Page 63 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

“What,” I whisper. “What. Are.They?”

“Huh?” Aimee turns around slowly, following my gaze, then smiling as she strokes one of the dice. “Oh,these? Aren’t theyadorable? I got them at the gas station. They were right next to the sour gummies and those little pine tree air fresheners.”

“They’re a choking hazard to masculinity,” I hiss.

Jace, one hand on the wheel, glances up, shrugs, and actually says, “Kinda vibey.”

VIBEY.

I’m going to combust. I’m going to light myself on fire with pure alpha rage and take this pastel nightmare down with me.

I black out for a second. When I return, it’s to Aimee leaning across the console to tuck something into Jace’s shirt pocket, her voice all low and syrupy. “That’s for later.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says, without even blinking.

Cam makes a softawwnoise.

I make aplotting a murder in four-part harmonynoise.

Then Aimee catches my eye in the mirror and honest-to-godsmirks.

A pop song starts playing—one of those bubbly omega-core bangers that makes you question whether anyone involved has ever felt a negative emotion. Aimee starts humming, Cam joins in, and Jace drums on the steering wheel.

Meanwhile, I pull out my phone and scour forums for answers to questions likecan you be evicted from your own pack.

There are no answers; only the muffled sound of my dignity unraveling to the beat of a synth-pop chorus about soulmates and strawberry lip gloss.

*

At the grocery store, it gets worse. Cam pushes the cart while Jace walks beside Aimee like a bodyguard-slash-boyfriend-slash-freaking idiot in love, and I trail behind them all, miserable and carrying a bag of avocados.

Aimee, of course, is performing.

“Which oat milk, Cam?” she asks, holding up two identical cartons.

He furrows his brow as though this is a life-or-death choice. “Uh… maybe the barista one?”

“Good boy,”she says, ruffling his hair.

I nearly drop the avocados.

She loads the cart with scented dryer sheets, cucumber face mist, glitter pens “for fridge notes,” and something called hormone-regulating moon tea.

I tell her that’s not real science. She tells me neither is my toxic masculinity.

At one point, she disappears down an aisle and returns with a pink bathrobe, plops it in the cart, and chirps, “This is for Wes. I noticed he’s been very tense lately.”

Cam snorts, while I contemplate self-immolation via spicy ramen.

Back at the house, we unload groceries in a scene that might look wholesome from the outside—if you ignore the fact that I’m now the proud owner of lavender-scented toilet paper and omega-branded almond butter. Afterward, lunch is…fine. Cam makes us all grilled cheese, and Jace helps her slice up fruit. They chatter among themselves as I eat in silence; then Aimee claps her hands together out of nowhere, catching my attention.

“Okay!” she says. “Now that we’re all fed and bonded… I have an idea.”

The others look intrigued.

I start praying for a power outage.

“We need a pack song.”

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