Brittney #2
Saint stands at the edge of the space, arms folded but eyes soft. “We started construction on it the day we met you. It needs more work, but this is what we could get done quickly.”
Colton sidles up beside me, grinning. “Saint doesn’t like to brag, but he built half of this himself. Fox did the wiring. I did the sound insulation.” He winks. “Cody and Hunter did nothing except argue about which amps were best.”
“We supervised,” Cody says, deadpan, and they all laugh.
Hunter perches on the piano bench, spinning around to face me. “It’s yours,” he says, voice bright with pride. “The whole thing. You can play as loud as you want, as late as you want. Invite whoever. Just… let us know if you’re going to break stuff. We want to watch.”
For a second, I can’t speak. My throat tightens, tears burning at the edges of my vision. I turn in a slow circle, taking it all in, the scent of the pack and the newness of the space.
“Are you serious?” I say, voice tiny.
Fox is suddenly there, at my shoulder, hand gentle on my arm. “You deserve it,” he says, simple as anything.
Saint shrugs, as if it’s no big deal. “You make music. We make space for you here.”
Colton hands me a guitar. It’s brand new. “Try it,” he urges, and when I take it, my hands recognize the weight of it instantly.
The pack arranges themselves around the room. Saint by the door, Colton and Cody slouching against the wall, Hunter back on the bench, and Fox kneeling beside the pedal board, ready to assist. It’s a live audience, and for the first time, I don’t want to disappear.
I strum a chord. The sound is crisp, clean, perfectly balanced. The room eats up the noise and gives it back, a hundred times richer. I play a few more, half a song, then stop because my hands are shaking. The pack is watching, but not judging. There’s no tension, just pride.
Colton breaks the silence. “Damn. Listening to you play-”
“Makes us lucky bastards,” Cody finishes.
Hunter whoops. “Encore!”
Even Saint cracks a smile, and the effect is dazzling, like sunlight on water.
I don’t know what to say. I look at them, one by one, and I’m overwhelmed by the realization: They did this for me. They didn’t just bring me into their home; they made it my home, too.
I set the guitar down, hands trembling, and turn to the pack. “Thank you,” I manage, voice barely a whisper.
Fox squeezes my hand. “Anytime.”
Saint nods, and the others echo it in their own way: Colton with a wink, Cody with a nod, Hunter with a fist bump in the air.
They file out, giving me space, but not before Hunter tugs me aside, voice low. “Tommy will be here any minute. Can I stay and watch?”
I squeeze his hand in return. “Sure.”
Tommy’s voice arrives before the rest of him.
“I brought lattes and the good doughnuts,” and then he’s barreling into the room, arms overloaded with a cardboard tray and a paper bag.
His hair is even messier than usual, and he’s wearing a jacket covered in hand-sewn patches, safety pins glittering in the light.
He freezes in the doorway, slack-jawed. For a split second, I think the sugar rush finally killed him.
“Holy shit,” he breathes, spinning in a slow circle. “Is this…Is this all for you? No, wait. It’s for us. Oh my god, Britt. Your mates are perfect!”
He drops the lattes on the nearest amp, then sprints around the space, touching everything. He taps on the piano and runs his fingers down the nearest guitar.
I laugh, already less nervous. “They want us to rehearse here if that’s cool with you.”
“Say less,” he says, but he’s grinning so hard it looks like it hurts. “Are these all plugged in? Can I—” He grabs a guitar from the rack, checks the tuning, and launches into the riff from our first song.
Hunter is watching me, really watching, his dark eyes soft and a little hungry. There’s something about the way he leans into the pillar, his curls wild with purple streaks, that makes it impossible to look away.
We set up as we always do, with Tommy on the high harmonies and me on rhythm and lead.
We start with “Homebody Gone”, the first song on our setlist. Tommy’s voice locks in under mine, tight and bright, and the harmonies climb together, higher and higher until they break into a wild, falling melody.
The acoustics in the room are insane. Every note hangs in the air just long enough to bloom, then dissolves into the next. The room was built for this.
We run through three more songs, the set getting tighter and more alive with every verse. Tommy improvises harmonies, throwing in new runs and trills, and I throw it back at him, matching every curve and twist. We are, for a moment, the only two people in the universe.
At the end of the last song, there’s a pause, and then the room explodes with applause from Hunter. It feels like he’s seeing me for the first time.
Tommy jumps up and pulls me into a bone-cracking, genuine hug. “We crushed it!”
I hug him back, hard.
He grins. “I’m gonna run, before Saint puts me to work moving furniture or something. Text me what time you want to practice tomorrow?”
“I will,” I say, and he salutes, then vanishes up the stairs, doughnut in hand and voice echoing behind him.
And then it’s just me and Hunter alone.
He doesn’t move. I feel the heat of his gaze, the weight of it, pressing into every place my skin is bare. My mouth is dry, and I try to fill the silence, but my voice comes out too loud.
“You didn’t hate it?”
He snorts, and the sound is warmer than I expect. “I love watching you make music,” he says, voice low and rough at the edges. “It’s like… seeing the real you. Before I ever knew you were my scent match, I watched the video of your showcase over and over. I was obsessed.”
I don’t know what to say, so I laugh, too sharply. “What’s the fake me?”
He walks forward, slow, closing the space between us one long step at a time. His head is tipped down, curls wild, and eyes bright.
“I don’t think there is a fake you,” he says. “I just think you’re so used to hiding, you forget you don’t have to.”
The words hit like a punch and a hug at the same time. I look away, blinking too fast.
Hunter reaches up, gently, and tugs a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers linger on my cheek, thumb tracing the line of my jaw. I can feel every heartbeat, every shift of breath, like I’ve been wired to the same circuit.
He waits, patient, until I look at him. Then, so quiet I almost miss it, he says, “Can I kiss you?”
I nod before I even know I’m doing it.
The kiss is soft at first, careful, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he presses too hard. But I don’t vanish. I lean in, greedy, and his hand slides into my hair, holding me in place. He tastes like peppermint, a burn of desire, and promise.
When the kiss breaks, he doesn’t let me go. Our foreheads rest together, breaths tangled. I laugh, a little giddy. “An omega could get used to this.”
He grins, wide and bright. “I want you to.”
I kiss him again, rougher this time, and tackle us to the ground. He pulls me down into his lap, arms wrapping around my waist. My hands find his shoulders, the line of his neck, the pulse hammering there. I bite his lower lip and he groans, a sound so honest and raw it makes my body sing.
I bury my face in his neck, dizzy from the scent of him, the warmth, and the pure rightness of the moment.
I don’t want to run.
I want to stay.
And so I do, breathing in the smell of the pack, the echo of music still ringing in the walls, and the promise of the future.