Page 25 of Pack Me Up
“No,” I say, “I’m saying maybe we shouldn’t come at her like a SWAT team every time she leaves rehearsal. Give her some room.”
“So what do we do? Presents? Dinner?” Hunter asks, looking to me for guidance.
“You’re the alphas, isn’t this supposed to be second nature for you?” I ask.
Saint looks at me like I struck a chord, like he’s already failed.
We’re saved by the sound of three phones buzzing, all at once. It’s a group text. I reach for mine, but Saint is already reading it.
“It’s Colton. ‘She wants to meet all of us after rehearsal to talk.’” Saint’s face doesn’t move, but his voice is a little less stony.
Hunter sits up, suddenly all business. “Where?”
“Here,” Saint says. “I’ll tell them to bring her here. Fox, you clean up the kitchen. Hunter, do something about the mess in the hall.”
I stand, not bothering to argue. My hands are steady now, the prospect of actual work settling me back into myself. There’s comfort in chores, in the rituals that make a house less like a war zone and more like somewhere people actually live.
The kitchen is a disaster, but it’s manageable. I load the dishwasher, wipe down the counters, and sweep up the hall. I find a candle in the drawer, light it, and let the scent of lemon and smoke push out the smell of old coffee and sweat. I check the fridge, make sure there’s something to offer her if she’s hungry. I don’t know what she likes yet, but I’m ready to learn everything about our omega, and of course, I remember her allergies.
Hunter passes by, arms full of dirty towels and gym clothes. He nods at me, and I nod back. In the other room, Saint is probably rearranging the living room so the couch faces the door, so he can see her as soon as she walks in. That’s how obsessed he is.
The house is old, the kind with crown molding and floors that creak even when you tiptoe. We haven’t fixed the cracks in the paint or the chips in the stairs. It’s a fortress, not a showpiece.
When I finish, I find Saint in the living room, moving a chair a quarter inch to the left, then back again. He glances up, notes my arrival, and nods once. “You ready?”
I think about lying, but he’d see through it. “As ready as I can be.”
He’s quiet for a minute. Then, softer than usual, he asks, “Do you think it’s bad news?”
The question guts me a little. “Doesn’t matter,” I say. “We will help her through it.”
He almost smiles. “You always say that.”
“Still true,” I say, and for a second, I almost believe it.
Saint is a drill sergeant in a designer button-down. He barks out orders. “Hunter, make sure it smells good in here. Fox, fresh towels in the guest bath. I want all the blankets from the bedrooms, and someone find some pillows.” I watch him straighten a frame on the wall, then immediately move it back to where it was, like he’s editing the memory of the room instead of the room itself.
Hunter disappears down the hall, arms outstretched to collect every available pillow and blanket. He returns with a heap so massive it blocks out his face, flinging it onto the sectional. “Omegas love this stuff,” he says, then starts arranging the pillows into an elaborate color gradient that I can’t even pretend to understand. “Gotta look inviting.”
I run upstairs and grab the velvet throw from my own bed. I hesitate at the landing, smoothing my thumb over the fabric, and try not to imagine how it would look wrapped around her shoulders. I want to be the one to hand it to her, but it’s more likely Hunter will get there first.
Back in the living room, I see Saint at work with a lint roller, attacking the couch like it personally offended him. He’s got the posture of a wolf about to tear into a rival’s throat, but all that violence is funneled into stripping the furniture of every last trace of dirt. I notice him scanning the room every few seconds, not for threats, but for ways to make it look more like the kind of home a normal person would feel safe in.
Saint clears his throat, and we both snap to. He’s holding the lint roller like a weapon, eyes locked on me. “Pillow arrangement is wrong. Three on the left, two on the right, then one centered.”
I look at the couch, then back at him. “You want me to rearrange them?”
Saint doesn’t blink. “If you’re going to do a job, do it right.”
I want to argue, but I don’t. Instead, I organize the pillows according to his specifications, fluffing them with a precisionthat borders on obsession. Hunter sidles over and dumps the heap of throw blankets on my head.
I pull my velvet throw out of the pile and smooth it across the top of the couch, running my palms over the fabric until it shines like a promise. It’s not perfect, but it’s not a house for only men anymore.
Saint checks his watch for the third time in as many minutes, then adjusts the dimmer on the overheads. The light goes from institutional to honey, making the whole space look softer, less like a bunker and more like the set of a holiday ad. He studies the effect, nods, then straightens a picture frame on the wall by a single millimeter.
“You nervous?” Hunter says, to no one in particular.
Saint answers without turning around. “I want her to be comfortable.”
