Brittney
OMEGA BUZZ GOSSIP COLUMN
STADIUMS SELL OUT FOR MENDED HART TOUR
Istand in the hallway and watch as each member of the Phoenix Pack brings my meager belongings into their house.
It only took one truckload to bring over the things I’ve collected since leaving my parents.
Their house already looks different than the last time I was here, the space is clean, decorated, and cozy.
It’s like they stayed up all night making it perfect for me.
The house feels big enough to eat me alive, but it’s not empty. It’s humming. It’s dense with movement and sound and, most of all, scent.
The air is layered thick with it. At first, it’s overwhelming.
I start to pick out the undertones, the way the notes overlap and swirl: Saint’s leather and pepper, Colton and Cody’s mocha, Fox’s whisper of apple pie, and Hunter’s peppermint with a bite of frost. I stand just inside the open door with my hand clenched in the pocket of my hoodie, and I try to steady myself while I watch the pack move.
Saint is in charge of logistics. He doesn’t bark orders, and he doesn’t have to.
His eyes track every box, every duffel, every step of the operation, and the others fall in line.
Colton and Cody are a one-man moving company split into two bodies, lugging boxes as if they weigh nothing, carrying them up the stairs with an ease that makes me ache.
Fox is quieter, gentler, managing the fragile things like the guitar Oli gave me, the sunlight in his red hair as he flits between rooms. Hunter is the chaos element, darting in and out, carrying awkward loads on his back, spinning boxes on one hand, narrating the whole process. I barely lift a finger.
My body vibrates with nerves, energy coiled and shuddering. I want to help, but I don’t know where to fit. The urge to run is strong, but I force my feet to stay glued to the floor.
Saint doesn’t look winded, or even mildly inconvenienced. He stands, eyes ice-blue and unreadable, surveying the operation. When he glances at me, the weight of the stare nearly pins me to the spot.
“Any special instructions?” he asks.
I open my mouth, then close it. I’m not sure what I want. I’m not even sure which room is mine. My vision blurs for a second from too much stimulus, and I shrug, helpless.
“Whatever’s easiest,” I say, and I hate how small the words sound.
Saint doesn’t smile, but something in his face eases, a microscopic shift. “You’re the boss of your own stuff. If you want it arranged a certain way, just say so. Otherwise, I’ll handle it to make things easier on you.”
The omega in me preens, and I relax at his words.
Fox sets my battered box of sheet music on the bottom step, dusts off his hands, and looks at me with a softness I can’t quite meet. “You okay?” he says, low so only I can hear.
I nod, but my hands won’t unclench. I realize I’m holding my breath, greedy for every layer of scent in the air. There’s no fear in it, just a dizzying, liquid heat that curls behind my ribs and makes my head feel light. I breathe it in, again and again, until Fox cocks his head and steps closer.
He stands just inside my personal space, not close enough to crowd, but close enough to fill the air between us with his sweet, apple pie scent. “You look like you’re about to pass out,” he says. “Want to sit?”
“No,” I say, then laugh, embarrassed. “I just…I love the way it smells in here. It’s… a lot. But it’s good.”
The rest of the room drops away for a second. It’s just Fox, the sunlight in his hair, the blue of his eyes washed with genuine concern. He smiles, soft and a little self-deprecating. “I’m sure their alpha scents cover this place.”
“They do,” I say, and I see something flicker behind his smile. “So does yours. It’s apples mixed with cinnamon, and it’s just as delicious to me.”
I know I’ve said the right thing when his smile turns more genuine.
He lingers a beat, then moves off, trailing his scent behind him. I watch the others through the haze, the way they move through the house, each orbiting the center but never colliding.
Saint clears his throat and gestures up the stairs. “Do you want to see your room?”
I nod, suddenly desperate to know where I belong.
He leads, Colton and Cody on either side of me, Fox and Hunter in the rear.
The stairs creak under our combined weight, but the house holds.
Upstairs, the hallway is wide and lined with framed photos.
There are snapshots of the brothers as kids, grinning and bruised and covered in mud, then older, dressed in suits for graduations, then older still, arms slung around each other in bars and backyards and on top of mountains.
There’s a pulse to it, a history you can taste.
I can’t help but notice the lack of parents in the later pictures.
At the end of the hall, Saint pushes open a door. The room is enormous, and the sun is spilling in through double windows. The walls are painted a soft gray, and the massive bed is covered in thick white comforters. My belongings are already stacked neatly on the far side, with the bins lined up.
All five of them stay back while I walk in, slowly, touching every surface like I’m not sure it’s real. The scent is stronger here, the signature of every pack member embedded in the sheets, the curtains, the very wood of the floor.
“You can come in,” I tell them, and they act immediately. Colton and Cody jump on the bed, leaving a spot between them in the middle. Hunter leans against the dresser while Saint and Fox stay by the door.
I collapse onto the mattress, body boneless with relief. I feel the heat of the twins, the steadiness, and it’s like being plugged in to a source of power I never knew I needed.
Hunter perches on the edge, elbows on his knees. “You want help unpacking?”
“No,” I say, but there’s no bite in it. “Maybe later. I just want to… exist for a minute.”
Saint’s voice is a rumble. “Whatever you need.”
The others make themselves at home, but it’s not invasive. It’s just presence, a constant, quiet reassurance. I watch them, letting the sensory overload settle into a hum, and I realize my heart isn’t racing anymore.
After a while, Fox sits on the floor in front of me, legs crossed, and looks up with a shy half-smile. “You’re really here,” he says, like he can’t believe it.
I look around, and for once, I don’t feel the urge to run. “Yeah,” I say. “I am.”
He holds my gaze, serious. “We want you to feel safe. Not just… protected but safe.”
I want to answer, but my throat tightens. I settle for a nod, then look out the window to hide the tears.
Hunter catches it, because of course he does. He leans in, voice pitched for me alone. “You don’t have to be tough all the time, hazel. Not here.”
He slings an arm around my shoulder and squeezes, and I let myself lean in, just a little.
The others fall silent, and I know they’re watching, waiting for me to believe it.
It takes a few minutes, but I do.
I breathe in, deep, and fill my lungs with the scent of the pack. The ache behind my ribs softens.
Maybe this is what it’s supposed to feel like.
“We all want to take you shopping on Thursday,” Cody starts.
Colton finishes, “for nest supplies,”
My omega perks up, liking the idea of all of them adding to my nest. “That sounds nice.”
“Then we will leave at ten and be back in time for your rehearsal with Tommy in the afternoon,” Saint says.
“Oh! I forgot about rehearsal! I need to meet Tommy at the studio soon,” I say, standing up.
“Actually, there’s something else we need to show you first,” Hunter says, grabbing my hand and leading me out of the room.
I follow him through the hallway, down the stairs, past the living room, and to a door I didn’t notice before.
He opens it, and for a second I’m hit with the scent of earth and paint and the sharp, static smell of electronics. There’s a stairwell, steep and narrow, walls painted black. It looks like the kind of place you’d go to get murdered, but I trust these men.
Before I can take a step, Fox appears at my elbow, out of nowhere. “Blindfold,” he says, and lifts a strip of navy-blue cloth. “It’s part of the fun.”
Saint doesn’t say no, so I nod and let Fox cover my eyes.
His hands are warm, gentle, the knot at the back of my head perfectly snug but not too tight.
Hunter is at the top of the stairs when we start down, a constant monologue tumbling out of him.
“Mind the step, it’s crooked. Don’t touch the wall, there’s wet paint.
You’re going to want to hold onto something.
” His hand is on my hip, steady and careful, guiding me forward.
Every time I falter, he corrects me, and it’s so intimate and so easy I almost forget I can’t see.
At the bottom of the stairs, there’s a hush. The pack is close, their energy pressing against my back. Fox’s hands settle on my shoulders. “Ready?” he murmurs.
I nod.
He unties the blindfold, and light pours in. I blink, hard, then gasp.
The room is massive, bigger than I expected.
The ceiling is hung with track lighting and acoustic panels, and the walls are lined with instruments. There are guitars and basses, a piano so new it gleams, a full drum kit, shelves stacked with pedals and amps, and coils of brightly colored cable.
The entire space is a shrine to music, but more than that, it’s a shrine to me. The setlist from my first gig is framed on the wall, next to a photo of me and Tommy on stage. There are little touches everywhere and more instruments than I could dream of.
I take a step forward, then another. The room is perfect, so perfect I want to sit down and cry.
“This is too much,” I say, running my fingers over the piano.
“You are a natural with instruments, and you deserve to have your own instead of the ones Oli has loaned you,” Hunter says.
“Plus, now you and Tommy can rehearse here before the tour,” Fox adds.