Chapter 2
Wednesday morning, Drake announces he has a surprise.
"A good one this time," he says, grinning over his coffee mug. "Not like the 'surprise' where I tried to make waffles and set off the smoke alarm."
"That was last month," Eli says mildly, not looking up from his medical journal. "The neighbors still give us looks."
"They're judging my culinary journey."
"They're judging your ability to follow basic instructions."
I huff a laugh despite myself, curled up in the kitchen chair with my own mug of tea.
The morning light streams through the window, catches in the steam rising from my cup.
Drake's citrus scent is bright and warm.
Eli smells like clean linen and that faint floral note that reminds me of pressed flowers.
Ragon is at the stove making eggs, his pine-and-smoke scent grounding the whole room.
It's a good morning.
Perfect, even.
So why does something in my chest feel tight?
"What's the surprise?" I ask.
Drake's grin widens. "We're taking you somewhere."
"Where?"
"If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise."
Ragon plates the eggs with his usual efficiency and sets them on the table. His dark hair is pulled back in his usual man bun, tattoos stark on his forearms, blue eyes sharp as he glances at me. "Eat first."
I roll my eyes but obey, stabbing a forkful of scrambled eggs. They're perfect—fluffy, seasoned just right, the way he always makes them. He watches until I take a bite, then nods, satisfied.
An hour later, we're in the car.
Drake drives with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping out a rhythm on his thigh. Eli sits beside me in the back, reading something on his phone. Ragon rides shotgun, scanning the road like he's expecting trouble.
I watch the scenery pass—familiar streets, then less familiar ones. We're heading into the nicer part of town, where the shops have actual window displays instead of just sale signs taped to glass.
And then I see it.
Nest & Comfort.
My breath catches.
It's the omega supply store. The one I've been eyeing for months, the one I bookmark on my laptop and scroll through late at night when I can't sleep.
The one with the beautiful displays and the luxury materials and the prices that made me close the browser tab before I could start wanting things I couldn't ask for.
"Drake," I say slowly. "What—"
"Surprise," he says, pulling into the parking lot with a flourish. "You're getting new nest things."
My heart does something complicated. "I don't need—"
"You've had the same six blankets for almost five years," Eli says gently, putting his phone away. "You deserve an upgrade."
"The budget—"
"Is fine," Ragon says, turning in his seat to look at me. His voice is firm. "This isn't charity, Vee. This is us taking care of our omega."
The words settle over me like a blanket—warm, heavy, complicated.
Our omega.
Five years next month.
Is this a sign they’re about to make good on their promise?
I shove the thought down and let Drake open my door, let him tug me out of the car with that bright grin that makes his hazel eyes crinkle at the corners.
The store smells like lavender and vanilla and fresh cotton when we step inside.
Soft lighting bathes everything in a warm, golden glow.
The displays are arranged to showcase different nest aesthetics—minimalist whites and greys, maximalist jewel tones and patterns, cozy cottagecore florals, sleek modern neutrals.
My omega instincts immediately purr, wanting to touch everything, to burrow into the softness.
A beta woman approaches with a welcoming smile. "Good morning! Are we looking for anything specific today?"
"Full nest refresh," Drake says, gesturing to me like I'm a prize. "She's been making do with scraps. We're fixing that."
I elbow him. "They're not scraps."
"They're old," he counters. "There's a difference."
The woman's smile warms. "Well, you've come to the right place. Let's start with the basics—are you thinking weighted blankets, traditional layering, or a hybrid approach?"
I blink. "I... don't know?"
"Let's look at everything," Eli suggests, already gravitating toward a display of high-thread-count sheets. "We'll narrow down from there."
Ragon settles into one of the chairs near the entrance—the kind of chair clearly meant for waiting alphas. He crosses his arms, watching the door with that ever-present vigilance, but his scent is relaxed. Content, even.
Drake bounces toward the blanket section like an overgrown puppy.
"Oh my god, Vee, look at this one." He holds up something that's basically a cloud in fabric form—massive, cream-colored, impossibly soft. "It's got little embroidered moons on it."
"That's beautiful," I admit, reaching out to touch it.
The material is buttery under my fingers, the kind of softness that makes you want to wrap yourself up and never leave. The moons are subtle, stitched in silvery thread that catches the light.
"We're getting this one," Drake declares, draping it over his arm.
"Drake, that's—" I glance at the price tag and nearly choke. "That's expensive."
"And?" He raises a brow. "You're worth it."
My throat tightens. "You don't have to—"
"We want to," Eli says, appearing at my elbow with an armful of sheet sets in soft neutrals—cream, pale grey, the palest blue. "These have excellent scent retention and they're temperature regulating. You mentioned being too hot sometimes."
"You remembered that?"
His green eyes are warm behind his glasses. "I remember everything you tell me."
Drake is already moving to the next display, pointing at weighted blankets. "Okay, so I did some research—"
"You did research?" I echo, surprised.
"Don't sound so shocked. I'm a nurse, research is like half my job." He gestures to the display. "Weighted blankets are supposed to help with anxiety. Something about deep pressure therapy. You've been stressed lately, so I thought—"
He cuts himself off, but the implication hangs there.
You've been stressed. We noticed.
The saleswoman guides us through options, explaining materials and weights and care instructions. Drake asks a million questions, some relevant, some ridiculous ("But what if she wants to build a blanket fort?" "Sir, all blankets are technically fort-capable").
Eli methodically compares thread counts and reviews, building a mental spreadsheet I can practically see forming behind his eyes.
I just wander, trailing my fingers over impossibly soft fabrics, breathing in the clean scent of new things.
At one point, I find myself in front of a display of pillows—not just any pillows, but the kind specifically designed for omega nests. Ergonomic support pillows, scent-lock pillows that hold alpha scents longer, decorative accent pillows in every color imaginable.
I pick up one that's shaped like a crescent moon, silvery-grey with tiny embroidered stars. It's ridiculous and beautiful and something I would never buy for myself.
"That one," Ragon's voice says from behind me.
I jump, nearly dropping the pillow. I hadn't heard him approach.
He's close now, close enough that I can smell the pine-and-smoke of him, see the faint crow's feet at the corners of his eyes when he nods at the pillow.
"You lit up when you saw it," he says simply. "Get it."
"It's silly."
"It's yours," he corrects. "Get it."
I clutch the pillow to my chest, something warm and complicated unfolding in my ribs. "Okay."
His hand comes up, settles briefly on the back of my neck. The touch is warm, grounding. "Good girl."
The words send a little shiver through me—not sexual, just... omega. That deep, primal part of me that purrs when my alpha approves.
Except he's not my alpha. Not officially. Not bonded.
Yet.
Maybe.
One more month.
He must see something in my face because his brow furrows slightly. "You okay?"
"Yeah." I force a smile. "Just overwhelmed. In a good way."
He studies me for a moment longer, then nods and steps back. "Drake's found approximately seventeen things he thinks you need. You might want to veto some of them before he bankrupts us."
I laugh and follow him back to where Drake has assembled what can only be described as a pile—blankets, sheets, pillows, even a few decorative storage baskets.
"This is too much," I say.
"It's not enough," Drake counters. "Look, there's even this little LED moon lamp that—"
"No lamps," Eli says firmly. "We already have three in her room."
"But this one changes colors."
"No."
"Eli, you're crushing my dreams."
"Your dreams will survive."
I watch them bicker, warmth spreading through my chest despite the persistent tightness that's been there since I woke up.
The saleswoman helps us load everything into bags—so many bags—and Drake cheerfully hands over his card without even looking at the total.
"You're spoiling me," I murmur as we carry everything to the car.
"Good," he says. "You should be spoiled."
Ragon opens the trunk, starts arranging bags with practiced efficiency. "This is what pack does, Vee. We take care of our own."
Our own.
There's that phrase again.
Eli slides into the back seat beside me, a soft smile on his face. "When we get home, we'll help you set it all up. Make your nest exactly how you want it."
"You don't have to—"
"We want to," all three of them say in unison.
I laugh despite the weird ache in my chest, despite the way something feels off even though nothing's wrong.
The drive home is quiet. Comfortable. Drake hums along to the radio. Eli's hand finds mine in the back seat, fingers lacing together. Ragon drives with his usual focused calm.
It's perfect.
My heart flutters with the terrifying hope that they're about to ask to bond me in a whole month early? My fingers drift unconsciously to the unmarked skin at the curve of my neck, and I swallow hard against the sudden dryness in my throat, my breathing quickening with excited hope.
“Vee,” Ragon says. “Later tonight, we all need to sit down and talk.”
***