Cassidy #4
“Boys?” Dad scoffs, and I let out a small, automatic giggle into my napkin.
“I’ll have you know that we’re men,” Papa adds, clicking his tongue.
Mum grins, unbothered. “Men, then. Tell me about the Wilson deal. Did they sign?”
The conversation moves on without needing me.
Just like that, business replaces concern. Numbers, deals, plans. Something solid. Something easier than me.
I sit there pushing food around my plate, smiling at the right moments, useful only when the conversation needs me again.
By the time dinner ends, my insides are replaced by a hollow ache that won’t settle.
Dad gathers the plates. Mum follows with the glasses. Papa looks at me once more, his expression softening.
“Get some rest, CeCe,” he says. “You look worn out.”
Another thing I couldn’t hide properly.
I lower my gaze. “I will.”
I’ll cover the exhaustion better tomorrow so he doesn’t have to worry about me again.
I push my chair back and stand, my body unbearably heavy, like gravity has doubled just for me.
I trudge up the steps, every movement harder and harder, but I know that at the end of it all, I’ll be in my nest.
I’ll be safe. Hidden. Alone.
No expectations. No questions. No need to be anything other than what I am.
I’ll be able to break down without anyone judging me, and it’s the one place none of my parents would ever interrupt me.
They’ll leave me to it, without any pressure to be okay.
I walk past my parents’ bedrooms, and move into my own. My bedroom is drowned in shadows, but I don’t bother turning on the light. Not tonight, when the darkness already feels lodged somewhere inside me.
I’m not staying in here, anyway.
My blouse comes off first, then my skirt, my bra—discarded without care as I move straight through to the room beyond.
The only space that’s ever truly been mine.
My nest.
My sanctuary from everyone else.
It’s small, warm, safe—everything I usually need. Soft, golden fairy lights flicker on, casting everything in a gentle glow.
I crawl into my favourite spot—furthest from the door, buried beneath blankets and cushions and everything I’ve carefully chosen to make me feel safe.
I burrow down, and somewhere between one breath and the next, the last of my control finally snaps.
The tears come without warning, sharp and overwhelming, my body folding in on itself as the sobs follow.
My hands shake violently, my chest locking tighter with every broken breath.
I arrange the fabrics, trying to get my pillows to sit right, but my hands won’t cooperate. They can’t decide whether they want to fix this nest or rip it apart.
Nothing feels right.
My nest is wrong.
Empty.
It’s not soothing me the way it always has been.
I could tear this whole nest apart. I should.
It’s not working. For the first time in my life, my nest doesn’t feel like enough.
Something vital is missing, and my body knows it before I do.
I pause, breath hitching.
No.
That’s not right.
I try again, rearranging, pulling, adjusting.
But it’s still wrong.
Has someone been in here? Have they touched my nest and changed it somehow?
Or is it my fault? Have I done something?
Of course not, Cassie.
This is what you wanted.
This is what you need.
I grab the nearest pillow, curling around it tightly, holding it close as my body shakes. It gives too easily beneath my grip—soft and empty in all the wrong ways—but it’s familiar, and I cling to it anyway.
I break apart for barely a few minutes before I’m already trying to pull myself back together.
Within minutes, my scent turns too sharp and desperate for the suppressants, my natural scent bleeding through.
The relief is immediate and almost painful. It feels like taking my first real breath all day.
It’s all the permission I need to finally, finally, drop the mask—even as another part of me scrambles to put it back on.
My nest has always been enough for me.
But now? Now, it isn’t.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
My fingers dig into the pillow, clutching and releasing, as if my body can’t decide whether to hold on or push away.
That alpha from this morning—the weight of his attention still burns against my skin, right where my scent glands ache.
And worst of all, my body believed he was safe.
I shouldn’t want his scent anywhere near my nest.
I’ve built this nest to survive alone.
And yet… my chest aches with emptiness, as if something vital is missing. Even Harlan’s cutting remarks would feel better than this empty silence.
Because at least then he’d be here.
“Fuck,” I whisper brokenly. “Why am I suddenly so fucking pathetic?”
I curl tighter around myself, nails biting into my palms. They’d never really want someone like me.
I’m too emotional. Too needy. Too much.
And somehow, still not enough.
But the thought of them here—their voices, their warmth, their scents tangled with mine—makes my breath catch, makes something deep inside me ache and reach for them anyway.
Even as I hate myself for wanting it.
I need—no. I can’t need them.
But I do. I really fucking do.
Deep down, I need them.
I really fucking need them.
And that might be the most terrifying part of all.