House Tour…kind of
Beck
The house is so quiet as I lead Tansy down the long hall. The silence stretches between us, making me feel uneasy.
I glance over at the omega and catch the far-off look in her eyes, her gaze drifting across the dark floorboards at her feet. I can’t tell if she’s lost in thought or too scared to speak, or…I don’t know.
“So…um.” I clear my throat, and Tansy looks right at me. In an instant, my mind goes completely blank. I immediately wish I hadn’t made any noise at all. Panicked, I give her an awkward little smile that probably looks more like a grimace, then quickly look away.
What the hell should I say?
I’ve never met an omega before.
Alphas are easy. They’re wild, possessive creatures that can be a real pain in the ass to love sometimes. But omegas? They’re a complete mystery to me. And my beta brain just can’t get over the fact that she was bought and paid for like a precious piece of art.
It feels…wrong? It is wrong. Right?
Or is it?
I mean, I guess getting an omega from an academy isn’t that different from…other places.
Alphas spend a fortune for the chance to meet an omega at an academy. There are background checks. Contracts. Mountains of paperwork. Fees that could buy a house. Everyone pretends it’s civilized because it’s clean and legal, but money still changes hands and packs are formed.
I guess the only real difference is the setting…right?
Unable to take one more second of silence, I try again. “So.” I smile, trying to look bright and friendly. “Did you, um…did you sleep okay?”
Tansy hesitates, just long enough to consider the question, then she nods once. “I slept well. Thank you for asking,” she says quietly. Very polite.
I keep smiling, not sure how to respond. I should have taken that class on Applied Pack Dynamics in high school.
I open my mouth to try again, but a small gasp slips from Tansy before I can get a word out. Her mouth falls open slightly as we step into the large, main living area. Then she tips her head back, her eyes wide as they track the high ceilings and the wall of windows that floods the room with light.
She checks out the deep navy couch that anchors the space, then the pair of cream-colored recliners across from it. Between them sits a massive coffee table made from a thick slab of reclaimed wood. Its raw edges are intact like someone decided polish would ruin it.
“Do you like it?” I ask, eager to have something to talk about.
“It’s kind of a modern farmhouse style, with those classic vaulted ceilings,” I point up, “and there’s lots of reclaimed wood throughout the house, but the previous owners went full minimalist with the kitchen.
I hate it,” I add, frowning at the travesty.
“Cass won’t let me remodel it. Yet,” I say, smiling.
Tansy nods quietly, her gaze already sweeping past me toward the staircase.
The smooth railing curves up along the far wall in a smooth sweep of white wood, opening onto a wide landing that wraps around the room like a balcony. From below, you can see straight down the upper hallway to where the bedrooms sit at the back of the house.
Tansy simply stands there, eyes tracking upward, then around the room once again.
“We can go upstairs if you want.” I let go of her wrist, trying to encourage her to go wherever she wants. “After all, this is your home now, too.” But the second I say the words, I can feel that they’ve landed wrong.
Tansy’s expression tightens almost immediately. Her mouth pulls thin, and her shoulders stiffen like I’ve just said something upsetting. For half a second, panic flares in my chest.
Does she not want to be here?
I thought all omegas wanted to be mated?
Right?
Shit!
“Thank you,” Tansy finally says, offering a tight, polite smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “That’s very kind of you to say.”
Relief and confusion tangle together in my gut, but before I get a chance to say anything, Tansy’s stomach growls very loudly once again.
We both freeze.
I wince, then laugh. “How about a full tour after breakfast?”
Tansy’s hand drifts to her stomach, rubbing it lightly, like she’s embarrassed. Her cheeks warm, but then her smile shifts, easing into something more real this time.
“Breakfast would be lovely,” she says quietly.
I nod, relieved. “Great. Kitchen’s this way.”
By the time breakfast is almost done, my nerves have finally started to settle. They aren’t gone, but they’re quieter, like they’ve eased back enough to let me breathe.
I stand at the stove, spooning the last of the scrambled eggs onto two plates. I’m assuming the boys will be talking for a while. I’ll make them something once Cass is done yelling at everyone.
“Do you like butter on your toast?” I slide the bread into the toaster, then glance over my shoulder at Tansy.
She sits at the kitchen island, her chin propped in her hand as she watches me work. “Yes, please.”
I nod, then move, prepping everything else.
I pull down two glasses and fill them with juice.
I set them side by side so the levels match.
Coffee goes into mugs next, the good ones, not the chipped everyday ones we use when it’s only us.
I grab the small silver spoons for the jam, place them carefully on a folded napkin, then swap out the everyday cutlery for the nicer set from the drawer beneath the counter.
Tansy shifts on her stool. “Are you sure I can’t help?”
“I’ve got it,” I say as I glance up at her with a small, hopeful smile. “I like taking care of my family.” I pull out a few of the good, cloth napkins from a drawer. No paper towels today.
I want everything to be perfect.
By the time I start buttering the toast, I realize Tansy is still watching me with a small, thoughtful smile on her face.
“You’re very…precise,” she says softly, eyes tracking the way I cut the bread into perfect triangles.
I huff a quiet laugh, a little embarrassed now that she’s clocked it. “Yeah,” I admit. “I have ADHD with a Type A personality.” I plate the bread carefully, angling the slices just so. "It's a fun combo. Basically, I like plans, but my attention span does not. We negotiate daily.”
Tansy’s smile grows, real and bright, as she lets out a soft laugh.
“I get that,” she says, still smiling. “Needing structure, but your brain refuses to cooperate.” Her shoulders lift in a small shrug.
“I don’t do well when things feel out of control.
So I make rules for myself. Little ones.
Routines. It helps me feel…more in control. ”
Something warm settles in my chest at that.
“I love planning out new routines for myself,” I say. “I’m fantastic at the planning part. The follow-through, though? Absolute chaos.”
She laughs again. “It’s kind of nice,” she says, admiring the perfectly lined-up drinks. “You care about the little things even when your body won’t let you do it.”
“Yes,” I say, a little surprised that she gets it. Most people don’t. “Well, breakfast is ready.” I reach for the coffee mugs as Tansy slides off her stool.
“Let me help,” she insists, reaching for the plates before I can protest.
“Okay,” I say, smiling despite myself.
I grab the mugs and juice, careful not to slosh anything as we move to the small dinette tucked into the corner of the kitchen. The space is cozy, just big enough for the round, marble-topped table and matching upholstered chairs.
Morning light pours in through the window, warm and soft, spilling across the tabletop and stretching out into the backyard beyond.
Dew still clings to the grass, the fence casting long, quiet shadows.
In the far corner, near the treeline, I can make out Grason’s little greenhouse surrounded by morning fog.
It feels so peaceful.
“After you,” I say, pulling out her chair.
“Thank you,” Tansy says as she smooths the back of her oversized shirt over her bottom, then sits, slipping into the chair. The motion is so graceful and fluid, like she’s done it a million times.
I push her chair in gently, then take the seat next to her, suddenly very aware of how hungry I am.
Eggs. Bacon. Toast. And a little jar of fresh strawberry jam. I picked it up at the farmer’s market last weekend. The label is crooked and handwritten, but nothing on earth tastes better.
"This looks delicious," Tansy says as she picks up her knife and fork.
Then I just…watch.
She eats like it’s a dance.
Back straight, shoulders relaxed but precise. Knife and fork held just right with smooth and controlled movements. She cuts her eggs neatly, lifts each bite without looking down, then she spreads a careful line of jam across her toast with a smooth flick of her knife.
It’s almost enchanting to watch.
Omegas really are something else.
Picking up my own fork, I straighten my back, then adjust my silverware, mirroring the way Tansy holds hers. It feels a little ridiculous, but I do it anyway. Then I dig in.
The eggs are warm and fluffy, seasoned just right. I hum softly as I chew, savoring the buttery taste before I swallow.
“After breakfast, I can show you to your room so you can shower.” I take another bite, suddenly feeling very energized, “Assuming you want to shower. I got a few things for you.” I load up my fork again.
“Your own towels, new omega-approved scentless soap, extra blankets.” I smile, words starting to tumble out faster.
“I set it up in your nesting room, but you can redecorate if you want. I thought it might help you feel more comfortable. Like it’s yours. ”
I keep going, filling the space. “There’s a chair by the window, too. The light’s really nice in the afternoons. And I made sure the door locks properly, because privacy matters. It’s not perfect, but I only had a day's notice before Warren and Grason left for the black market. There was no time…”
I trail off.
Tansy’s smile has faded, not all at once, but enough that I notice. Her fork pauses halfway to her mouth. Her eyes drop to her plate, lashes shadowing her cheeks.