claiming bite at the base of his neck.
I press my lips against the scarred tissue—a reflex I picked up somewhere around week three and haven't managed to break.
My hand settles on his hip, my thumb brushing over the fresh ink.
It's a small design. Benji doodled it on a napkin at the shop while Mars was bitching about inventory, and I took it and turned it into something that fit his skin. It was the first time I put my needle to his body. We were both quiet in the chair, his hand gripping the armrest exactly the way it did the night I drew on him with a pen. Except this time, the ink stays. It’s been a week, and the skin is still slightly raised under my thumb.
I touch it every night because I still can't quite believe I got to make something permanent on him.
"Stop poking my tattoo," Benji mutters into his pillow.
"It's my tattoo. I made it."
"It's on me. Therefore, mine. Property law."
I press my lips to the claiming bite again and don't argue. My thumb traces the raised ink, and his body presses back into mine, warm and solid. Outside the apartment, the city does whatever the fuck the city does. Inside the nest, Benji's breathing slows as he drifts off.
I close my eyes. My hand rests over the ink I put on his skin, his pulse beating steady beneath my mouth. I'm not running anymore. I'm staying.
***