Jane

Instead, he made the mistake of walking in carrying two coffees.

One black.

One iced vanilla latte with caramel.

Angel's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline.

"Oh," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "That's cute."

Coco frowned.

"What?"

"Nothin'."

EZ looked down into his beer to hide his smile.

Bishop sighed the sigh of a man who knew disaster was coming and had simply decided to let it happen.

Creeper leaned back in his chair.

"Question."

"No."

"I didn't ask it yet."

"I know you."

"Fair."

Silence stretched.

Coco set the coffees on the bar.

"...Why's everyone staring at me?"

Nobody answered.

Instead, Hank walked over to the television mounted in the corner.

"Mind if I hook my laptop up?"

"Why?"

"Club business."

"It ain't church night."

"It'll be educational."

Angel actually snorted.

"Educational," he repeated.

Something in Coco's spine tightened.

"...What'd you idiots do?"

You, unfortunately, were running late.

Traffic.

A train crossing.

One flat tire.

You had texted Coco twenty minutes earlier.

Running late. Don't let Angel eat my fries.

He had responded immediately.

I'll fight him.

You: Promise? Coco: On my kutte

You'd sent back three laughing emojis.

Coco had smiled at his phone like an idiot.

Angel had seen.

Everyone had seen.

Nobody had let him forget it.

Hank connected the laptop.

The television flickered.

A title appeared.

Large.

Bold.

Centered.

OPERATION: TELL HER YOU LOVE HER, DUMBASS

Coco froze.

"...No."

Angel clapped once.

"Oh yeah."

"No."

"Too late."

"No."

EZ actually took his phone out.

"You recording?"

"You bet."

Bishop pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I told you idiots this was immature."

Angel grinned.

"You still helped."

"...I did."

"You even proofread."

"...I regret everything."

Slide Two.

A dramatic stock photo of a man screaming into the void.

Across it—

WHY WE ARE HERE TODAY

Johnny "Coco" Cruz has been hopelessly in love for approximately eleven months.

He refuses to do anything about it.

This intervention is necessary.

Underneath—

Sources: literally all of us.

The room erupted.

Coco stared.

"...Who made this?"

Three fingers immediately pointed at EZ.

EZ pointed at Angel. Angel pointed at Hank. Hank pointed at Creeper.

Creeper looked perfectly calm.

"It was a team effort."

"I hate every single one of you."

"We know."

Slide Three.

A photograph.

Not of you.

Of Coco.

Specifically—

Coco looking at you.

The picture had clearly been taken without him noticing.

You were laughing at something Letty had said.

He wasn't looking anywhere else.

A giant red circle highlighted his face.

Text beside it.

Exhibit A: LOOK AT HIM.

Underneath—

This is not how normal people look at someone they're "just friends" with.

Angel was wheezing.

EZ couldn't breathe.

Creeper actually laughed.

Actually laughed.

Coco covered his face.

"...Jesus Christ."

Slide Four.

A chart.

An honest-to-God bar graph.

NUMBER OF TIMES COCO HAS MENTIONED HER THIS WEEK

Monday — 17

Tuesday — 23

Wednesday — 14

Thursday — 19

Friday — 31

Saturday (current) — 11

Total:

115

A footnote.

"Data collected by Angel Reyes because he apparently has no hobbies."

Angel looked offended.

"I got hobbies."

"Harassing me ain't a hobby."

"It absolutely is."

Slide Five.

THINGS COCO CLAIMS ARE 'COINCIDENCES'

She likes mystery novels. He suddenly likes mystery novels.

She mentioned liking vanilla. His shampoo now smells like vanilla.

She once said his hoodies were comfortable. He now owns eight more hoodies.

She likes strawberry milk. Guess what's in his fridge.

The room dissolved. Even Taza was laughing.

Coco looked genuinely horrified.

"...How do you know what's in my fridge?"

EZ answered immediately.

"You invited me over."

"I made a mistake."

"A catastrophic one."

Slide Six.

A close-up photograph.

Your forgotten hair tie wrapped around Coco's wrist.

Massive arrow.

EXPLAIN THIS.

Coco blinked.

"...She forgot it."

"So?"

"I was gonna give it back."

"It has been there for three weeks."

"..."

"..."

"...Shut up."

Slide Seven.

A timeline.

The title alone nearly killed him.

THE SLOW DESCENT INTO COMPLETE SIMPING

Month One

"She's nice."

Month Three

"I'll walk her home."

Month Five

"I fixed her sink."

Month Seven

"I made sure her car had gas."

Month Nine

"I bought her favourite coffee without needing to ask her order."

Month Eleven

"I remembered she likes extra pickles."

Huge red letters underneath.

BROTHER THAT IS LOVE.

By now Coco had buried his face entirely in his hands.

"This is psychological warfare."

Angel nodded.

"Correct."

Slide Eight.

A pie chart.

THINGS COCO STARES AT

Her — 82%

Motorcycles — 9%

Food — 4%

Everything else — 5%

Slide Nine.

The title alone made Bishop choke on his beer.

WITNESS TESTIMONIES

EZ: "He smiles different around her."

Hank: "He checks whether she got home safe."

Creeper: "He bought caramel. He drinks black coffee."

Angel: "He asked me if flowers were too much."

Coco looked ready to pass away.

"I asked one question."

Angel nodded solemnly.

"You did."

"You said they were stupid."

"I lied."

Slide Ten.

A screenshot.

Your contact.

🌼 Sunny🌼

The room went dead silent.

Angel slowly turned.

"...Sunny?"

Coco realized exactly what he'd done.

"..."

"..."

"...Delete that."

Nobody moved.

Angel's grin became terrifying.

"Sunny?"

"You touch my phone again and I'll kill you."

"Aww."

Slide Eleven.

REASONS SHE CLEARLY LIKES YOU TOO

She texts you first.

She trusts you.

She steals your hoodies.

She always sits beside you.

She laughs at your terrible jokes.

She brings Letty snacks.

She remembers your coffee order.

At the bottom—

OPEN YOUR EYES.

Coco swallowed.

Because...

That part hurt a little.

Because he'd convinced himself he'd imagined it. Every smile. Every lingering conversation. Every accidental touch.

He'd told himself you were simply kind.

Slide Twelve.

The final slide.

Black background.

White text.

Huge letters.

JOHNNY CRUZ.

A click.

Next animation.

GO TELL HER.

Another click.

RIGHT NOW.

Another.

SHE'S LITERALLY PARKING OUTSIDE.

Coco's head snapped toward the window.

"...What?"

Angel peeked through the blinds.

"Oh."

A pause.

"Yeah, she's here."

Panic.

Actual panic.

"No."

"Oh yes."

"No."

EZ stood.

"So go."

"I ain't—"

Creeper was already hauling him upright by the shoulder.

"You are."

"Hell no."

Hank opened the clubhouse door.

"You've got thirty seconds before she walks in."

"You people are demons."

Angel patted his back.

"We're family."

"That's worse."

You stepped out of your car carrying a paper bag full of snacks.

You were still laughing to yourself over something on the radio.

As you reached the clubhouse steps...

The door burst open.

Coco practically stumbled outside.

Hair a mess.

Face bright red.

Looking like he'd just survived combat.

You blinked.

"...Everything okay?"

"...No."

Concern immediately crossed your face.

"What happened?"

Inside the clubhouse, six grown bikers flattened themselves against the windows like curious children.

Bishop muttered, "This is humiliating."

Angel whispered, loudly, "Shh."

Coco rubbed both hands over his face.

"I..."

Nothing.

His brain emptied.

You waited patiently.

"You...?"

"I need to tell you somethin'."

"...Okay."

He looked at you.

Really looked.

At the woman who had become the best part of every day without him ever noticing exactly when it happened. At the person who made Santo Padre feel softer. Who had become family to Letty. Who remembered everyone's birthdays. Who always made an extra coffee because she knew somebody would forget breakfast.

Who looked at him like he deserved kindness.

He laughed once.

Quietly.

"You know..."

"What?"

"I had this whole speech."

"You did?"

"Yeah. Kinda."

"What happened to it?"

"My brothers committed emotional terrorism."

You laughed.

"What?"

"They made... a slideshow."

"..."

"A slideshow."

"...About what?"

He groaned.

"I ain't repeating it."

"Coco."

"It was... detailed."

"...Johnny."

He sighed.

"...About me being in love with you."

Your smile disappeared.

Not because you were upset.

Because your brain simply stopped working.

"...What?"

He met your eyes.

No hiding.

No running.

"They're right."

Silence.

"I love you."

His voice wasn't loud.

It didn't need to be.

"I've loved you for months."

Another step closer.

"I tried ignorin' it."

Another.

"Didn't work."

You stared.

"I tried tellin' myself you deserved somebody easier."

Your eyes shimmered.

"I tried convincing myself you didn't feel the same."

A tiny laugh escaped you.

"You idiot."

"...Probably."

"You absolute idiot."

He frowned.

"...That's... not encouraging."

You closed the distance yourself.

Your fingers found his cut.

You smiled so softly it almost hurt to look at.

"I've been waiting."

He blinked.

"...What?"

"I thought you weren't interested."

"I bought caramel for drinks."

"I know."

"I remembered your coffee."

"I know."

"I carried your stupid hair tie around for weeks."

"I know."

"You knew?"

You laughed.

"Coco."

"...Yeah?"

"You are many things."

He waited.

"You are not subtle."

Inside the clubhouse, Angel silently punched the air.

EZ covered his face, shoulders shaking.

Creeper smiled into his beer.

Coco reached for your hand slowly enough that you had every chance to pull away.

Instead...

You intertwined your fingers with his.

Perfectly.

Naturally.

Like they had always belonged there.

"I love you too," you whispered.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

The clubhouse behind you erupted into cheers loud enough to shake the windows.

Angel burst through the front door shouting, "FINALLY!"

You both laughed.

Coco groaned toward the sky.

"I am never living this down."

"Nope," Angel called.

"The slideshow's archived."

"You archived it?"

"There are backups."

"How many?"

"Five."

"I hate you."

"Nah," Angel replied with a grin. "You love me almost as much as you love Sunshine."

Coco sighed the sigh of a man thoroughly defeated, then looked back at you.

Your hand was still in his.

Your smile hadn't faded.

For the first time in months, he wasn't carrying the weight of unsaid words anymore.

He leaned down just enough to press a gentle kiss to your forehead, smiling when you instinctively leaned into him.

Behind you, the clubhouse dissolved back into loud laughter, merciless teasing, and promises that the slideshow would absolutely be shown at every future club barbecue.

Coco decided he could survive the embarrassment.

Because after eleven months of stubborn silence, public humiliation, and one catastrophically thorough PowerPoint presentation, he finally had exactly what he'd wanted all along.

A heavy, warm hand slides up your spine. Calloused fingertips trace the line of your vertebrae with agonizing gentleness, right up to the nape of your neck, before a soft pair of lips presses against the healing mating bite over your scent gland.

“Morning, beautiful,” Dean’s voice rumbles, low and gravelly with sleep.

You let out a soft, contented sigh, shifting backward until your body is perfectly flush against his solid chest. The bond humming beneath your skin flares to life, vibrating with a deep, answering affection. “Morning.”

“How are you feeling?” He asks, his arm wrapping around your waist to pull you even closer. “The fever is completely gone. You feel cool.”

“I feel like I ran a marathon,” you mumble, keeping your eyes closed. “Or maybe ten marathons. I can barely lift my arms.”

Dean chuckles, the sound vibrating against your back. “That’s fair. You put in a lot of work this week, sweetheart.”

You flush hotly, the memories of the past seven days rushing back. It had been a blur of skin, heat, and absolute biological demand. Every time you thought the wave was cresting, it would pull you back under, and Dean had been there for every single second of it. He hadn’t just taken care of you; he had worshipped you. He fed you when you were too weak to sit up, carried you to the bath when you were slick with sweat, and answered every single one of your omega’s frantic pleas with absolute, unyielding devotion.

“You must be exhausted,” you say, finally cracking your eyes open and turning your head to look at him over your shoulder.

Dean looks beautifully wrecked. His blonde hair is sticking up in every direction, his jaw is covered in a week’s worth of golden scruff, and there are faint, dark circles under his eyes. But his green eyes are bright, practically glowing with a fierce, settled contentment.

“I’ve never felt better in my entire life,” Dean says honestly. He props his head up on his hand, looking down at you. “You’re perfect. You did so good. I’m so damn proud of you.”

Tears immediately prick your eyes. Your emotions are still completely raw, sitting right on the surface. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true,” he promises, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “Now, stay here. Don’t move a muscle. I’m going to make us some coffee and get some actual food in you. Room service brought up a massive breakfast spread about an hour ago.”

He climbs out of the nest, completely unbothered by his lack of clothing, and pulls on a pair of grey sweatpants low on his hips. You watch him walk out to the main living area, admiring the broad slope of his shoulders and the way his muscles shift under his skin.

He’s your mate. The reality of it still knocks the breath completely out of your lungs.

A few minutes later, Dean returns carrying a tray loaded with pancakes, bacon, fresh fruit, and two massive mugs of coffee. He sets it on the nightstand and climbs back into the bed, carefully pulling you up so your back is resting against the headboard. He grabs one of his oversized Briar hockey hoodies from the edge of the nest and gently pulls it over your head, completely cocooning you in his scent and warmth.

“Eat,” he commands gently, handing you a fork.

You actually have an appetite this morning. The two of you eat in comfortable, easy silence, occasionally stealing bites from each other’s plates. It feels incredibly domestic. It feels like the start of the rest of your life.

When the plates are mostly cleared, Dean sets his coffee mug down and clears his throat.

“So,” he begins, leaning back against the pillows and crossing his arms over his chest. “We need to make some phone calls.”

Your stomach does a complicated, nervous flip. “Phone calls?”

“To our parents,” Dean says. He watches your face carefully, instantly picking up on the spike of anxiety pushing through the bond. He reaches out, wrapping his hand around your ankle under the blankets. “Hey. It’s okay. I want to call mine first. I want them to know I found you. Is that alright?”

You swallow hard and nod. “Yeah. Yes, of course.”

“Do you want me to step out into the living room?”

“No,” you say quickly. “No, stay here. I want to hear.”

Dean smiles, a soft, incredibly tender expression. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabs his phone, and dials. He hits the speakerphone button and tosses the phone onto the mattress between you.

It rings twice before a bright, elegant voice answers.

“Dean? Honey, it’s barely ten in the morning on a Sunday. Are you actually awake, or is the frat house on fire?”

Dean laughs. “No fire, Mom. I’m wide awake. Is Dad there?”

“Peter!” His mother calls out, her voice slightly muffled as she pulls the phone away. “Pick up the line in the study! It’s Dean!” A second later, a deep, authoritative voice clicks onto the line.

“Morning, son. Everything alright?”

“Everything is perfect,” Dean says, leaning forward. He reaches out and takes your hand, lacing his fingers tightly with yours. “Better than perfect, actually. I found her.”

The silence on the line is instantaneous and absolute.

Then, his mother gasps. “Dean? Are you … are you serious?”

“I’m completely serious,” Dean says, his chest puffing out with undeniable alpha pride. “She’s right here with me. Her heat just broke this morning.”

“Oh my god,” his mother breathes, her voice suddenly thick with emotion. “Peter, he found his mate! Dean, this is incredible! Oh, darling, congratulations. We are so, so happy for you.”

“A fated mate,” his father adds, the strictness in his voice completely replaced by a warm, booming joy. “Well done, son. That’s the best news we’ve had in years. What’s her name? Is she a Briar student?”

Dean looks at you, his eyes shining. “Yeah, she goes to Briar. And she’s amazing. She’s the most beautiful, perfect omega I’ve ever met.”

You blush furiously, hiding your face in the oversized collar of Dean’s hoodie.

“Well, don’t keep her all to yourself!” His mother insists. “You need to bring her down to Greenwich immediately. We have to celebrate! I’ll have the staff air out the guest wing, or if she’d prefer, we can come up to Massachusetts. We can take you both out to dinner. Oh, I need to go shopping, I need to get her a welcoming gift-”

“Mom, hold on,” Dean interrupts gently. He gives your hand a firm squeeze. “I need you to listen to me for a second, okay? We aren’t coming to Greenwich right now, and you can’t come up here just yet.”

“Why?” His father asks, immediately picking up on the shift in Dean’s tone. “Is everything alright? Was the heat too hard on her?”

Dean takes a deep breath. “She had a rough time. A really rough time before I found her. Her family … they’re betas. Only betas.”

“Oh,” his mother says, her tone shifting to cautious understanding.

“They put her on suppressants when she was fourteen,” Dean continues, his voice hardening slightly at the memory. “Heavy, industrial-grade blockers. They tried to medicate her designation away because they thought it was an inconvenience. When I found her on campus a week ago, she was seizing on the concrete. She had Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome from the toxicity. She almost died.”

A sharp, horrified intake of breath comes from the phone.

“My god,” his father murmurs, completely appalled.

“They put a child on those poisons?” His mother asks, her voice trembling with genuine outrage and heartbreak. “Dean, that’s barbaric. That poor darling. Is she okay? Is she healthy?”

“She’s healthy now,” Dean assures them quickly. “We flushed her system at the hospital, but coming off them threw her straight into her first heat. She was terrified. Her parents completely convinced her that fated mates were a myth and that her biology was something to be ashamed of.”

“That is unacceptable,” his father states firmly, the high-powered attorney coming out in full force. “Absolutely unacceptable.”

“I know,” Dean says. “Which is why I’m telling you this. When we do finally come down to visit, or when you come up, I need you to be extra gentle with her. She’s never had a proper pack. She’s never seen how an omega is supposed to be treated in a real family. I need you guys to show her that this is a blessing, not a curse.”

“Dean, you don’t even have to ask,” his mother says, her voice thick with unshed tears. “You just tell us what she needs. We will spoil her absolutely rotten. We will show her exactly what it means to be cherished by this family. You just take care of her right now, okay? Let her recover. Let her get her bearings.”

“We’re sending a care package,” his father adds decisively. “Expect it by tomorrow. And Dean … tell her welcome to the family.”

“I will,” Dean says, a massive smile breaking out on his face. “Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Mom. I’ll call you guys later.”

“We love you, Dean. Send her our love!”

Dean hangs up the phone and looks at you.

You are openly crying, the tears spilling down your cheeks and soaking into the collar of the hoodie. You have never, not once in your entire life, heard adults talk about an omega with that level of reverence, care, and desperate protection. And they haven’t even officially met you yet. They just immediately accepted you because you are their son’s mate.

“Hey, no tears,” Dean murmurs, dropping the phone and pulling you onto his lap. He cradles you against his chest, pressing kisses into your hair. “They love you already. I told you, you’re a queen now.”

“They’re so nice,” you sob, clinging to his shirt. “They didn’t even care that I missed class for a week. They just cared if I was okay.”

“Because you’re what matters,” Dean says, rubbing your back. “Not your grades, not your schedule. You.”

You stay there for a long time, letting his words and the overwhelming support from his parents settle into your bones. It makes you feel brave. It makes you feel incredibly grounded.

You pull back slightly, wiping your eyes with the oversized sleeves of the hoodie. You take a deep, shaky breath.

“I need to call my parents.”

Dean frowns, his protective instincts immediately flaring. “You don’t have to do that right now. You can wait. Send a text.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “I need to. I’ve been missing for a week. They’re probably worried sick. Or angry. Mostly angry. But I have to tell them.”

Dean studies your face, seeing the determination in your eyes. He hates it. He hates knowing what is likely waiting on the other end of that line, but he refuses to take your agency away.

“Okay,” Dean says softly. “But I’m right here. If they start their bullshit, I’m cutting it off.”

You nod, pulling your own phone off the charger on the nightstand. Your hands are shaking slightly as you scroll to your mother’s contact and hit call. You leave it off speakerphone, holding it tightly to your ear.

It rings four times.

“Hello?” Your mother’s crisp, impatient voice answers.

“Hi, Mom,” you say, your voice remarkably steady despite the racing of your heart.

“It’s about time,” she snaps immediately, the reprimand sharp and instant. “Do you have any idea how irresponsible you’ve been? I have been texting you for six days. I called your roommate, and she gave me some nonsense excuse about you being out of town. What is going on with you?”

You flinch slightly. Dean feels the spike of distress through the bond and immediately wraps his arm securely around your waist, anchoring you to him.

“Mom, I’m sorry I didn’t call,” you start, trying to keep your tone reasonable. “I was in the hospital.”

There is a brief pause. “The hospital? I saw a charge hit the insurance from Boston General, but when I called, they wouldn’t release your records to me because you’re an adult. What did you do to yourself?”

What did you do to yourself. Not are you okay? Not I was so worried. “I didn’t do anything,” you say, your voice hardening just a fraction. “The suppressants you and Dr. Davidson put me on caused a toxic reaction. I had a severe tonic-clonic seizure on the quad. I almost died, Mom.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” your mother sighs, a deeply irritated sound. “Dr. Davidson warned us that there might be some adverse side effects when we upped the dosage. It was just your body adjusting. You just needed to push through it. If you went to the hospital, I’m sure those doctors overreacted and pulled you off of them.”

You stare blankly at the wall, the sheer, willful ignorance of her words staggering you. “Yes, they pulled me off of them. Because they were poisoning me. Because they caused Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome.”

“Well, now what are we going to do?” Your mother demands, completely ignoring your near-death experience in favor of logistics. “You’ve been off them for a week. You must have missed your midterms. Do you know how hard it’s going to be to get those professors to let you retake them? You’re jeopardizing your entire semester for a temporary biological hiccup!”

“It’s not a hiccup!” You finally raise your voice, frustration bleeding through. “It’s my biology! Coming off the pills triggered my heat.”

“Ugh,” she groans, the sound dripping with disgust. “I knew it. A whole week wasted wallowing in a dorm room. We are calling Dr. Davidson on Monday. There has to be a different brand, something lower dose that won’t cause the seizures but will still keep you regulated-”

“I’m not taking them ever again.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, I’m never taking suppressants again,” you say firmly, the mating mark on your neck pulsing warmly, giving you strength. “I’m an omega. I’m done hiding it.”

“You are a modern woman,” your mother corrects sharply, her voice rising in anger. “You are not an animal ruled by hormones. I will not let you throw your life away just because you had a bad reaction to one medication. We worked too hard to make sure you were independent.”

“I am independent!” You argue, tears springing to your eyes again, this time entirely out of frustration. “But I also found my mate, Mom.”

The line goes dead silent.

“What did you just say?”

“I found my fated mate,” you repeat, your voice shaking but defiant. “The guy who found me on the quad when I was seizing … he’s an alpha. We mated. Everything you said was just a fairytale, everything you told me didn’t exist in real life … it’s real. And it’s better than I ever imagined.”

Your mother scoffs. It is a loud, derisive, mocking sound.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Really? This is what this is about?” Her tone is dripping with absolute condescension. “You had a medical emergency, you got scared, and some frat boy alpha fed you a line about being fated to get you into bed during your heat. And you fell for it. You used a fairytale to justify throwing away your medication schedule.”

“That’s not what happened!” You gasp, completely horrified by her cruelty.

“It’s exactly what happened,” your mother says ruthlessly. “Fated mates aren’t real. It’s just a chemical reaction, a biological trap to keep women subservient. And now you’ve bound yourself to some random college boy who is going to expect you to play house instead of focusing on your career. I am so deeply disappointed in you.”

The words hit you like physical blows. You curl in on yourself, a fractured sob tearing from your throat. “Mom, please. Just listen to me-”

“I have heard enough. You are going to pack your bags, you are going to march into your professors’ offices tomorrow and beg for make-up exams, and then you are going to call Dr. Davidson. Until you are ready to act like an adult and take control of your biology, I have nothing else to say to you.”

Before you can even try to respond, Dean’s hand completely covers yours.

He physically pulls the phone out of your grip. His face is a mask of pure, terrifying alpha fury. The air in the room practically drops ten degrees as his scent spikes with sharp, aggressive warning pheromones.

He brings the phone to his mouth.

“Listen to me very carefully,” Dean snarls into the receiver, his voice a lethal, vibrating threat. “Do not ever speak to my omega like that again. You lost the right to call yourself her mother the second you put your prejudice above her life. Do not call this number again.”

“Excuse me, who do you think you are-”

Dean hits the red end-call button, cutting her off mid-sentence.

He tosses the phone onto the floor, completely dismissing its existence, and immediately turns all his attention to you.

You are shaking violently, sobbing into your hands. The rejection cuts so incredibly deep. It’s exactly what you had always feared — that if you embraced who you were, your family would throw you away.

“Shh, baby, hey,” Dean murmurs, pulling your hands away from your face. He wraps his arms completely around you, dragging you fully onto his lap and pressing your face into his neck. “I’ve got you. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

“She hates me,” you cry, gripping handfuls of his t-shirt. “She didn’t even care that I was happy. She just cared that I ruined her perfect plan.”

“She’s toxic,” Dean says firmly, his hand rubbing soothing circles into your back. He pushes out waves of calming cedar, actively using the mating bond to try and force the panic and heartbreak out of your system. “She is a toxic, miserable person who can’t handle the fact that you have something she will never understand. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I just wanted her to be happy for me,” you whisper brokenly.

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” Dean kisses the top of your head, resting his cheek against your hair. “But you don’t need her. You don’t need any of them.”

You sniffle, looking up at him with red, swollen eyes. “I don’t?”

“No,” Dean says, his gaze burning with absolute certainty. He brings a hand up to cup your cheek, his thumb sweeping away a fresh tear. “Because you have me. And you have my family. We are your pack now. You hear me? You belong to us. We are going to celebrate you, and we are going to love you exactly the way you are.”

He leans in and kisses you, a deep, grounding kiss that tastes like salt and coffee and absolute devotion.

“I’m never letting anyone make you feel small again,” Dean vows against your lips. “You’re my omega. My beautiful, perfect omega. And from now on, your life is going to be a goddamn fairytale. I promise.”

You close your eyes, leaning into his strength, letting his scent wash away the lingering sting of your mother’s words. It hurts. The rejection hurts terribly.

But as Dean holds you tight against his chest, safe in the center of the nest he built just for you, you realize that for the first time in your life, you are finally, truly home.

***

Stepping out of the hotel feels like crossing the threshold between a dream and reality. Only, as Dean’s hand rests heavily and securely on the small of your back, guiding you toward his car in the underground garage, you realize reality is suddenly far better than any dream you could have conjured.

The air in the parking garage is cool, but you are wrapped in one of Dean’s thick, grey Briar Hockey zip-ups, perfectly insulated by the soft fleece and the overwhelming scent of your mate. Your body still hums with a lingering, pleasant ache from the past week, a constant physical reminder of the bond that now firmly tethers your soul to his.

“You good?” Dean asks, opening the passenger door for you. He pauses, his green eyes scanning your face with that intense, focused dedication he hasn’t dropped since he found you on the quad. “Not too tired?”

“I’m good, Dean,” you promise, offering a soft smile as you slide into the leather seat. “I promise. I just feel … different. Lighter.”

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to the mating bite resting over your scent gland. The jolt of electricity that shoots through your veins makes you gasp softly. Dean smirks against your skin, clearly pleased with his effect on you, before pulling back and shutting the door.

He climbs into the driver’s seat, starting the engine. “First stop, the dorms. We need to grab your essentials.”

“I should probably text Grace,” you say, pulling your phone out of your bag. You hadn’t looked at it since the disastrous call with your mother yesterday. True to his word, Dean had actively pushed out waves of calming alpha pheromones, completely smothering your anxiety and replacing it with a deep, settled peace. “She’s probably going to yell at me for going off the grid.”

“She can yell all she wants,” Dean says lazily, backing the SUV out of the parking spot. “As long as she doesn’t stress you out. If she stresses you out, I’m throwing her out the window.”

You roll your eyes, though a giggle escapes your lips. “She’s my best friend, Dean. And she’s a beta. You can’t throw her out a window.”

“Watch me,” he deadpans, though the corner of his mouth twitches upward.

The drive to campus is short. Dean navigates the familiar streets of Briar with practiced ease, pulling the heavy SUV right up to the curb outside your dorm building. He throws it into park, hopping out to open your door before you can even reach for the handle.

Walking into the dorm building with Dean Di Laurentis is an experience. Usually, you keep your head down, practically blending into the cinderblock walls to avoid drawing attention to yourself. Today, keeping a low profile is entirely impossible.

Dean entirely envelopes your space. He keeps one hand firmly laced with yours, his broad shoulders practically acting as a shield as he guides you through the crowded lobby.

Heads turn. Whispers instantly break out. Dean is a minor celebrity on campus, and the sight of him fiercely guarding a girl wearing his oversized hoodie sends shockwaves through the Sunday morning crowd. But Dean completely ignores them. He only has eyes for you.

When you reach your door on the third floor, you take a deep breath and push it open.

Grace is sitting at her desk, entirely surrounded by flashcards and empty coffee cups. She looks up, her eyes widening in immediate relief.

“Oh my god, you’re alive!” Grace shouts, jumping up from her chair and rushing toward you. “I have been calling you for-”

She stops dead in her tracks, about three feet away.

Her eyes dart from your face, down to your violently bruised lips, to the massive hockey hoodie, and finally, to the tall, imposing figure standing right behind your shoulder.

 Grace’s jaw practically hits the linoleum floor.

“No way,” Grace breathes, her eyes wide as saucers. She looks at you, then at Dean, then back at you. “No freaking way. You … and him? Dean Di Laurentis?”

Dean offers a charming, completely unapologetic grin, stepping forward to wrap his arm around your waist and pull your back flush against his chest. “Nice to meet you.”

“You … you smell different,” Grace says, taking a step back, her nose wrinkling slightly as she tries to process the heavy, mixed pheromones filling the small dorm room. Even as a beta, she can easily pick up on the intensity of the bond. Her eyes suddenly snap to your neck, catching a glimpse of the bruised, healing skin peeking out from the collar of the hoodie.

 Grace gasps, clapping a hand over her mouth. “You’re mated! You actually did it! You stopped taking the pills!”

“I did,” you say, a massive, genuine smile breaking across your face. You lean back against Dean’s chest, entirely unashamed. “Grace, this is Dean. My mate.”

“But … he’s Dean Di Laurentis,” Grace stammers, entirely bewildered. “He’s Briar’s resident man-whore! He literally had a line of girls waiting outside his frat house last week!”

Dean winces slightly, a faint dusting of pink hitting his cheeks. He tightens his grip on your waist. “Hey. Former. I’m retired. And technically, it’s not a frat house, it’s an off-campus rental. I only slept with betas because I was waiting for her.”

Grace stares at him for a long, calculating moment. She looks at the way his hand rests possessively on your hip, and the way his green eyes soften every time he looks down at you. The protective, devoted aura rolling off him is entirely undeniable.

Slowly, Grace smiles. “Well. It’s about damn time somebody treated you like a queen.”

“That’s exactly what I told her,” Dean says, instantly warming up to your roommate. He looks around the cramped, sterile dorm room. “Alright, beautiful. Where are your bags?”

You blink, looking up at him. “My bags? I only have a backpack for class tomorrow.”

“No,” Dean says patiently, pressing a quick kiss to the tip of your nose. “Your duffel bags. For your clothes.”

“Why do I need to pack my clothes?” You ask, completely confused.

Dean stops. He looks down at you, his brow furrowing slightly, before a slow, devastatingly arrogant smirk spreads across his lips. “Because you’re not sleeping here anymore, sweetheart. You live with me now.”

A rush of heat floods your cheeks, turning your face a brilliant shade of crimson. “I … I do?”

“Yes, you do,” Dean says, the humor fading into absolute, unshakeable sincerity. “You’re my omega. You think I’m going to let you sleep in a twin-sized dorm bed across campus from me? Not a chance in hell. You’re coming home. To our house.”

You stare at him, your heart doing a frantic, joyful flutter against your ribs. Moving in with a guy you technically met a week ago should feel terrifying. It should feel reckless. But it doesn’t. It feels like the most natural, inevitable thing in the world.

“Okay,” you whisper, the blush still burning on your cheeks. “Okay. Under the bed. There are some suitcases.”

Dean is a man on a mission. For the next thirty minutes, he practically tears through your side of the room. He pulls out your suitcases, expertly folding and packing your clothes with a terrifying efficiency.

Grace sits on her bed, entirely entertained by the sight of Briar’s hottest alpha meticulously folding your fuzzy socks and organizing your skincare routine into a vanity bag.

“I’m going to miss you,” Grace says softly as Dean zips up the final suitcase. “But I’m really, really happy for you.”

“I’ll still see you in class,” you promise, walking over to pull her into a tight hug. “And I’ll text you. Thank you, Grace. For always telling me not to settle.”

“Anytime,” she smiles, pulling back. She points a warning finger at Dean. “You break her heart, Di Laurentis, and I don’t care how big you are. I will destroy you.”

Dean hoists two massive suitcases over his shoulders like they weigh absolutely nothing. He looks at Grace, his expression dead serious. “If I ever do anything to hurt her, you have my full permission.”

He gestures toward the door with his chin. “Ready, baby?”

“Ready,” you say, grabbing your backpack.

***

The house Dean shares with his hockey teammates is massive, sprawling, and exactly what you would expect a group of athletic college guys to live in. It sits at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac just off campus, boasting a massive wrap-around porch and a perfectly manicured lawn that you heavily suspect Dean pays someone to maintain.

Dean pulls into the driveway, cutting the engine. He turns in his seat, reaching out to gently cup your cheek.

“Nervous?” He asks, his thumb stroking your skin.

“A little,” you admit, biting your lower lip. “I know who your roommates are, Dean. Everyone knows who they are. What if they think this is weird? What if they don’t want an omega in the house?”

Dean’s expression hardens instantly. “It’s my house. My grandfather bought it, the lease is in my name. And even if it wasn’t, Garrett, Logan, and Tuck are my brothers. They were at the hospital pacing the waiting room right next to me. They already know you’re mine, and they already respect you. You have absolutely nothing to worry about.”

He leans in, pressing a firm, reassuring kiss to your lips. “You’re pack now. They’ll treat you like it.”

Dean hops out of the car, grabbing your heavy suitcases from the trunk. He refuses to let you carry a single thing, hip-checking the front door open and ushering you inside.

The house smells like fresh pine, leather, and the distinct, overlapping scents of three other alphas. It’s a little overwhelming, but underneath it all, the foundation is Dean’s comforting cedar and rain, anchoring you immediately.

“Di Laurentis! Is that you?” A deep voice calls out from the living room.

“Yeah, we’re in the hall!” Dean shouts back, dropping your bags near the staircase. He reaches for your hand, lacing his fingers tightly with yours as he leads you into the main living space.

Logan, Garrett, and Tucker are all sprawled across a massive sectional sofa, entirely surrounded by empty pizza boxes and video game controllers. The massive flat-screen TV is currently paused on a game of FIFA.

The moment the three of them catch your scent — the rich, undeniable sweetness of a newly mated omega — they all freeze.

It’s pure instinct. One by one, the three massive hockey players stand up, completely abandoning their game. The easy, frat-boy energy completely vanishes, replaced by a deep, biological respect.

“Guys,” Dean says, his voice carrying the calm, authoritative rumble of a pack leader. He tugs you slightly forward, keeping you tucked safely against his side. “This is my mate.”

Garrett is the first to move. He steps forward, offering a warm, genuine smile that completely transforms his usually intense features. He keeps his distance, making sure not to crowd you. “It’s really nice to officially meet you. I’m Garrett.”

“I know who you are,” you say softly, offering a small, shy smile in return. “Hi.”

“I’m Logan,” Logan says, giving you a two-finger salute from across the coffee table. “Glad to see you’re looking a hell of a lot better than the last time we saw you on the quad. Dean was about two seconds away from ripping someone’s head off.”

“Ignore him,” Tucker drawls, his thick Southern accent smooth and welcoming as he steps up beside Garrett. “I’m Tucker. Welcome to the madhouse, darlin’. If this idiot forgets to feed you or starts acting up, you just let us know, and we’ll handle him.”

Dean rolls his eyes, though the tension completely bleeds out of his shoulders. “I think I can handle feeding my own mate, Tuck.”

“Just putting it out there,” Tucker grins.

You look at the three alphas. You have spent your entire life being told that alpha-heavy spaces are dangerous, that they are overwhelming and oppressive to omegas. Your mother had warned you to stay away from the hockey houses, claiming they were toxic environments.

But standing here, surrounded by four massive alphas, you have never felt safer. They aren’t looking at you like prey. They are looking at you with respect, entirely acknowledging Dean’s claim and welcoming you into the fold without a single moment of hesitation.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice much steadier now. “It’s nice to meet you guys, too.”

“Alright, show’s over,” Dean announces, clapping his hands once. “We have unpacking to do. Don’t eat all the pizza.”

Dean guides you up the wide wooden staircase, easily carrying both of your massive suitcases. He leads you down a long hallway, pushing open the heavy oak door at the very end.

“Welcome home,” Dean says softly, dropping the bags on the floor.

You step inside, and your breath catches in your throat.

Dean’s bedroom is massive, almost the size of a studio apartment. It has high ceilings, massive windows overlooking the backyard, and a king-sized bed in the center of the room. But what stops you in your tracks is the fact that the room is completely, immaculately clean.

“You cleaned,” you observe, walking further into the room.

Dean rubs the back of his neck, looking slightly sheepish. “Tuck might have come up here and helped me scrub the place down yesterday while you were sleeping. I wanted it to be nice for you. I know I’m usually kind of a slob, but I swear, I’ll be better. I want you to be comfortable.”

Your heart melts entirely. You walk over to him, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your face into his chest. “It’s perfect, Dean. Thank you.”

He lets out a long exhale, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in your hair. “Good.”

For the next two hours, Dean helps you unpack. And he doesn’t just clear out a single drawer for you; he completely reorganizes his massive walk-in closet, physically pushing all of his designer suits and hockey gear to one side to give you exactly half of the space. He sets up your skincare on the master bathroom vanity. He clears off the top shelf of the bookcase so you can put your textbooks there.

He doesn’t just make room for you. He completely integrates your life into his, physically and emotionally claiming you with every single sweater he hangs up.

By the time the last bag is unpacked, you are exhausted all over again. Dean pulls back the heavy comforter on the bed and ushers you in, pulling you flush against his chest and entirely burying you in his scent.

As you drift off to sleep, surrounded by the smell of cedar and rain in a house full of protective alphas, you realize you have finally found exactly where you belong.

***

The sharp, annoying blare of your phone alarm rips you out of a deep sleep the next morning.

You groan, reaching a hand blindly out from under the heavy comforter to smash the snooze button. The bed is incredibly warm, perfectly molded to your body.

A low, deep chuckle rumbles from the pillow next to you.

“Five more minutes?” Dean asks, his voice thick with morning gravel.

You open your eyes, blinking against the bright morning sunlight streaming through the windows. Dean is propped up on his elbow, looking down at you with a stupidly fond expression on his face. He is shirtless, the morning light catching the golden dusting of hair across his broad chest.

“I have an eight AM,” you grumble, pulling the blankets up to your chin. “I can’t miss it. I already missed a whole week.”

“I know,” Dean says, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’m taking you.”

You frown slightly, your sleepy brain trying to catch up. “You don’t have to walk me to class, Dean. I know you’re a political science major. You’re on the other side of campus.”

Dean smirks, a completely devastating look that makes your stomach flip. “Sweetheart, look at your schedule again. We’re in the same Intro to Political Theory lecture on Mondays and Wednesdays. I’ve been sitting three rows behind you since September.”

Your eyes widen drastically. “You … you have?”

“Yeah,” Dean says softly, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “I always wondered why you smelled like vanilla body spray instead of an actual scent. Now I know.”

He throws the blankets back and hops out of bed, completely unashamed of his nakedness as he walks toward the bathroom. “Come on. Up. I’ll make coffee while you shower.”

Getting ready with Dean is a completely new experience. In your dorm, mornings were a frantic rush of fighting Grace for the mirror and running out the door with a granola bar.

With Dean, everything is slow, deliberate, and entirely focused on you.

He stands behind you in the bathroom, brushing his teeth while you do your makeup, his free hand resting heavily on your hip. When you walk out to the kitchen, he has a travel mug of hot coffee and a perfectly toasted bagel waiting for you.

“Ready?” He asks, grabbing his own backpack and slinging it over one shoulder.

“Ready,” you smile, taking the coffee.

As you step out onto the front porch, you move to sling your heavy tote bag over your shoulder. But before the strap can even touch your arm, Dean’s hand catches it.

“I got it,” he says smoothly, taking the bag from your hand and sliding it onto his own shoulder, right next to his massive hockey backpack.

“Dean, it’s heavy,” you protest weakly. “You don’t have to carry my bag.”

“I’m an alpha, sweetheart,” he smirks, grabbing your free hand and lacing his fingers with yours. “Carrying heavy things for my incredibly beautiful mate is literally in my biological job description. Let me spoil you.”

You don’t argue again. You let him pull you down the driveway, a warm, bright feeling blooming in your chest.

Walking across campus with Dean is entirely different this time. You aren’t rushing, you aren’t hiding, and you certainly aren’t invisible.

The campus is buzzing with the morning rush. And almost instantly, people start staring. Dean Di Laurentis, the guy notorious for refusing to commit to anyone, the alpha who supposedly only slept with betas, is walking across the quad holding hands with a girl. And he’s carrying her floral tote bag.

You shrink slightly under the weight of the stares, instinctively moving closer to Dean.

He senses your anxiety immediately. His arm wraps securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. He pushes out a wave of sharp, protective cedar, a clear, biological warning to anyone staring too hard.

“Keep your head up,” Dean murmurs, leaning down so his lips brush against your ear. “You’re with me. Let them look.”

His confidence is infectious. You straighten your spine, leaning into his solid strength, and let the rest of the campus blur into the background.

You reach the massive lecture hall just as the previous class is filing out. Dean guides you through the double doors, leading you down the carpeted stairs toward the middle section.

He stops at a row of empty seats, but he doesn’t sit down immediately. Instead, he drops his backpack onto the floor, places your tote bag gently on the desk, and physically pulls out a chair for you.

“Here,” Dean says softly.

You sit down, completely overwhelmed by his attentiveness. Dean slides into the seat directly next to you, his massive frame making the small university desk look entirely inadequate.

He reaches into his bag and pulls out a sleek, insulated thermos. He unscrews the top and slides it across the desk toward you.

“What’s this?” You ask, looking at the pale green liquid inside.

“Iced matcha,” Dean says casually, pulling out his notebook. “I noticed you always get one from the campus cafe before this lecture. But since we didn’t have time to stop today, I made it at the house.”

You stare at the drink, completely speechless. He had noticed. He had been watching you closely enough since September to know your exact morning coffee order, and he had taken the time to make it for you before you even woke up.

“Dean,” you whisper, your heart swelling with so much affection it physically aches. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” he says simply, looking at you with those deep, devoted green eyes. He reaches under the desk, taking your hand and resting it on his muscular thigh, tangling his fingers with yours.

The professor walks in, a stern-looking older beta, and immediately begins writing on the whiteboard. The dull hum of the lecture hall settles as students open their laptops and notebooks.

You try to focus on the lecture. You really do. But it’s nearly impossible when Dean is sitting inches away from you, his thumb slowly, rhythmically stroking the back of your hand under the desk.

About twenty minutes into the class, the professor starts droning on about the philosophical implications of Rousseau’s social contract.

Dean shifts slightly in his seat. Without looking away from the front of the room, he lifts your joined hands from his lap. He turns your hand over, brings your knuckles to his lips, and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your skin.

A sharp jolt of electricity shoots up your arm. You practically stop breathing, your eyes darting to look at him.

Dean is perfectly calm, completely unfazed by the public display of affection. He lowers your hand back to his leg, keeping his fingers tightly laced with yours. A faint, incredibly satisfied smirk plays on his lips.

You look down at your hand resting on his leg. You look at the iced matcha waiting perfectly on your desk. You inhale the rich, heavy scent of cedar and rain that entirely surrounds you, acting as a permanent, invisible shield against the rest of the world.

Your mother was wrong.

Being an omega isn’t a weakness. It isn’t a liability, and it isn’t a biological trap.

It is exactly this. It is feeling completely, undeniably safe. It is being cherished, protected, and adored by an alpha who looks at you like you hung the moon and the stars.

You shift in your plastic chair, leaning entirely into Dean’s space. You press your shoulder firmly against his massive bicep, nuzzling your face subtly into the crook of his neck to inhale his scent directly from the source.

Dean lets out a low, rumbling purr that completely vibrates through his chest. He wraps his arm around the back of your chair, pulling you flush against him, completely ignoring the professor and the fifty other students in the room.

He drops his head, pressing his lips to the crown of your hair.

“I love you,” Dean breathes, the words meant entirely for you, completely lost under the droning voice of the professor.

“I love you too,” you whisper back, meaning it with absolutely every fiber of your newly awakened soul.

Reality had finally begun. And as you sit there, anchored to the alpha you were quite literally born to be with, you realize that your fairytale was going to last a lifetime.

***

The heavy silk of your dress slips over your curves, settling perfectly around your hips. You turn slightly in front of the floor-to-length mirror in the luxury hotel suite, adjusting the thin straps.

It’s been three months since you moved into the hockey house. Three months of waking up completely wrapped in Dean’s scent, of Garrett and Tucker teasing you in the kitchen, of Logan complaining when Dean kisses you too long before practice. Three months of feeling completely, unapologetically alive.

But right now, staring at your reflection, a familiar knot of anxiety is twisting tight in your stomach.

“You’re overthinking.”

Two massive, warm hands slide around your waist from behind, pulling your back flush against a broad, solid chest. Dean rests his chin on top of your head, his green eyes meeting yours in the mirror. He is already dressed in his suit — a bespoke, charcoal-grey masterpiece that fits his muscular frame so perfectly it should be illegal.

“I’m not overthinking,” you lie, leaning back into his heat. “I’m just adjusting the zipper.”

Dean smirks, his hands sliding flat over your stomach. “Sweetheart, I can literally feel your heart racing through the bond. And your scent is spiking with anxiety. You smell like sour vanilla.”

You sigh, dropping your hands. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” Dean says softly. He turns you around in his arms, his expression instantly shifting from playful to fiercely devoted. “I told you, we don’t have to go. We can stay right here in this hotel room, order room service, and I can spend the next forty-eight hours ruining that pretty dress. You have absolutely zero obligation to see those people.”

“It’s Jenny’s wedding,” you remind him gently, reaching up to smooth the lapel of his suit jacket. “She was the only one in my extended family who actually treated me like a person growing up. She snuck me romance novels when my mom confiscated them. She always checked on me when the suppressants made me sick. I’m not going to miss her wedding just because my parents are on the guest list.”

Dean’s jaw ticks, a flash of pure alpha protectiveness darkening his eyes at the mention of your parents. He still hasn’t forgiven them. He likely never will.

“Okay,” Dean says, leaning down to press a firm kiss to your lips. “But we have a deal. The second they step out of line, the second they make you feel even a fraction of an inch small, I am stepping in. And then we’re leaving. I don’t care if they’re about to cut the cake.”

“Deal,” you smile, the anxiety already melting away under the heavy, grounding weight of his cedar and rain scent. “You look incredibly handsome, by the way.”

Dean grins, his trademark arrogant swagger snapping right back into place. “I know. It’s a burden. But wait until they get a load of you.”

He catches your wrist, his thumb gently brushing over the stunning diamond and sapphire claiming bracelet that hasn’t left your skin since the night in Greenwich. Above it, peeking just over the neckline of your dress, is the dark, permanent scar of his mating bite.

You belong to him. Completely and entirely.

“Let’s go show them what they’re missing,” Dean murmurs.

***

The country club reception hall is beautiful, entirely bathed in warm candlelight and soft floral arrangements. It is also entirely full of betas.

The moment you and Dean step through the double doors, the shift in the room’s atmosphere is instantaneous. Betas don’t have the acute, hyper-sensitive olfactory senses of alphas or omegas, but they aren’t entirely blind to biology. The sheer, overwhelming gravity of a fully mated alpha and omega walking into the room creates an undeniable ripple.

Heads turn. Whispers start up immediately.

Dean doesn’t falter. He walks with the kind of relaxed, predatory grace that demands the room’s attention, his hand resting possessively on the small of your back. He keeps you tucked firmly against his side, his thumb stroking a slow, hypnotic circle against your spine.

“They’re staring,” you whisper, keeping your eyes trained on the ice sculpture in the center of the room.

“Let them stare,” Dean says smoothly, grabbing two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and handing one to you. “They’ve probably never seen an actual mated couple before. Half of them are probably wondering why their own marriages feel like business transactions compared to this.”

You let out a startled laugh, almost spilling your champagne. “Dean! You can’t say that.”

“I just did,” he smirks, clinking his glass against yours. “Drink up, beautiful. We have a bride to congratulate.”

You spot Jenny near the sweetheart table. She looks radiant in her white gown, laughing with her new husband, a perfectly nice, perfectly average beta named Greg.

When Jenny sees you approaching, her eyes light up.

“You made it!” She shrieks, abandoning her husband to practically sprint across the dance floor. She throws her arms around you, squeezing you tight. “I am so happy you’re here. I was so worried your mom was going to convince you to stay in Massachusetts.”

“I don’t really listen to my mom anymore,” you say, pulling back with a bright smile. “You look absolutely stunning, Jenny.”

“Thank you,” she beams, before her eyes slide to the massive, imposing man standing directly behind you. Her eyes widen slightly, taking in Dean’s sharp jawline, broad shoulders, and the intense, protective way he’s watching the room around you. “Oh my god. Is this …”

“Jenny, this is Dean,” you say, reaching back to grab his hand. “My mate.”

Dean steps forward, offering a charming, devastating smile that completely melts the bride. “Congratulations, Jenny. She talks about you all the time. It’s an honor to finally meet you.”

“The honor is mine,” Jenny breathes, slightly dazed. She looks at you, her eyes dropping to the mating bite on your neck and the glittering bracelet on your wrist. “Wow. You guys … wow. You look amazing. Both of you. The energy between you two is practically vibrating.”

“It’s a fated thing,” Dean says simply, pulling you flush against his chest and wrapping both arms around your waist from behind. He rests his chin on your shoulder, entirely unashamed of the public display of affection.

You watch the other couples on the dance floor. The beta partners are swaying together, polite and pleasant. There is love there, absolutely. But it lacks the gravity, the desperate, magnetic pull that exists between you and Dean. When Dean touches you, it isn’t just a physical action, it’s a soul-deep reassurance. He doesn’t just hold your hand; he anchors your entire existence.

“I’m so incredibly happy for you,” Jenny says softly, her eyes shining with genuine tears. “You deserve the fairytale. I always knew it was real for you.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning back into Dean’s solid heat.

“Enjoy the open bar,” Jenny grins, turning back toward her husband. “And brace yourself. Your parents are at table four, and they’ve been glaring holes into the back of your head since you walked in.”

The warmth instantly drains from your face.

Dean feels the spike of cold dread through the bond immediately. His arms tighten around you, his chest rumbling with a low, barely audible growl. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your ear. “Want me to go tell them to get lost?”

“No,” you say, taking a deep breath and squaring your shoulders. “No, I’m not hiding. We’re going to get a drink, we’re going to dance, and if they have something to say to me, they can come say it.”

Dean spins you around, a look of pure, blazing pride on his face. “God, you are so incredibly hot when you’re brave.”

He kisses you hard, right in the middle of the ballroom, before leading you toward the bar.

For the next hour, it’s perfect. You drink champagne, you introduce Dean to a few of your nicer aunts and uncles — who are all entirely captivated by his old-money charm and sheer alpha presence — and you dance. When a slow song comes on, Dean pulls you into the center of the floor. He doesn’t leave space between you like the beta couples. He pulls you flush against his body, his hands roaming freely over your back, your hips moving together in perfect, effortless synchronization.

You are laughing at a joke he just whispered in your ear when the music fades into a low hum.

“Having fun?”

The voice is cold, sharp, and instantly recognizable.

You freeze. Dean immediately stops swaying, his body going rigid as he turns you both to face the edge of the dance floor.

Your mother is standing there, flanked by your father. She is wearing a stiff navy dress, her lips pursed in a thin, deeply disapproving line. Her eyes rake over you, taking in the close proximity of your bodies, the flush on your cheeks, and finally, the heavy claiming mark on your neck.

“Mom. Dad,” you say, your voice perfectly even, though your heart is hammering against your ribs.

“I’m surprised you showed up,” your father says bluntly, crossing his arms. “After the stunt you pulled.”

“It’s my cousin’s wedding,” you reply, keeping your chin high. “I wasn’t going to miss it.”

Your mother scoffs, an ugly, condescending sound. She looks directly at Dean. “And I suppose this is the boy you threw away your medication schedule for. The one who convinced you that acting like an animal in heat was somehow romantic.”

Dean lets out a low, vibrating snarl that is so purely alpha it actually makes your father take a physical step back.

“Speak to my mate with respect, or I will have security throw you out of this venue,” Dean says. His voice is dangerously quiet, entirely completely devoid of his usual charm. It is a lethal, unyielding command.

“Excuse me?” Your mother bristles, her face flushing with anger. “This is a family event. You don’t get to dictate-”

“I dictate everything concerning my omega,” Dean cuts her off, stepping slightly in front of you to shield you with his body. “You gave up your right to be called her family the day you decided her biology was an inconvenience. The day you nearly killed her with toxic suppressants.”

“We were trying to protect her future!” Your mother hisses, keeping her voice low to avoid a scene, though several nearby guests are already staring. “She was on track to graduate early. Now she’s probably failing half her classes because she’s too busy playing house with some arrogant frat boy.”

“Actually,” you say, stepping out from behind Dean. The fear is completely gone now. Staring at the bitter, close-minded woman in front of you, you only feel pity. “I have a 4.0 this semester. Because instead of fighting my own body, I’m actually healthy. I’m happy. And Dean isn’t a frat boy. He’s my mate.”

Your mother looks at the diamond and sapphire bracelet on your wrist, her lip curling in disgust. “A temporary chemical bond. He’ll get bored of you the second he graduates and goes back to his rich little alpha circles.”

Dean actually laughs. It’s a dark, humorless sound that sends a shiver down your spine.

“Temporary,” Dean repeats, shaking his head. He reaches out and grabs your hand, lifting your wrist so the diamonds catch the chandelier light. “My grandfather bought these sapphires in Paris for my grandmother on the night he claimed her. They’ve been in my family for sixty years. And now they belong to her. She is wearing my mark, my family’s legacy, and she has my entire soul in her hands. There is absolutely nothing temporary about this.”

Your parents stare at him, completely silenced by the sheer, overwhelming weight of his devotion.

“You don’t understand it because you’re incapable of feeling it,” Dean continues, his eyes locking onto your mother’s. “And that’s fine. But you will not stand here and project your miserable, sterile worldview onto my mate. We’re done here.”

Dean turns to you, his expression softening instantly. “Ready to go, baby?”

“Yes,” you breathe, your chest swelling with so much love for him it physically aches.

You don’t look back as Dean leads you off the dance floor, out of the reception hall, and straight to the valet.

***

The silence in the elevator ride up to your hotel suite is heavy, thick with the lingering adrenaline of the confrontation.

Dean’s jaw is clenched tight, his grip on your hand almost painfully firm. His alpha is entirely agitated, the protective instincts pushed into overdrive by the perceived threat to his omega.

The second the suite doors click shut behind you, Dean drops the keycard on the entry table and turns to you.

“I should have ruined them,” Dean snarls, running a hand aggressively through his perfectly styled blonde hair. “I should have completely torn into them. The way she looked at you-”

“Dean,” you say softly, dropping your small clutch onto the table.

You step into his space, sliding your hands up his chest to grip the lapels of his suit jacket. You look up into his dark, storming green eyes.

“You defended me,” you whisper, the words heavy with awe. “You stood in front of my parents, and you defended me. No one has ever done that for me.”

Dean’s breathing hitches. He looks down at you, the blazing anger slowly morphing into a deep, desperate hunger. “I will always defend you. I will burn the entire world down before I let anyone make you feel ashamed of being mine.”

Your omega practically screams in response to his dominance. A hot, slick rush of arousal pools instantly between your thighs. The sheer display of his protective, primal nature has completely short-circuited your brain.

“Show me,” you beg, your voice dropping to a breathy, desperate rasp. You pull on his lapels, forcing him to step closer until your bodies are flush. “Show me I’m yours.”

Dean groans, a guttural, vibrating sound that makes your knees weak.

He grabs you by the hips and physically lifts you off the floor. You let out a startled gasp, immediately wrapping your legs around his waist and crossing your ankles behind his back.

Dean doesn’t even bother walking to the bedroom. He backs you up two steps, slamming your back against the heavy wooden door of the suite. The impact knocks the breath out of you, completely replaced by his mouth crashing down onto yours.

It is a devastating, bruising kiss. There is no gentleness in it, only raw, desperate possession. He parts your lips with his tongue, tasting you deeply, drinking in the soft moans escaping your throat.

“So fucking perfect,” Dean breathes against your mouth, his hands dropping to grip the backs of your thighs.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are pitch black, completely feral. He reaches up and grips the neckline of your expensive silk dress.

With one sharp, violent tug, the silk tears down the center, the sound of ripping fabric echoing in the quiet entryway.

“Dean!” You gasp, entirely shocked by his aggression, but it only fuels the fire burning in your belly.

“I’ll buy you a hundred more,” he growls, shoving the ruined fabric off your shoulders. The dress pools around your waist, leaving you in nothing but a sheer lace bra and a matching thong.

Dean’s eyes rake over your exposed skin, darkening even further. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth scraping heavily over the mating mark he left there months ago. You throw your head back, arching your spine off the door as a jolt of pure lightning shoots straight down to your core.

“You handled them so beautifully, baby,” Dean praises, his voice a rough vibration against your skin. “You were so brave. My perfect omega.”

“Take it off,” you plead, your hands frantically tugging at his suit jacket. “Dean, please, I need you. I’m so empty.”

He drops you to your feet, letting your ruined dress fall completely to the floor. You step out of it, entirely focused on him.

Dean rips his suit jacket off, tossing it blindly into the room. He tears at his tie, popping the top three buttons of his crisp white dress shirt before he completely abandons it, unable to wait. He reaches for his belt, his breathing harsh and ragged as he sheds his slacks and boxers in a matter of seconds.

He stands before you, perfectly cut and entirely hard, the heavy, thick length of his arousal pulsing with demand.

You drop to your knees.

Dean’s breath catches violently in his throat as you look up at him through your lashes. “Sweetheart, what are you doing?”

“Claiming you back,” you whisper.

You reach out, wrapping your small hands around his thick base, and take him completely into your mouth.

Dean roars, his hands instantly flying to tangle in your hair. His head throws back, hitting the door behind him with a thud. “Fuck! God, baby, yes.”

You swallow him as deeply as you can, the sheer size of him stretching your jaw comfortably. You swirl your tongue around the sensitive ridge, swirling and sucking with a desperate, greedy rhythm. You want to taste every inch of him. You want to make him lose that perfect, arrogant control.

Dean’s hips begin to buck involuntarily, entirely at your mercy. He grunts with every agonizingly wet pull of your mouth. His fingers tighten in your hair, holding you in place as he sets a brutal, driving pace.

“I can’t-” Dean gasps, his entire body trembling violently. “Baby, stop. I’m going to finish in your mouth, let me go.”

You don’t listen. You hum against his length, increasing the suction, entirely determined to wreck him.

Dean curses, a filthy, desperate sound. He pulls back roughly, ripping himself from your mouth before he completely loses his mind.

He grabs you under the arms, hauling you to your feet. He spins you around, slamming your chest against the smooth wood of the door.

“You’re a menace,” Dean snarls, his chest heaving as he presses his massive body against your back. “A beautiful, entirely too eager menace.”

He reaches around your hips, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your lace thong. He rips it down your legs, leaving you completely bare and entirely exposed to him.

“Spread your legs,” Dean commands softly.

You obey instantly, stepping your feet shoulder-width apart.

Dean reaches down, his fingers completely coated in the slick, wet heat pouring from your core. He doesn’t bother with any preamble; you are already soaked, completely primed and desperate for him.

He aligns his thick, blunt tip against your entrance, leaning forward to bite down sharply on the junction of your shoulder and neck.

As you gasp at the pain, Dean drives his hips forward, burying himself completely inside you in one brutal, merciless thrust.

You scream his name, your fingernails digging frantically into the wood of the door. The feeling of him completely filling you up, stretching your inner walls taut, is the most intense, overwhelming sensation in the world.

“So fucking tight,” Dean groans, his forehead resting heavily against your back. He stays perfectly still for a moment, letting you adjust to his massive size. “You feel like heaven, baby. You feel so good.”

“Don’t stop,” you sob, throwing your hips back against him, demanding friction. “Dean, please move!”

He chuckles darkly. He grips your hips, holding you firmly in place, and pulls back almost entirely. And then he slams his hips forward, bottoming out with a loud, wet slap of skin.

You completely lose your mind.

Dean sets a punishing, relentless pace. He takes you from behind with pure alpha dominance, entirely feral and completely lost in the overwhelming high of the mating bond. His thrusts are hard and deep, hitting the exact spot inside you that makes your vision white out.

“That’s it,” Dean praises, his voice a low, rough growl in your ear. “Take all of me. Show me how much you need me.”

“I need you,” you cry, your head thrashing back and forth. “I love you, Dean. Please, please!”

He slides one hand around to your front, finding the slick, swollen bundle of nerves between your thighs. He rubs his thumb in a tight, fast circle right over your clit while continuing his brutal assault from behind.

It is entirely too much. The sensory overload snaps the last shred of your control.

“Dean!” You scream, your body bowing violently off the door as a massive, blinding climax rips through you. Your inner walls clench frantically around his length, completely milking him.

Dean snarls, his own control completely shattering. He drives his hips forward in rapid, erratic thrusts, chasing his release.

“Mine,” he roars, burying himself to the hilt as the heavy knot at his base swells, completely locking him inside you.

He unloads deep inside your womb with a devastating, earth-shattering force.

You cry out as his climax hits, the sheer volume of his heat sending you spiraling straight into a second, paralyzing orgasm. You ride the devastating aftershocks together, the physical tie of his knot anchoring you as the mating bond flares brilliantly in your chest, linking your souls in absolute, unshakeable harmony.

For a long time, the only sound in the entryway is your synchronized, ragged breathing.

Dean slowly collapses forward, pressing his sweaty chest entirely against your back. He keeps his heavy arms wrapped securely around your waist, holding you upright as your legs tremble uncontrollably.

“God,” Dean breathes, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder blade. “You are going to be the absolute death of me.”

“You started it,” you murmur, turning your head to smile weakly back at him.

Dean chuckles, his chest rumbling against your back. His knot slowly begins to recede, allowing him to carefully pull out of you.

He turns you around, catching you immediately as your knees buckle. He scoops you up into his arms like you weigh absolutely nothing, carrying you down the hall and into the master bedroom.

He drops you gently into the center of the massive king-sized bed, crawling in right beside you. He pulls the heavy duvet up over both of your damp, exhausted bodies, instantly pulling you flush against his chest.

“I’m sorry the wedding was stressful,” Dean murmurs, his thumb stroking a soothing rhythm up and down your bare arm. “I’m sorry they were there.”

“I’m not,” you say softly, resting your head on his shoulder.

Dean looks down at you, surprised. “You’re not?”

“No,” you smile, looking up into his devoted green eyes. “Because looking at them tonight, looking at how miserable and bitter they are, it just made me realize how lucky I am. I used to be so afraid of this. I used to think being an omega was a curse.”

You reach up, tracing the strong, sharp line of his jaw.

“But you showed me the truth,” you whisper. “You gave me the fairytale, Dean. I’ll never be afraid again.”

Dean’s expression melts into pure, undeniable adoration. He leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, impossibly tender kiss that completely steals the breath from your lungs.

“I’m just getting started, sweetheart,” Dean vows, his lips brushing against yours. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you know exactly how perfect you are.”

You close your eyes, inhaling the deep, comforting scent of cedar and rain. As you drift off to sleep in the arms of your fated mate, wrapped entirely in his love and protection, you know with absolute certainty that he is telling the truth.

The happily ever after wasn’t just a story. It was finally yours.

***

Five years.

It feels like an entire lifetime ago that you were a terrified college student, choking down pale blue pills and trying to smother the very essence of your soul. Sometimes, when the house is quiet, you still marvel at the sheer, impossible trajectory of your life since the day you collapsed on the Briar University quad.

But right now, the house is perfectly, beautifully quiet, and you aren’t thinking about the past at all. You are entirely captivated by the present.

You are sitting in the direct center of the most magnificent nest you have ever built. It takes up the entirety of the massive, custom-made mattress in the master bedroom of the home you and Dean bought just outside of Boston. The nest is a masterpiece of biology and absolute luxury — woven together from Dean’s worn-in college hockey hoodies, the ridiculously expensive cashmere throws Dean’s mother gifts you every Christmas, and the softest silk sheets money can buy.

And resting perfectly against your chest, wrapped in a pale pink blanket, is your daughter.

Celia Di Laurentis is four days old.

You stare down at her tiny, sleeping face, your heart expanding so rapidly in your chest that it actually aches. She is impossibly small, with a full head of soft, spun-gold hair that exactly matches her father’s, and a tiny, perfect button nose. Her little chest rises and falls in a steady, peaceful rhythm, and every time she lets out a soft, mewling sigh, your omega instincts absolutely roar with a fierce, all-consuming wave of protective love.

She smells like sweet milk, baby powder, and the undeniable, distinct genetic blend of vanilla and cedar. Your pup. Your perfect, beautiful pup.

The heavy oak door of the master bedroom clicks open, the hinges entirely silent because Dean had personally oiled them the day before you went into labor.

You don’t even have to look up. The rich, grounding scent of rain-soaked asphalt and deep cedar immediately floods the room, completely blanketing your senses and making the mating mark on your neck tingle with warmth.

“Hey,” a low, achingly gentle voice whispers.

You look up. Dean is standing in the doorway, holding a silver tray loaded with a massive spread of food, a pitcher of ice water, and your postnatal vitamins. He is wearing soft grey sweatpants, entirely shirtless, his broad, heavily muscled chest currently acting as a canvas for the tiny, dark ink of your initial over his heart.

He is twenty-seven now. The cocky, arrogant college playboy has long since matured into a devastatingly handsome, fiercely commanding alpha who runs a massive division of his family’s luxury hotel empire. He wears bespoke suits to the office and commands boardrooms with lethal precision.

But right now, looking at you and Celia, he just looks like a man who has been completely brought to his knees by his own heart.

“You’re awake,” Dean murmurs, stepping into the room and gently kicking the door shut behind him. He moves with an incredible, practiced quietness, setting the heavy tray down on the bedside table before turning his full attention to the nest.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you whisper back, your voice raspy. You brush a gentle finger over Celia’s soft cheek. “I just wanted to watch her.”

Dean’s green eyes soften into pools of pure, liquid devotion. He steps up to the edge of the mattress, dropping to his knees so he is perfectly at eye level with you and the baby. He doesn’t cross the boundary of the nest yet; even as your mated alpha, his biological respect for your nesting space during the immediate postpartum period is absolute.

“How is she?” Dean asks, his gaze tracing every single line of his daughter’s face as if he is trying to memorize it for the thousandth time today.

“Perfect,” you say, a completely genuine, exhausted smile spreading across your lips. “She ate about an hour ago, and then she just milk-drunk passed out. She hasn’t even fussed.”

“She’s a Di Laurentis,” Dean smirks, reaching out slowly. He rests his massive, calloused hand on the mattress, just inches from where your knee is tucked under the blankets. “She knows how to appreciate a good nap in a luxury bed.”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh. “You are completely ridiculous.”

“I’m serious,” Dean says, though his smile is wide and painfully bright. He looks up from Celia, his eyes locking onto yours. “How are you feeling, sweetheart? Really. Don’t lie to me to make me feel better. You’re exhausted.”

“I am exhausted,” you admit, the truth of it settling heavily in your bones. The labor had been long, a grueling eighteen hours that tested every ounce of your physical strength. But Dean had been a rock, an immovable anchor holding your hand, pushing his scent into your lungs, and practically growling at any nurse who didn’t move fast enough for his liking. “My body aches. But it’s … it’s a good ache, Dean. It feels like exactly what I was meant to do.”

Dean’s breathing hitches. He reaches forward, his large fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw, sweeping a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

“You did so incredibly good,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with a raw, overwhelming emotion. “I have never been more terrified or more in awe of anyone in my entire life than I was watching you bring her into the world. You are so goddamn strong, baby.”

Tears immediately prick your eyes. Your hormones are still wildly fluctuating, keeping your emotions right on the surface, but this isn’t sadness. It is sheer, overwhelming gratitude.

“I wasn’t alone,” you remind him, leaning your cheek into the warmth of his palm. “I had you.”

“Always,” Dean vows, pressing his palm firmly against your skin. “You have me forever.”

He lets out a long breath, finally pulling his hand back to gesture to the tray on the nightstand. “I made you a turkey club. Extra bacon, extra mayo, exactly how you’ve been craving it since Monday. And Garrett dropped off those pastries from the bakery downtown.”

“Garrett was here?” You ask, your eyebrows lifting in surprise.

Dean chuckles, running a hand through his messy blonde hair. “Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have all been sitting in our living room for the past three hours. They refuse to leave. Tucker brought a massive stuffed bear that is literally bigger than the baby, and Logan has been aggressively trying to put together that luxury baby swing my dad sent over.”

A warm, bright feeling blooms in your chest. The Briar boys had never stopped being your pack. They had stood by Dean at your wedding, they had aggressively vetted the neighborhood before you bought this house, and the moment you announced you were pregnant, they had collectively lost their minds.

“You should let them come up,” you say softly. “They haven’t even seen her since we brought her home from the hospital.”

“Absolutely not,” Dean says instantly, his alpha completely rejecting the idea. He shakes his head, his jaw setting in a firm, protective line. “No other alphas in your nesting space right now. Not even them. You need quiet, you need your space, and you need to heal. They can look at her through the crack in the door tomorrow, maybe. From the hallway.”

You roll your eyes, but your omega practically purrs at his intense, territorial protection. It makes you feel entirely safe, completely guarded from the outside world.

“You’re a tyrant,” you tease.

“I’m a father,” Dean corrects smoothly, puffing his chest out just a fraction. He looks back down at Celia, and the fierce alpha completely melts back into a massive softie. “Look at her, baby. I mean, actually look at her. We made that.”

“I know,” you whisper, adjusting the pink blanket slightly. “She has your hair. And your absolute refusal to be put down in a crib.”

“She knows where the good snuggles are,” Dean defends, grinning. He shifts his weight on his knees. He looks at the edge of the nest, the chaotic wall of blankets and pillows you’ve spent the last four days meticulously arranging. He looks up at you, a silent, deeply respectful question in his eyes.

Your heart flutters. He never assumes. Even with his ring on your finger, even with his bite permanently scarred into your neck, he treats your biology with the ultimate reverence.

“Come in, Dean,” you say softly, pulling your legs back to make a massive space for him. “We want you.”

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He climbs over the edge of the mattress, carefully navigating the pillows so he doesn’t disturb the structural integrity of your nest. He settles in right beside you, stretching his long, muscular legs out and wrapping his heavy arm around your shoulders.

He pulls you flush against his side, his body heat seeping instantly into yours. You lean your head against his chest, tucking Celia safely between the two of you.

The moment the three of you are completely connected, the atmosphere in the room shifts. The chaotic, exhausting energy of the postpartum haze completely vanishes. The mingling of your scents — cedar, rain, vanilla, honey, and the sweet, powdery scent of your pup — creates an intoxicating, entirely perfect environment.

This is what heaven looks like.

“You’re warm,” you murmur, closing your eyes and just breathing him in.

“You’re perfect,” Dean replies, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head.

He reaches down, his massive, calloused index finger gently stroking Celia’s impossibly small hand. Even in her sleep, her tiny fingers instinctively curl around his, holding on tight.

Dean lets out a shaky breath, completely captivated by the movement.

“My mom called while you were sleeping,” Dean says quietly, not looking away from his daughter’s hand. “She and my dad are flying in from Greenwich tomorrow. They promised they’d stay at the hotel downtown so they don’t crowd you, but my mom is threatening to break down the front door if I don’t let her hold her granddaughter by noon.”

You smile. Lori and Peter have been the ultimate parents to you for the past five years. They embraced you entirely, completely filling the void your own parents left behind. They had paid for your dream wedding, they celebrated every single one of your career milestones, and Lori had spent the last nine months buying out every luxury baby boutique on the East Coast.

“Let her break the door down,” you say softly. “I want to see them. I want them to meet her.”

“I’ll tell security to stand down, then,” Dean jokes softly. He continues to stroke Celia’s tiny knuckles.

A quiet, comfortable silence stretches between you. It is the kind of silence that only exists between two people who know the absolute depths of each other’s souls. The heavy, gold wedding band on his left hand catches the soft light of the bedside lamp as it rests near the baby.

“Have you heard from Grace?” Dean asks, his voice careful.

“She texted me this morning,” you say, a genuine warmth filling your chest. “She’s demanding to be named the godmother. She said if you give the title to anyone else, she’s going to organize a beta uprising.”

Dean snorts, a quiet, amused sound. “Auntie Grace it is, then. I’m not dealing with an uprising.”

He shifts slightly, pulling you even closer. His hand slides up your arm, his fingers gently tracing the familiar, sparkling line of the diamond and sapphire tennis bracelet that still rests on your wrist. He hasn’t stopped draping you in jewelry since that night in Greenwich, but this piece never comes off.

“Did you … did you tell anyone else?” Dean asks, the hesitation in his voice letting you know exactly who he is referring to.

Your parents.

You look down at Celia’s sleeping face. Five years ago, the thought of cutting your parents out of your life entirely would have sent you into a paralyzing panic. The conditioning was so deep, the fear of their rejection so absolute. You had spent years agonizing over the fact that they chose their prejudice over their own daughter.

But looking at the family you have built — looking at the fiercely devoted alpha holding you, the perfect, beautiful pup resting against your chest, the unshakeable pack waiting in the living room below — the ache is entirely gone.

“No,” you say simply, your voice steady and completely devoid of regret. “I didn’t. And I don’t plan to.”

Dean lets out a quiet exhale, his chest relaxing completely against your back. He presses a firm, reassuring kiss to your temple. “Okay. Good.”

“They wouldn’t understand this anyway,” you continue, tracing the soft edge of Celia’s pink blanket. “They would look at me sitting in a nest, completely overwhelmed by my biology, and they would see a victim. They would see someone trapped by their hormones.”

You tilt your head back, looking up into Dean’s eyes. The absolute devotion in his gaze takes your breath away every single time.

“But I’m not trapped,” you whisper, the absolute truth of it ringing crystal clear in the quiet room. “I have never been more free in my entire life. They told me this was all a fairytale, Dean. They told me that fated mates and biological bonds were just romanticized traps to make omegas subservient.”

Dean’s jaw ticks slightly at the memory of their cruel words, his protective instincts flaring, but he forces himself to stay calm for you. “They were idiots, sweetheart. I told you that on day one.”

“They were,” you agree, a soft, triumphant smile playing on your lips. “Because this isn’t a fairytale. Fairytales are fake. This is real. This is my life. And it is so much better than any stupid story.”

Dean’s expression shatters into something so incredibly soft it almost breaks your heart.

He shifts entirely, carefully maneuvering around Celia so he can lean directly over you. He frames your face with his large, warm hands, his thumbs sweeping gently over your cheekbones.

“You gave me everything,” Dean says, his voice a rough, desperate whisper. The arrogant, wealthy CEO is completely gone. In the center of this nest, he is just your mate. Just an alpha completely entirely devoted to his family. “You gave me a home. You gave me a purpose. And now you gave me her.”

He looks down at Celia, then back at you.

“I am going to spend the rest of my life making sure you both know exactly how worshipped you are,” Dean vows, his green eyes burning with absolute, permanent certainty. “I am going to build an entire empire just to lay it at your feet. You are my queen, and she is our princess. And nothing in this world will ever touch you.”

You reach up, wrapping your hands around his wrists. The mating bond pulses violently in your chest, a bright, blazing star of pure, unadulterated love.

“I know,” you whisper back.

Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, devastatingly tender kiss. It is a kiss that holds five years of history. It holds the terror of the hospital, the blinding intensity of your first heat, the quiet Sunday mornings in the hockey house, and the profound, life-altering weight of the vows you took in front of his parents.

It is the promise of forever.

When he finally pulls back, resting his forehead against yours, Celia lets out a tiny, soft squeak. She stretches her little arms, her tiny nose scrunching up as she slowly blinks her eyes open.

“Hey,” Dean breathes, completely distracted. He looks down at his daughter, his entire face lighting up with absolute wonder. “Look who’s awake.”

Celia blinks, her unfocused, dark green eyes slowly finding the shape of her father’s face. She lets out a tiny yawn, perfectly content.

You look at the two of them. The beautiful, impossible family that the universe had carved out specifically for you. You lean your head against Dean’s shoulder, pulling the soft cashmere blanket tighter around your perfect little pup.

Your mother had told you to run from this. She had told you to medicate it away, to hide in the sterile, practical world of betas.

But sitting in the center of your nest, completely enveloped in the scent of cedar and rain, listening to your alpha whisper promises of the world to your newborn daughter, you know exactly what you are.

You are an omega. You are a mate. You are a mother.

And as Dean wraps his heavy arm around you, pulling you completely into his chest as the sun begins to set outside your window, you finally let out a long, perfectly contented sigh.

The story didn’t end with a happily ever after.

Logan snorts from the bench across the room, tossing a roll of tape that bounces directly off Dean’s shoulder guard. “You’re an animal. Does your dick ever get tired, or is it powered by some kind of endless trust-fund energy?”

“It’s powered by charisma, Logan,” Dean says, catching the tape on the rebound and tossing it into his bag. “And the fact that I actually know what to do with it, which is more than I can say for some of the tragic beta performances I’ve heard about.”

“Hey, leave us out of it,” Tucker drawls in his thick Southern accent, leaning against the doorframe with a protein shake in hand. “Some of us prefer a little quality over quantity.”

“I offer exceptional quality,” Dean says, finally kicking off his left skate. “Ask anyone.”

“Oh, we don’t have to,” Garrett mutters, rolling his eyes. “They literally line up outside the frat house. I tripped over a sophomore trying to get to the kitchen this morning.”

Dean chuckles, running a hand through his damp blonde hair. He knows what they think of him. To the guys, to the whole campus, he’s exactly what he appears to be: Briar’s resident playboy alpha. He’s got the wealthy attorney parents, the maternal family money tied up in luxury hotels across the globe, the looks, the charm, and the seemingly insatiable appetite.

But there’s a line he doesn’t cross. A line the guys love to give him shit for.

“Was she a beta too?” Tucker asks, taking a slow sip of his shake.

Dean pauses, his easy smile tightening just a fraction before he forces it back into place. “Always. You know the rule, Tuck.”

“It’s a stupid rule,” Logan points out, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “I mean, I get the whole old money, traditional thing your family has going on. But only sleeping with betas? Refusing to even look at an omega unless you think she’s the one? It’s archaic, man. It’s the twenty-first century.”

“It’s not archaic, it’s respect,” Dean fires back, his tone dropping its playful edge for a fleeting second. He stands up, pulling his t-shirt over his head. “When I meet my fated mate, she’s going to be the only omega I’ve ever touched. She gets all of me. The whole alpha package, untainted by anyone else’s scent or biology.”

Garrett groans. “You sound like a Victorian romance novel. What if you never meet her? Or what if she doesn’t care if you’ve slept with other omegas?”

“She’ll care,” Dean says simply, his voice firm. He grabs his duffel bag and hoists it over his shoulder. “Because I care. Betas are fun. They’re safe. There’s no biological complication, no scent-bonding, no risk of an accidental mating bite during a heat. It’s just physical.”

“So you’re just going to keep running through the beta population of Massachusetts until this mythical girl shows up?” Logan asks, amused.

“Pretty much,” Dean says, flashing his signature grin again, burying the sudden, sharp pang of longing that hits him square in the chest. “Keeps my skills sharp. When she finally shows up, I need to be ready to worship the ground she walks on. See you at the house, boys.”

He pushes through the locker room doors, the heavy scent of alpha pheromones fading into the sterile smell of the hallway. Dean keeps his smile locked in place as he walks out to his car, but the bravado slowly bleeds out of him.

He plays the part perfectly. He loves the attention, the sex, the careless fun. But God, he is so fucking tired of the emptiness of it. He was raised in circles where the alpha-omega bond was sacred, something to be revered. His parents had it. His grandparents had it.

He wants the fairytale. He wants the intoxicating, head-spinning rush of a fated scent hitting his system. He wants to fiercely protect someone, to provide for them, to spoil them absolutely rotten with every dime his family has to their name. He wants to be looking at a beta girl across a crowded room and suddenly realize she means nothing, because his mate just walked in.

He grips the steering wheel of his car, staring out at the campus parking lot.

“Where are you?” He murmurs to the empty car. “Come on, baby. I’m waiting.”

***

You stare at the tiny, pale blue pill resting in the center of your palm.

It looks entirely harmless. It looks like a breath mint, or a generic painkiller. It doesn’t look like something that is actively destroying you from the inside out.

Your stomach performs a violent, rolling flip just looking at it, and you have to close your eyes and grip the edge of the bathroom sink to steady yourself. The porcelain is cold under your hands.

“Hey,” a voice calls out, accompanied by a soft knock on the bathroom door. “You alive in there?”

It’s Grace, your roommate. You swallow hard, fighting the rising bile in your throat. “Yeah. Just … getting ready.”

“You’ve been staring at the mirror for ten minutes. The pizza is getting cold.”

“Coming,” you manage to say.

You look at the pill again. The suppressants. Grade-A, top-of-the-line, incredibly expensive synthetic hormones designed to completely mute your omega biology. Your parents, both highly pragmatic, fiercely independent betas, had insisted on the absolute strongest prescription available the moment you presented.

To them, being an omega is a biological inconvenience. A liability in the modern world.

You take a deep breath, tossing the pill to the back of your throat and immediately chasing it with a massive gulp of tap water. You gag as it goes down, your body instinctively rejecting it. You lean over the sink, breathing heavily, waiting to see if it’s going to come right back up.

When your stomach finally settles into a dull, throbbing ache, you wipe your mouth and open the door.

Grace is sitting cross-legged on her bed, a slice of pepperoni pizza in one hand and her laptop balanced precariously on her knees. She looks up, her eyes immediately narrowing.

“You look like garbage,” she says bluntly.

“Thanks,” you mutter, shuffling over to your own bed and curling up into a tight ball, pulling your oversized hoodie down over your hands. You don’t want the pizza. The smell of the grease is making your head spin.

“Seriously,” Grace presses, setting her pizza down on a paper plate. “You’re completely pale, and you’ve been shivering since you got back from class. Are you sick?”

“It’s just the new dosage,” you whisper, closing your eyes. “Dr. Davidson upped my suppressants last week. My body is just … adjusting.”

Grace sighs, a very loud, very beta sigh. She doesn’t have a malicious bone in her body, but she doesn’t understand. She can’t. “I don’t get why you let your parents push you into taking those things. Especially the intense ones. They make you miserable.”

“Because according to them, the alternative is worse,” you say, your voice muffled by your pillow. “They think heats are degrading. They think the whole dynamic is outdated.”

“And what do you think?”

You open your eyes, looking at the faded poster on your wall. “I think I feel like I’m constantly walking underwater. I feel … muted. Like a part of me is just locked in a box.”

Grace softens a bit. “Have you tried talking to them again? Telling them how sick you feel?”

Right on cue, your cell phone vibrates on the nightstand. The screen lights up with Mom.

You groan, reaching out a trembling hand to grab it. You swipe to accept the call, bringing it to your ear. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetie,” your mother’s brisk, efficient voice comes through the speaker. There is no background noise, she’s likely in her corner office.

“I only have a minute before a conference call, but I wanted to check in. Did Dr. Davidson confirm the new prescription went through?”

“Yes,” you say, your voice flat. “I just took it.”

“Good. That higher dose should completely eliminate any residual pre-heat symptoms you were having. You can’t afford to be distracted right now, not with midterms coming up.”

“Mom, it’s making me really sick,” you say, forcing the words out before you can lose your nerve. “I threw up twice yesterday. I can barely eat. I feel weak all the time.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end. Not of sympathy, but of calculation. “It’s a transition period. Your body is just fighting the regulation. Give it another week.”

“What if I don’t want my body to be regulated?” You ask, your voice cracking slightly. “What if I just want to be normal?”

“You are being normal,” your mother corrects sharply. “You’re a modern woman. You don’t need your biology dictating your schedule, or your emotions, or who you choose to partner with. We’ve talked about this. Those old fairytale ideas about fated alphas swooping in to take care of you? They’re fantasies. They don’t happen in the real world, and relying on some archaic bond is a recipe for losing your independence.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, hot and frustrating. “I know.”

“You’re a smart girl. You’re going to get a great degree, build a career, and find a nice, stable beta partner who respects you as an equal, not as a biological imperative. Okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper, the fight completely draining out of you.

“Good. Call me on Sunday. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

You drop the phone onto the bed.

“That sounded like it went well,” Grace notes sarcastically.

You roll onto your back, staring at the popcorn ceiling. You love your family, you really do. But being the only omega in a house full of betas is like speaking a language no one else understands. They look at you and see a problem that needs to be medicated away.

But sometimes, when you’re alone in the dark, you let yourself remember the dreams you used to have. Before the pills started.

You dream of a heavy, comforting warmth. You dream of a scent that smells like home, of strong arms wrapping around you and making the rest of the world disappear. You dream of an alpha who looks at you like you are the center of their entire universe. An alpha who wants to protect you, who wants to provide for you, who wants to adore you exactly as you are, biology and all.

You close your eyes, letting a single tear slip down your cheek into your hairline.

Fantasies, your mom called them.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe fated mates only exist in Hallmark movies and trashy romance novels. Maybe you just need to accept that you’re going to spend the rest of your life taking little blue pills and pretending you aren’t half-empty.

***

The bass from the speakers is rattling Dean’s teeth, and he is painfully, agonizingly bored.

He’s currently trapped in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while a stunning brunette — a junior named Alice, or maybe Alyssa, he honestly can’t remember — runs her hand up and down his bicep. She smells perfectly nice. Like vanilla body spray and vodka.

She smells like a beta.

“So,” she purrs, leaning in close so he can feel the heat of her body. “I was thinking maybe we could go upstairs? It’s getting kind of crowded down here.”

Dean looks at her. She’s beautiful. She’s eager. She’s exactly his type, or at least, the type he pretends to have. A year ago, he would have already had her pinned against the wall of his bedroom.

Tonight, he just feels … tired.

“You know, sweetheart, I’m actually really beat tonight,” Dean says, offering her a perfectly practiced, apologetic smile. He reaches out and gently untangles her fingers from his shirt. “Coach ran us into the ground at practice. I think I’m just gonna grab a water and crash.”

The beta pouts, clearly taken aback. Dean Di Laurentis turning down a sure thing? It’s practically a campus anomaly. “Are you sure? I give really good massages.”

“I bet you do,” Dean says, leaning in to press a brief, charming kiss to her cheek. “Next time, I promise.”

He slips past her before she can argue, navigating through the sweaty bodies of his classmates with the practiced ease of a guy who owns the room. He makes his way to the back patio, shoving the sliding glass door open and stepping out into the cool night air.

He lets out a long exhale, running a hand over his face.

“Well, that’s a first.”

Dean turns to see Tucker sitting on the patio railing, nursing a beer.

“Shut up,” Dean mutters, walking over and leaning against the railing next to him.

“I’m just saying,” Tucker drawls, looking amused. “I just watched you turn down a ten. Are you feeling okay? Do we need to call a doctor? Maybe a priest?”

“I’m fine,” Dean says, staring out at the dark expanse of the backyard. “Just not in the mood.”

Tucker chuckles, taking a sip of his beer. “You know, for a guy who sleeps around as much as you do, you’re surprisingly miserable doing it.”

Dean glares at him. “I’m not miserable.”

“You’re empty calories, man,” Tucker says, shrugging. “You’re eating junk food when you really want a steak. You’re waiting for this magic omega to drop out of the sky, and until she does, you’re just going through the motions to keep yourself occupied.”

Dean wants to argue, but the words die in his throat. Because Tucker is right. He’s so right it hurts.

“What if she’s not out there?” Dean asks, the vulnerability slipping out before he can stop it. He hates sounding like this. He’s Dean Di Laurentis. He’s confident. He’s cocky. He doesn’t whine about feelings.

“She’s out there,” Tucker says simply. “You just haven’t crossed paths yet. But you will. The universe has a funny way of sorting these things out. And when you do …” Tucker grins. “I fully expect to see you turn into a pathetic, lovesick sap.”

“I am never pathetic,” Dean scoffs, some of his usual bravado returning. “I’ll be a goddamn delight. I’m going to spoil her rotten.”

“Sure you will, buddy. Sure you will.”

Dean looks back up at the sky, the stars mostly obscured by the campus light pollution. He wonders where she is right now. He wonders what she’s doing. Is she at a party? Is she studying? Is she waiting for him, too?

Hold on, he thinks, sending the thought out into the universe like a prayer. Just hold on. I’m looking for you.

***

You are practically shivering under your blankets, despite the fact that your dorm room is perfectly temperature-controlled.

The nausea from the suppressant has finally passed, leaving behind a dull, hollow ache in your chest. You have your laptop propped up on your stomach, playing a painfully cheesy rom-com from the early 2000s. On screen, the male lead is currently running through an airport to catch the female lead before she gets on a plane.

It’s cliché. It’s dramatic. It’s completely unrealistic.

You can’t look away.

Grace walks back into the room, fresh from the shower, a towel wrapped around her hair. She glances at your screen and sighs.

“Again?” She asks, walking over to her dresser. “You watched this same movie three days ago.”

“It’s comforting,” you say defensively, pulling the blankets up higher around your neck.

“It’s masochistic,” Grace corrects gently. She turns to look at you, her expression softening. “You watch these movies, and you read those books about fated mates, and then you let your parents convince you to take pills that stop you from ever actually having it. You’re torturing yourself.”

“They’re just movies, Grace,” you say, your voice cracking slightly. “It’s not real life.”

“How do you know?” She challenges. “You’ve never even given yourself the chance to find out. You’ve been on suppressants since the day you presented. You hide your scent under perfume. You avoid alpha-heavy places like the plague. You’re terrified of your own biology.”

“I’m not terrified,” you snap, though the lie is weak even to your own ears. “I’m being practical.”

“You’re being miserable,” Grace says, walking over and sitting on the edge of your bed. She reaches out, gently resting a hand on your blanket-covered leg. “Look, I’m a beta. I know I don’t get the whole scent-bond, fated-mate thing. To me, it sounds totally overwhelming. But you’re an omega. It’s in your blood. And watching you try to squash it down to make your parents happy is really hard.”

You look away from her, staring at the screen. The male lead has finally caught the female lead. They are kissing passionately while a sweeping orchestral score plays in the background.

“What am I supposed to do?” You whisper, a tear finally escaping and tracking down your cheek. “My family thinks it’s a weakness. They think if I let myself be an omega, I’ll just end up completely dependent on some alpha who treats me like property.”

“Then find an alpha who treats you like a queen,” Grace says simply. “They exist, you know. Not every alpha is some dominating jerk. Some of them actually like the romantic stuff as much as you do.”

You let out a wet, humorless laugh. “Right. Where am I going to find a romantic alpha at Briar? Have you seen the guys here? They’re all frat bros and athletes who sleep with a different girl every night.”

“Not all of them,” Grace points out.

“Name one.”

Grace hesitates. “Okay, fine, a lot of them are like that. But you won’t know if you don’t look. And you definitely won’t know if you keep taking those pills and pretending you’re a beta.”

You look back at the movie. The couple is walking hand-in-hand, smiling, completely wrapped up in each other. A deep, agonizing ache settles in the pit of your stomach. It’s a physical craving, a biological imperative that the pills are desperately trying to smother, but it’s still there. Faint, but undeniable.

You want to be cherished. You want to be protected. You want to belong to someone, and have them belong to you.

“I have to take them,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “If I stop, if I go into heat,  it’ll ruin everything. My classes, my family’s expectations …”

“Is it really ruining things if it makes you happy?” Grace asks softly.

She doesn’t wait for an answer. She just squeezes your leg once more, stands up, and walks over to her desk to dry her hair.

You lay there for a long time, the glow of the laptop screen illuminating the dark room. You reach a hand up, resting it over your heart. It’s beating a steady, rhythmic thud.

I’m here, it seems to say. I’m still here.

You look over at your nightstand. The small, orange plastic pill bottle is sitting there, looking entirely unassuming.

For the first time in your life, you look at the bottle, and instead of feeling a sense of dutiful obligation … you feel a spark of resentment.

***

The summer heat is usually oppressive, but today, you can’t feel it at all. In fact, you’re freezing.

You grip the strap of your backpack, your knuckles turning white, and force yourself to take another step down the crowded brick pathway of the Briar University quad. Your teeth are chattering so hard your jaw aches. Every muscle in your body feels like it’s been pulled taut, vibrating like a violin string right before it snaps.

“I’m telling you, you need to go to the campus clinic,” Grace’s voice sounds tinny and distant coming through your AirPods. “You looked like a ghost when I left for my eight AM. I seriously considered skipping to stay with you.”

“I’m fine,” you lie, your voice breathless and shaky. You stumble slightly over a crack in the pavement. “It’s just … it’s just the adjustment period. Like my mom said. It’s normal.”

“It doesn’t look normal, and it doesn’t sound normal,” Grace snaps back, her tone sharp with genuine worry. “You were sweating through your sheets, but you were shivering. That’s a fever. Please, just skip the midterm. Professor Harrington is a hardass, but he’s not going to fail you for a medical emergency.”

“I don’t have a medical emergency, Grace,” you say stubbornly, though black spots are beginning to dance at the edges of your vision. “I just need to sit down. Once I’m in the lecture hall, I’ll be fine.”

You don’t feel fine.

Your skin feels too tight. There’s a strange, metallic taste in the back of your mouth, and your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You reach up to wipe a bead of sweat from your forehead and realize your hand is trembling uncontrollably.

“Just … let me call you after the test, okay?” You mumble, not waiting for her response before you tap your ear to disconnect the call.

The campus around you seems to blur. The voices of passing students melt into a loud, ringing hum in your ears. You try to take another step, but your legs feel like lead. Your knee buckles.

You manage to catch yourself against a large oak tree, pressing your back against the rough bark. You just need to breathe. Just a deep breath.

But your chest won’t expand. The muscles in your torso are locking up, rigid and unyielding. Panic flares hot and bright in your chest.

Something is wrong, your brain finally screams, cutting through the haze of your mother’s assurances. Something is really, really wrong.

You try to push off the tree, to ask the guy walking past you for help, but your vocal cords seize. A sudden, violent tremor rips through your body. The world tilts sharply to the left.

The last thing you feel is the harsh impact of the concrete against your shoulder before the darkness swallows you whole.

***

“I’m just saying, if she asks me to explain the offside rule one more time, I might actually lose my mind,” Logan groans, taking a massive bite of his breakfast sandwich.

Dean chuckles, adjusting the strap of his gym bag on his shoulder. He and Logan are walking back from a brutal morning lift session, the sun beating down on the bustling campus. “Maybe she doesn’t care about hockey, man. Maybe she just likes watching you get all worked up trying to explain it.”

“It’s not cute,” Logan argues around a mouthful of egg and bacon. “It’s a foundational rule of the sport. It’s an insult to my life’s work.”

“Your life’s work is putting a piece of rubber into a net,” Dean points out lazily.

“Yeah, well, my life’s work pays my tuition.”

Dean grins, shaking his head. He feels good today. The lingering annoyance from last night’s party has faded, replaced by the familiar, comfortable rhythm of his routine. Workout, class, practice, sleep. It’s easy. It’s manageable.

He’s about to make another joke at Logan’s expense when a sudden, collective gasp ripples through the crowd of students about fifty yards ahead of them.

Dean stops walking.

“Whoa,” Logan says, swallowing his bite. “What’s going on over there?”

A cluster of students is rapidly forming near one of the large oak trees lining the path. People are pointing, pulling out their phones, taking hesitant steps backward.

“Someone fell,” Dean says, his eyes narrowing as he tries to see over the crowd.

Then, the murmurs turn into alarmed shouts.

“Holy shit, is she having a seizure?”

“Someone call 911!”

“Don’t touch her, you’re supposed to put something in her mouth, right?”

“No, idiot, don’t do that!”

Dean doesn’t even realize he’s moving until he’s sprinting. The heavy gym bag drops from his shoulder, hitting the grass with a thud, but he doesn’t look back. His heart is suddenly pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against his ribs. His alpha instincts, usually tightly leashed beneath his charming exterior, roar to life with blinding suddenness.

“Move!” Dean barks, his voice carrying the deep, resonant command of an alpha that has the surrounding students instantly stepping aside. “Get the fuck back, give her some space!”

He pushes through the inner circle of onlookers and drops to his knees on the concrete.

It’s a girl. She’s small, swallowed up by an oversized Briar University hoodie, and she is violently convulsing against the hard pavement. Her head is thrashing, perilously close to the brick border of a flower bed.

“Logan!” Dean yells, not looking away from her. “Call 911! Now!”

“Already on it!” Logan shouts from somewhere behind him.

Dean strips off his thick varsity jacket in one fluid motion, rolling it up. He moves quickly but carefully, sliding the jacket under her head to cushion the brutal impacts.

“Hey,” Dean says loudly, his hands hovering over her trembling shoulders, wanting to restrain her but knowing better. “Hey, I’ve got you. You’re okay. Just let it happen, sweetheart. Help is coming.”

Her eyes are rolled back, and a sickening, strained sound is pushing past her lips.

“What happened?” Dean snaps at a terrified-looking sophomore standing nearby.

“I-I don’t know!” The guy stammers. “She was just leaning against the tree, and then she just … dropped. She was shaking before she even fell.”

Dean curses under his breath. He reaches out, carefully checking her wrist for a pulse.

The second his skin makes contact with hers, he recoils.

“Christ, she’s burning up,” Dean mutters, his eyes widening. She’s radiating heat like a furnace. Her skin is drenched in sweat, yet her muscles are locked in terrifying rigidity beneath the convulsions.

“Dispatch says EMTs are three minutes out,” Logan says, kneeling next to Dean. He takes one look at the girl and pales. “Man, she looks bad.”

“She’s boiling,” Dean says, his voice tight. He shifts closer, using his body to block the harsh sunlight from hitting her face. “Her muscles are completely locked. This isn’t just a normal seizure.”

He leans in closer, checking to make sure her airway is clear. As he drops his face near her neck, he inhales sharply.

It hits him like a freight train.

At first, it’s nothing but the sharp, sterile, metallic stench of pharmaceuticals. It’s the distinct, bitter smell of clinical suppressants. It burns his nose, making his alpha recoil in disgust.

But then …

Underneath the chemical blockade, forced to the surface by the intense heat of her raging fever, is a scent.

It’s faint. It’s a whisper. It’s barely there.

But Dean feels it in his teeth.

It’s vanilla. Warm, rich vanilla, and spun sugar, and rain-soaked earth. It’s a scent so perfect, so impossibly right, that for a split second, the entire world goes completely, deafeningly silent.

Dean stops breathing.

His pupils blow wide, his irises flashing from their usual warm green to pitch black. A possessive, ferocious roar tears through his mind, so loud he almost claps his hands over his ears.

Mine.

The realization doesn’t tiptoe in. It kicks the door down and shatters every window in the house.

Mine. Omega. Mine.

“Dean?” Logan’s voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “Hey, man, you good? The ambulance is pulling into the quad.”

Dean blinks, the world rushing back in with a dizzying rush of noise. He looks down at the girl — his girl, his mate, his omega — and a wave of terror so overwhelming t makes him nauseous crashes over him.

The convulsions are finally slowing down, tapering off into violent, whole-body shudders. But she isn’t waking up. Her lips are taking on a faint blue tint, and her breathing is shallow and ragged.

“Where the fuck are they?!” Dean snarls, his head whipping around. He spots the flashing lights of the ambulance navigating the crowded pedestrian path.

He looks back down at you. The acrid smell of the suppressants is choking the beautiful, perfect vanilla scent, suffocating it. Suffocating you.

“What did they do to you?” He whispers, his voice breaking. His hands are shaking now. He reaches out, gently brushing a damp lock of hair away from your sweaty forehead. “What did you take?”

“Step back, please! Let us through!”

Two paramedics shove their way through the crowd, carrying heavy jump bags.

“Move, Logan,” Dean barks, shoving his friend back to give the medics room. But Dean doesn’t stand up. He shifts to the side, refusing to break contact with the girl, keeping one hand firmly planted on her shoulder.

“Sir, you need to step back,” the first paramedic, a stern-looking woman, says as she drops to her knees beside you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that makes the medic pause. It’s pure alpha command, unyielding and terrifying. “Tell me what to do.”

The medic shares a quick, cautious look with her partner before turning back to the patient. “What happened?”

“She collapsed,” Dean says rapidly, his eyes tracking the medic’s every movement. “A seizure. Lasted about two minutes. She’s burning up, her muscles are rigid, and she smells like she swallowed a pharmacy.”

The second medic pulls out a thermometer and presses it to your ear. It beeps almost instantly.

“104.2,” he calls out grimly. He grabs your arm, checking the rigidity. “Severe muscle rigidity. Tachycardia. Is she a friend of yours? Do you know what she’s taken?”

“I don’t know her name,” Dean says, the admission tasting like ash in his mouth. “But she’s an omega. And she smells like heavy, heavy suppressants. Industrial-grade blockers, or stronger.”

The female medic curses sharply. “Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome. Her body is having a toxic reaction to the suppressants. We need to cool her down immediately and get her an IV, or her organs are going to shut down.”

Dean’s heart stops. The words echo in his head. 

“Do it,” Dean snarls, the terrifying helplessness morphing into blistering rage. “Fix her.”

“We’re loading her up,” the male medic says, unrolling a stretcher. “Let’s go, let’s go!”

They hoist you onto the stretcher with practiced efficiency. Dean grabs his jacket from the ground and stands up, his eyes never leaving your pale, unconscious face.

As they start wheeling the stretcher toward the ambulance, Dean falls into step right beside them.

“Sir, you can’t ride in the back,” the female medic says over her shoulder.

“Watch me,” Dean says flatly.

“Dean,” Logan says, grabbing Dean’s arm. “Hey. Stop. You can’t just jump in the ambulance. You don’t even know her.”

Dean rips his arm out of Logan’s grip with a viciousness that makes his best friend stumble backward.

“Don’t touch me,” Dean snaps, his eyes flashing black again. He points a shaking finger at the stretcher. “She’s mine. That’s my mate.”

Logan freezes, the color draining from his face. He looks at the girl, then back at Dean, his mouth falling open. “Holy shit. Are you … are you sure?”

“Yes,” Dean breathes, the anger cracking to reveal the absolute terror underneath. “And she’s dying, Logan. I just found her, and she’s dying.”

Logan swallows hard, nodding quickly. “Go. Get in the ambulance. I’ll get Garrett and Tucker and we’ll follow you to the hospital in my truck. Go!”

Dean doesn’t need to be told twice. He sprints to the back of the ambulance, jumping in right before the doors close.

The medic glares at him. “I told you-”

“I’m her fated mate,” Dean says, his voice thick with a desperation he’s never felt before in his entire life. “I am not leaving her. Do your job, and let me stay.”

The medic looks at the absolute devastation on his face, the frantic, protective set of his jaw, and sighs. “Sit in the corner. Stay out of my way.”

“Thank you.”

The ambulance sirens wail to life, the sound deafening in the confined space. The vehicle jerks into motion, throwing Dean back against the metal wall.

He watches as the medics cut away the sleeve of your favorite hoodie, swabbing your arm to start an IV. They place a cold compress on your forehead and an oxygen mask over your mouth and nose.

You look so incredibly fragile.

Dean leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped so tightly together his knuckles ache.

He’s dreamed of this moment for years. He thought he knew exactly how it would happen. He thought it would be at a party, or a coffee shop, or maybe a fancy gala his parents dragged him to. He thought their eyes would meet across the room, the scent would hit him, and he would sweep her off her feet with his charm and his smile. It was supposed to be a fairytale.

Instead, it’s a nightmare.

He watches the steady, agonizing drip of the IV fluid. He listens to the erratic beep of the heart monitor they hooked you up to.

Underneath the smell of the sterile ambulance and the heavy, toxic blockers, that tiny whisper of vanilla and honey reaches him again. It’s so weak, struggling to survive under the chemical warfare going on inside your body.

Whoever prescribed those pills, whoever pushed her to take them … Dean is going to find them. And he is going to destroy them.

But right now, all that matters is you.

Dean carefully reaches out, ignoring the medic’s warning glance, and gently wraps his large, warm hand around your freezing fingers.

“I’m here,” he whispers, leaning in close so only you can hear him over the sirens. “I’m right here, sweetheart. I finally found you. Don’t you dare leave me now.”

Your hand remains limp in his grip.

Dean squeezes tighter, bowing his head as a single, hot tear tracks down his cheek.

Please, he begs the universe. Just let her be okay.

***

The emergency room at Boston General is a chaotic clamor of shouting doctors, crying children, and blaring alarms.

Dean is pacing. He has been pacing for two hours.

The small waiting area off the main ER floor is practically vibrating with his nervous, angry alpha energy. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker are sitting in a row of plastic chairs, watching him with varying degrees of concern and awe.

They’ve never seen Dean like this. None of them have. The easy-going, arrogant playboy is gone, completely erased. In his place is a terrifyingly focused, lethal-looking man who looks like he’s ready to tear the hospital down brick by brick if someone doesn’t give him an answer soon.

“Man, you’re going to wear a trench in the linoleum,” Garrett says quietly, leaning forward. “You need to sit down. You’re making the nurses nervous.”

Dean stops abruptly, turning his fierce glare on Garrett. “I don’t give a shit about that. I want to speak with a doctor. They took her behind those doors two hours ago and no one will tell me anything!”

“They’re working on her, Dean,” Tucker says, his Southern drawl slow and soothing, trying to de-escalate the situation. “NMS is serious business. They have to flush her system and get her temperature down. It takes time.”

“She was freezing when I touched her,” Dean mutters, running both hands through his disheveled blonde hair. He starts pacing again. “She was shaking so hard. And the smell of those pills … Tuck, it was repulsive. It smelled like bleach and metal. Who the fuck puts an omega on that kind of dosage?”

“Someone who doesn’t want her to be an omega,” Logan says quietly.

Dean stops dead. He looks at Logan, his jaw ticking. “What?”

“You said she was dressed in a massive hoodie, trying to hide. She’s taking industrial-strength blockers,” Logan explains gently. “A lot of omegas from beta families do it. They don’t want the stigma. They don’t want the heats. They try to suppress it so they can live ‘normal’ lives.”

“Normal?” Dean scoffs, his voice thick with disbelief and rising anger. “She almost died on the pavement! How the hell is that normal? It’s biology! You can’t just medicate it away!”

“We know that,” Garrett says. “But clearly, she didn’t. Or someone convinced her otherwise.”

Dean closes his eyes, trying to reign in the explosive fury building in his chest. He remembers the fragility of your wrist in his hand. He remembers the agonizingly weak scent of vanilla fighting through the poison.

He wants to wrap you in a blanket and lock you in his bedroom where the world can never hurt you again. He wants to buy you a new wardrobe, throw every pill bottle you own into the ocean, and spend the rest of his life making sure you never look that pale again.

“Family of the Jane Doe from Briar University?”

Dean’s eyes snap open. A tired-looking doctor in blue scrubs is standing by the double doors, holding a clipboard.

Dean covers the distance between them in three massive strides. “That’s me. I’m with her.”

The doctor looks him up and down, raising an eyebrow. “Are you a relative?”

“I’m her mate,” Dean says, the words feeling heavy and permanent and incredibly right on his tongue.

The doctor’s expression softens immediately. In their world, a fated bond overrides almost everything else. It’s an undeniable biological link. “Ah. I see. I’m Dr. Goldstein. Come with me, please.”

Dean follows the doctor down a quiet, sterile hallway, his heart thumping erratically. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker stay behind, giving him space.

“How is she?” Dean asks, his voice surprisingly steady despite the chaos in his head.

“She’s stable,” Dr. Goldstein says, pushing open the door to a private room. “The EMTs were right, it was a severe case of Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome brought on by a toxic buildup of synthetic suppressants. We’ve managed to bring her fever down, and the muscle rigidity is subsiding. We have her on IV fluids and muscle relaxants.”

Dean steps into the room, and the breath leaves his lungs in a rush.

You are lying in the hospital bed, looking incredibly small amidst the stark white sheets. Your eyes are closed, your breathing steady but shallow. The bluish tint is gone from your lips, replaced by a pale, exhausted pallor. The IV is taped securely to the back of your hand.

“She’s sleeping,” Dr. Goldstein continues softly. “Her body has been through an immense trauma. It’s going to take a few days for the suppressants to completely flush out of her system.”

“And then what?” Dean asks, his eyes glued to the slow rise and fall of your chest.

“And then … her biology is going to rebound,” the doctor says carefully. “When an omega comes off suppressants cold turkey like this, especially at the dosage she was taking, it usually triggers an immediate, intense heat.”

Dean swallows hard. He steps closer to the bed, entirely captivated by you.

“She can’t take those pills ever again,” Dean says, his voice low and hard. It’s not a question. It’s a fact.

“I strongly advise against it,” Dr. Goldstein agrees. “Her system clearly can’t tolerate them. But she’s going to need a lot of support through the withdrawal process, and the subsequent heat. It will be overwhelming for her.”

“She’ll have it,” Dean says immediately. “She’ll have me.”

The doctor nods, offering a small, sympathetic smile. “I’ll leave you to it. Press the call button if she wakes up and seems disoriented.”

The door clicks shut, leaving Dean alone with you.

The silence in the room is heavy, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the monitors.

Dean pulls a chair up to the side of the bed and sits down. He reaches out, slowly, reverently, and takes your hand in his. Your skin is cool now, lacking that terrifying, burning heat from the quad.

He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to your skin.

Now that the suppressants are beginning to wash out of your system, your scent is getting stronger. It’s filling the small hospital room, wrapping around him like a physical embrace. Vanilla. Honey. Rain. It’s the most intoxicating thing he’s ever breathed in.

His alpha settles, a deep, rumbling purr vibrating in his chest. Mate. Safe.

“You really scared the shit out of me, sweetheart,” Dean whispers, his thumb stroking soothing circles over the back of your hand. “We haven’t even officially met, and you’re already giving me gray hairs.”

You don’t move, but Dean doesn’t care. He has all the time in the world.

He leans back in the chair, his eyes never leaving your face. He maps out the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheekbones, the soft part of your lips. He tries to imagine what color your eyes are. He tries to imagine what your voice sounds like when you aren’t screaming in agony.

“I don’t know who told you that you had to hide,” Dean says quietly to the empty room. “I don’t know who made you feel like you weren’t perfect exactly the way you are. But they were wrong.”

He squeezes your hand gently.

“I’m going to show you,” he promises, his voice a vow. “I’m going to take care of you. You’re never taking another one of those pills again. You’re going to be a queen. My queen.”

Dean settles in, letting the steady beat of your heart anchor him. The playboy of Briar University is dead.

And as he watches you sleep, inhaling the sweet, perfect scent of his fated mate, Dean Di Laurentis has never felt more alive.

***

Coming back to consciousness is a slow, heavy process. Your eyelids feel like they have lead weights attached to them, and your mouth is as dry as cotton. A steady, rhythmic beeping sound echoes somewhere to your left, pulling you inch by inch out of the dark.

But before you can even force your eyes open, a smell hits you.

It’s completely overwhelming, wrapping around your senses like a thick, warm blanket. It’s sandalwood and cedar, rain-soaked asphalt, and a deep, purely masculine musk. It doesn’t smell like your dorm room. It doesn’t smell like your childhood bedroom in your parents’ sterile, modern house.

It smells like home. Like a place you’ve never been, but have spent your entire life desperately searching for.

Your breath hitches, your omega biology — newly freed from the chemical cage of the suppressants — flaring to life with a desperate, greedy hunger. You inhale deeply, chasing the scent, and finally manage to blink your eyes open.

The harsh, fluorescent light of a hospital room makes you wince, but a large shadow immediately shifts, blocking the glare.

“Hey,” a low, incredibly gentle voice rumbles. “Take it easy, sweetheart. Don’t rush.”

You blink the blurriness away, your vision slowly coming into focus. Sitting in a plastic chair pulled right up against the edge of your bed is a guy. A devastatingly handsome guy. He has messy, golden-blonde hair, striking green eyes that are completely locked onto you, and the kind of broad, muscular shoulders that a varsity jacket was practically invented for.

You don’t recognize his face. But the second you inhale again, you know exactly who the scent belongs to. It’s him. He is radiating it.

Panic spikes in your chest. You try to sit up, but your muscles feel entirely hollowed out, weak and trembling.

“Whoa, hey, stay still,” he says, instantly standing up. His hands hover over your shoulders, close enough to offer comfort but respectful enough not to touch without permission. With one hand, he reaches up and hits the red call button above your bed. “You’ve been through a lot. Just lay back.”

“Where …” Your voice comes out as a harsh, painful croak. Your throat feels like sandpaper.

“You’re at Boston General,” he explains calmly, his eyes tracing your face with an intensity that makes your breath catch. He reaches for a plastic pitcher on the bedside table and pours water into a cup, sliding a bendy straw in. “Here. Just a little sip at first.”

He leans over, guiding the straw to your lips. You are so thirsty you don’t even hesitate, taking a slow, glorious pull of the ice-cold water.

“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning your head back against the pillows. You look at him, really look at him, trying to piece together the shattered fragments of your memory. “I was on the quad. I was walking to my midterm, and then …”

“You collapsed,” he finishes for you. The easy gentleness in his expression hardens just a fraction, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “You had a severe seizure. Your body was rejecting your suppressants.”

The word hits you like a bucket of ice water.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, your hands immediately flying to your face. “My mom. My mom is going to kill me. She told me it was just an adjustment period. I have to call her, she has to talk to Dr. Davidson-”

“Hey. Look at me.”

The command in his voice isn’t loud, but it vibrates straight through your bones. Your hands drop, and your eyes lock onto his.

“No one is calling anyone to adjust those pills,” he says, his tone firm, brooking absolute zero argument. “They were poisoning you. You had Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome. If I hadn’t been walking by when you went down …” He stops, swallowing hard. The absolute terror in his eyes is raw and jarring. “You’re done with them. Forever.”

You stare at him, completely bewildered. Why is this beautiful, random alpha hockey player looking at you like the thought of losing you physically pains him?

“Who are you?” You ask softly.

He smiles, and it’s a beautiful, devastating thing. The harshness completely melts out of his face. “I’m Dean. Dean Di Laurentis.”

“I don’t know you, Dean,” you say, your brow furrowing. “Why are you sitting here? Why do you smell like …”

You trail off, your cheeks flushing a deep, embarrassed crimson. You can’t just tell a stranger that his scent makes you want to curl up into his chest and never leave.

Dean’s smile softens even more, turning into something completely wrecked and reverent. He slowly reaches out, giving you plenty of time to pull away, and gently wraps his large hand over yours where it rests on the blanket. His skin is so warm.

“I smell like home,” Dean finishes for you, his voice dropping to a low, intimate whisper. “Don’t I?”

You can only nod, your heart hammering against your ribs.

“That’s because I’m your mate, sweetheart,” Dean says, the words hanging in the quiet hospital room like a religious vow. “Your fated mate.”

Your entire world stops.

You stare at him, your brain desperately trying to process the words. Your fated mate. The thing you had secretly dreamed of. The thing your mother had ruthlessly mocked. The thing you had been medicated to avoid.

You yank your hand out from under his, shaking your head frantically. “No. No, that’s … that’s not real. That’s a fairytale.”

Dean looks at his empty hand for a second before his gaze snaps back up to yours. “Excuse me?”

“My family,” you stammer, pushing yourself backward against the pillows, trying to put distance between you and the intoxicating pull of his scent. “They told me it’s not real. It’s just biological chemistry that gets romanticized in Hallmark movies. Fated mates don’t actually exist in real life. It’s just an archaic myth.”

Dean stares at you for a long, silent moment. The air in the room suddenly feels very heavy, his alpha presence expanding, pressing against the walls.

“Then your family,” Dean says, his voice dangerously quiet, “is full of idiots.”

“Don’t call them that,” you say automatically, though your defense sounds incredibly weak.

“I’ll call them whatever I want if they’re the ones who filled your head with that garbage,” Dean fires back, leaning closer. The intensity rolling off him is entirely focused on you. “Look at me. Look at how my hand is shaking right now. I smelled you underneath whatever toxic sludge you were taking, and my heart literally stopped beating in my chest. You are my omega. Mine. The universe literally carved my soul to match yours. Don’t tell me that’s a goddamn myth.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You want to believe him. You want to believe him so badly it hurts.

Dean sees the tears and his entire demeanor fractures. “Hey, no, don’t cry. Shh, I’m sorry.” He sits on the very edge of your mattress, ignoring the hospital rules, and carefully reaches out again. This time, he doesn’t take your hand. He brings his fingers up to your face, gently wiping a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I’m sorry. I’m just … I’m angry. Not at you. Never at you.”

He traces the line of your jaw, his touch so achingly tender it makes a sob catch in your throat.

“Who put you on those pills?” Dean asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “Who gave you a dosage that high?”

You look away, ashamed. “Dr. Davidson. My family doctor.”

“And who asked for it?” Dean presses, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “Because an omega doesn’t walk into a clinic and ask for an industrial-grade chemical lobotomy on their own.”

You close your eyes. “My mom.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You open your eyes to see Dean staring at the wall, his jaw locked so tight the muscle is twitching wildly. His green eyes have darkened, the pupils blown wide in pure, unadulterated fury. You have never seen a man look so lethal.

“Dean?” You whisper nervously.

He blinks, forcing his focus back to you. “Whoever she is,” Dean says, his voice flat and deadly cold, “I have never hated a human being more in my entire life.”

“You can’t say that!” You defend, the lifelong habit of protecting your parents kicking in. “She’s a beta. My whole family is full of betas. They don’t understand the alpha-omega dynamics, okay? To them, it’s a liability. She just wanted me to be independent. She wanted me to have a normal life, a good career, without being tied down by my biology. She thought she was protecting me.”

“Protecting you?” Dean snarls, the anger finally slipping the leash. He stands up, pacing away from the bed before whirling back around to face you. “You were seizing on the concrete! You were freezing to death and burning up at the same time! Is that her version of protection? Forcing you to suppress a fundamental part of who you are just because it inconveniences her worldview?”

“She didn’t know the pills would do this!”

“She didn’t care!” Dean shouts, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “Just because she’s a beta and she’ll never experience the absolute fucking magic of having a fated mate doesn’t give her the right to try and rip it away from you! It is a gift, and she treated it like a disease!”

You flinch, pulling your knees up to your chest. The truth of his words hits you like a physical blow, breaking through the decades of conditioning your parents had carefully layered over you.

Dean sees you flinch and curses violently under his breath. He crosses the room in two strides, dropping to his knees right beside your bed so he’s perfectly eye-level with you.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m yelling,” he breathes, his hands coming up to grip the metal bedrails. “I’m just so angry that you got hurt. You have no idea what it did to me, watching you on that pavement. Thinking I finally found you, only to watch you die.”

He reaches through the rails, gently taking your left arm. He turns your wrist over, exposing the pale skin of your inner forearm. Right over your pulse point, where a mating gland sits dormant beneath the skin.

He lowers his head and presses a long, firm, agonizingly soft kiss directly over the gland.

A jolt of pure electricity shoots up your arm, straight into your chest. Your omega purrs, a deep, vibrating sound of absolute contentment that you didn’t even know you were capable of making.

Dean pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, his lips still hovering mere inches from your skin.

“She’s not in charge anymore,” Dean vows, his voice a low, rough rumble. “I’m here now. I am your mate. I will take care of you, I will protect you, and I swear on my life, you will never experience anything like that ever again. You are done hiding.”

You stare down at him, entirely captivated. For the first time in your life, you don’t feel broken. You don’t feel like a problem that needs to be solved. Under Dean’s heavy, devoted gaze, you feel perfect.

Before you can formulate a response, the heavy wooden door to your room pushes open.

“Ah, you’re awake,” a female voice says briskly.

Dean immediately stands up, though he doesn’t step away from your bed. He slides his hand down to tangle his fingers firmly with yours, presenting a united front as the doctor walks in, followed by a nurse holding a chart.

“I’m Dr. Goldstein,” the doctor says, offering a warm smile as she approaches the foot of the bed. “It’s good to see your eyes open. How are you feeling?”

“Weak,” you admit honestly, your voice still raspy. “My muscles ache.”

“That’s to be expected,” Dr. Goldstein says, flipping through your chart. “You suffered a severe tonic-clonic seizure caused by a toxic buildup of synthetic suppressants. Your body went into a state of Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome. Frankly, you’re very lucky your mate here acted as quickly as he did, and that the ambulance was close.”

You look up at Dean. He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, though his eyes remain locked sharply on the doctor.

“We’ve pumped you full of fluids and muscle relaxants, and we’ve successfully flushed the majority of the chemical toxicity out of your system,” Dr. Goldstein continues. She lowers the clipboard, looking at you with serious, sympathetic eyes. “But we need to talk about what comes next.”

The knot of anxiety in your stomach, which Dean had momentarily smoothed away, twists tight again. “What comes next?”

“You cannot go back on suppressants,” Dr. Goldstein says firmly. “Your body has developed a severe, life-threatening allergy to them. If you try to take even a low dose, you could go into anaphylactic shock, or worse.”

“Never again,” Dean states, his voice leaving absolutely no room for debate.

You swallow hard. “Okay. No more pills. But … what does that mean?”

Dr. Goldstein sighs softly. “It means your biology is going to rebound. Hard. You’ve been forcibly suppressing your omega nature for years. Now that the dam is broken, your hormones are going to spike to compensate. I need you to be prepared. Within the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours, you are going to go into heat.”

The blood completely drains from your face.

Heat. The thought echoes in your head, a terrifying, abstract concept that your mother had always spoken about in hushed, disgusted tones. A loss of control. A feverish, degrading biological imperative.

“No,” you whisper, true, visceral panic setting in. You start to shake, pulling your hand out of Dean’s grip to clutch at the hospital blanket. “No, I can’t. I don’t know how. I’ve never had one.”

Dr. Goldstein looks surprised. “Never?”

“My parents put me on suppressants the day I presented at fourteen,” you say, your breathing turning shallow and frantic. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how it feels. Please, isn’t there something else you can give me? A lighter pill? An injection? I can’t just … I can’t!”

“Sweetheart, hey, look at me,” Dean says, his voice cutting through the rising tide of your panic.

You look at him, tears freely spilling down your cheeks.

Internally, Dean is a hurricane of pure, unadulterated violence. The realization that your parents essentially chemically sterilized you at fourteen — robbing you of every natural milestone of your secondary gender out of their own beta prejudice — makes him want to find them and tear them apart with his bare hands. The rage is so hot and blinding he can barely see straight.

But outwardly? Outwardly, he is a mountain. Unshakeable. Calm.

He sits back down on the edge of the bed, completely ignoring the doctor and nurse. He frames your face with both of his large, warm hands, his thumbs sweeping away your tears.

“Breathe with me,” Dean murmurs, locking his green eyes onto yours. He takes an exaggerated, deep breath in. “Come on. In.”

You drag a ragged breath into your lungs, mirroring him.

“Good. Out,” he praises softly.

He keeps his scent deliberately calm, pushing out waves of soothing cedar and rain, blanketing your panic in layers of alpha protection.

“I’m terrified,” you sob, your hands coming up to grip his wrists. “My mom always said heats make you lose your mind. She said it’s humiliating.”

“Your mom doesn’t know a damn thing about what it means to be an omega,” Dean says, his voice dripping with absolute certainty. “She lied to you. It’s not humiliating. It’s natural. It’s beautiful.”

“But I don’t know what to do!”

“You don’t have to know what to do,” Dean says gently, leaning in until his forehead is resting against yours. “Because I know what to do. That’s what mates are for, baby. I am going to be right by your side the entire time. I’ll take care of everything. You won’t have to think, you won’t have to worry, you just have to let your body do what it was meant to do.”

“You promise?” You whisper, closing your eyes and leaning into his solid strength.

“I swear it on my life,” Dean vows, his lips brushing against your forehead. “I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time. I’m not going to let anything scare you ever again. We’re going to get through this together.”

Dr. Goldstein clears her throat softly, a small smile playing on her lips. “He’s right. A mate bond makes the biological transition significantly smoother. You’re in very good hands.”

You open your eyes, looking at Dean. The arrogant, charming playboy of Briar University is entirely gone. In his place is a devoted, fiercely protective alpha who is looking at you like you hold the stars in your hands.

For the first time in your life, you stop fighting your own biology. You take a deep breath of sandalwood and rain, and finally, you let yourself just be an omega.

***

The next thirty-two hours are a masterclass in anticipation.

The hospital staff insists on keeping you for observation to ensure the suppressants are completely flushed from your system and that your organs haven’t suffered any lasting damage from the toxicity.

Dean never leaves your side. He sleeps in the wildly uncomfortable plastic chair next to your bed, his hand tangled with yours. He eats terrible cafeteria food. He charms the nurses into bringing you extra pillows and smuggled-in hot chocolate.

He only leaves once. On the second morning, he kisses your forehead, promises he’ll be back before you can even miss him, and vanishes for two hours. He returns smelling like his expensive cedar body wash, wearing fresh clothes, and carrying a massive duffel bag.

“I had to prep,” Dean explains simply when you ask about the bag, a devastating smirk playing on his lips. “And I had to threaten Logan with bodily harm if he ever breathed a word about my panic attack.”

When Dr. Goldstein finally signs your discharge papers, the shift in your body is undeniable.

You feel … heavy. There is a deep, pulsing warmth settling low in your abdomen, a completely foreign sensation that makes your breath catch every few minutes. Your skin feels highly sensitized, the friction of your sweatpants against your legs sends tiny shocks up your spine.

But the most obvious change is the scent.

As Dean leads you out to his car, you notice the way his nostrils flare. His jaw is tight, his grip on your hand firm and possessive. The faint, smothered vanilla scent that had barely survived the suppressants has bloomed. It’s rich, thick, and intoxicatingly sweet, dripping with the undeniable pheromones of an omega on the absolute precipice of her first heat.

“We aren’t going to my house,” Dean says, opening the passenger door for you and helping you climb inside. “Logan and the guys are great, but you don’t need three other alphas in the house right now. And you definitely aren’t going back to your dorm.”

“Where are we going?” You ask, your voice already a little breathless. The leather of the car seat feels incredibly soft against your back.

“My family owns the Heyward Harbor Hotel downtown,” Dean says, shutting your door and walking around to the driver’s side. He climbs in, immediately locking the doors and starting the engine. “There’s a private penthouse suite on the top floor. It’s soundproof, secure, and completely ours. The staff knows not to come up unless I call.”

You swallow hard, your heart doing a nervous, excited flutter. “You really planned this out.”

Dean shoots you a dark, heated look as he pulls out of the hospital parking lot. “Sweetheart, I’ve been planning for you since I was sixteen years old. And right now, you smell so incredibly sweet that it’s taking every ounce of my willpower not to pull this car over and climb into the backseat with you.”

You flush a deep crimson, a rush of slick heat pooling between your thighs at his words. “Dean …”

“I know,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. “Hold on for me. Just a little longer.”

The drive is a blur of city lights and the heavy, electric tension filling the cabin of the car. By the time Dean pulls into the private underground garage of the hotel, you are practically vibrating.

He leads you to a private elevator that opens directly into the penthouse. The space is massive, all floor-to-ceiling windows, modern art, and sleek furniture. But Dean bypasses the living area entirely, guiding you straight into the sprawling master bedroom.

You stop dead in your tracks.

The king-sized bed in the center of the room has been completely transformed. It’s a nest. A massive, chaotic, incredibly inviting pile of faux fur blankets, high-thread-count sheets, and enormous plush pillows. And woven through every single layer of fabric is the heavy, comforting scent of sandalwood, cedar, and rain. Dean’s scent.

“You built this?” You whisper, staring at the bed. Your omega instincts are practically screaming at you to dive into the center of it and roll around until you are completely coated in his scent.

“When I went back to shower,” Dean says, stepping up behind you. He rests his hands on your hips, pulling your back flush against his solid chest.

“I bought every soft blanket I could find in a ten-mile radius. Does it look okay?”

“It looks perfect,” you breathe, leaning back against him.

“Good. But you can’t get in it yet,” Dean says, his hands sliding up to grip your waist. He kisses the side of your neck, sending a violent shiver down your body. “You need a bath. And you need to eat. Once the heat fully hits, you aren’t going to care about food, and you need your strength.”

He is as good as his word. Dean leads you into a massive marble bathroom and starts the water in a deep soaking tub. He helps you strip out of your hospital clothes with a terrifyingly gentle reverence, his eyes dark and hungry, but his hands entirely respectful.

The warm water feels like heaven on your aching muscles. Dean kneels beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves, and actually washes your hair. His large fingers massage your scalp with a perfect, agonizingly slow pressure.

“You’re shaking,” Dean notes softly, rinsing the shampoo from your hair.

“I feel … weird,” you admit, your eyes fluttering shut. The ache low in your belly is turning into a sharp, demanding throb. “It’s like there’s a wire pulled tight inside me, and it keeps getting tighter.”

“That’s the pre-heat,” Dean explains, his voice a soothing rumble. “Your body is prepping. It’s waking up. Just breathe through it.”

After the bath, he wraps you in a massive, fluffy towel and carries you out to the kitchen island. He’s ordered room service — a massive plate of carbonara, warm bread, and fruit.

“Eat,” he commands gently, pushing a fork into your hand. “As much as you can.”

You manage to eat half the pasta, though your appetite is rapidly being eclipsed by a different kind of hunger. The scent in the room is overwhelming now. Your vanilla and honey has mixed entirely with his cedar and rain, creating a thick, heady atmosphere that makes your head spin.

You drop the fork, a sudden, violent hot flash tearing through your body. You gasp, your hands gripping the edge of the marble counter.

Dean is there in a second. “Hey. Look at me.”

You look up, panting slightly. “Dean … it hurts. It’s so hot.”

“I know,” Dean says, his eyes flashing to a pitch-black, predatory dark. The leash he’s been keeping on his alpha is snapping. He reaches down and effortlessly scoops you up into his arms, carrying you back to the bedroom. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

He drops you gently into the center of the nest. The sheer volume of his scent embedded in the blankets hits your system like a drug. You instantly curl onto your side, burying your face in one of his oversized t-shirts he left in the pile, a loud, desperate whine tearing from your throat.

Dean strips off his shirt in one fluid motion, tossing it aside. He kicks off his shoes and jeans, left only in his boxer briefs, before he crawls into the nest with you.

The moment his bare skin touches yours, the final thread snaps.

The heat hits.

It is a tidal wave of biological demand. The dull ache turns into a blinding, searing need that completely consumes your mind. You don’t think. You just react. You scramble toward him, your hands desperately clutching at his broad, muscular shoulders, pulling him down over you.

“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice a fractured sob. You arch your hips upward, seeking the heavy, solid weight of him. “Please, I need … I need …”

“I know what you need,” Dean growls, his voice a guttural, vibrating sound that makes your core clench. He pins your wrists gently above your head with one hand, his chest hovering inches from yours. “You are so incredibly beautiful. You smell like pure sugar, baby.”

He lowers his head, his mouth capturing yours in a devastating, bruising kiss. It’s nothing like the polite, gentle care he’s shown you for the last two days. This is raw, possessive, and entirely alpha. He parts your lips with his tongue, tasting you deeply, drinking in your soft moans.

You writhe beneath him, your legs tangling with his. You are soaked, a slick, hot mess of arousal that your body has naturally produced in terrifying abundance.

Dean breaks the kiss, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw and the sensitive column of your neck. He pauses right over your scent gland, inhaling sharply.

“You’re mine,” he breathes against the skin, his hot breath making you arch off the mattress. “Only mine. Tell me.”

“Yours,” you gasp, your eyes rolling back. “Dean, please, it’s so empty. Please.”

“Impatient,” Dean chuckles darkly. His free hand trails down your torso, slipping past the waistband of your underwear. “We have to do this right, sweetheart. I need you completely ready for me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

His hand slips between your thighs, and you let out a high, fractured cry at the contact. His fingers are large, calloused from years of gripping a hockey stick, but they are impossibly gentle. He parts your slick folds, tracing the sensitive bundle of nerves at your peak.

You thrash against his hold, completely overwhelmed by the sensation. “Dean!”

“I’m here,” he murmurs, his thumb applying a steady, rhythmic pressure. “Let go for me. Come for me, baby.”

He slides two fingers deep inside you, and you completely shatter. Your body bows off the bed, a scream tearing from your throat as your first orgasm rips through you. It’s blinding. It’s a rush of pure pleasure that leaves you gasping for air, your muscles trembling violently as your inner walls clench around his fingers.

Dean watches you unravel, a look of pure worship on his face. He doesn’t stop. As you ride out the agonizingly long waves of the climax, he shifts lower down the bed.

“Dean, wait, I’m too sensitive-” you stammer, trying to push yourself backward.

“I’m not done,” he says simply.

He parts your thighs wider, settling between your legs. He grips your hips to hold you completely still, and then he lowers his mouth to your core.

You scream his name, your hands flying to tangle in his blonde hair. The slide of his tongue is expertly cruel, lapping up your slick with a greedy, starving desperation. He finds your clit again, sucking gently before swirling his tongue over it, sending you plummeting right back into the fire.

Your mind goes completely blank. There is only the heat, the overwhelming scent of cedar, and the devastating perfection of his mouth. You climax again, harder this time, sobbing into the pillows as your vision literally whites out.

Dean pulls back, his chest heaving as he crawls back up your body. His eyes are glazed, completely feral. He strips away your underwear and tears his boxers off, discarding them off the edge of the bed.

You feel the heavy, thick press of him against your entrance. The sheer size of him makes you gasp, a fleeting moment of apprehension piercing through the haze of the heat.

Dean senses it immediately. He pauses, his forearms bracketing your head, and looks down into your eyes.

“Look at me,” he commands softly.

You meet his gaze.

“I’m going to take care of you,” Dean vows, his voice a rough, desperate rasp. “I am going to fill you up, and I am going to make you feel so goddamn good. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” you whisper, meaning it with every fiber of your being. “I trust you. Please.”

Dean groans, a deeply satisfied, rumbling sound. “Good girl.”

He pushes his hips forward, burying himself inside you in one long, agonizingly slow thrust.

You cry out, your fingernails digging into his shoulders. It is the most intense, overwhelming feeling you have ever experienced. You are completely full, stretched taut, the physical connection bridging the gap your soul has been aching to fill for years.

Dean rests his forehead against yours, his breath coming in harsh pants. He stays perfectly still, giving your body time to adjust to his massive size. “Fuck. You feel … you feel like heaven. So tight. So wet for me.”

“Don’t stop,” you beg, lifting your hips to meet him. “Dean, please move.”

He chuckles, a dark, breathless sound, and begins to pull back. The friction is absolute torture in the best way possible. He sets a brutal, driving pace, his hips snapping against yours with audible slaps of skin.

You are completely lost in it. You match his rhythm perfectly, meeting his thrusts, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist to draw him in even deeper. The room smells like sex and alpha command and the intoxicating sweetness of an omega in the throes of a mating heat.

“That’s it,” Dean praises, his voice strained. “Take it all, baby. You’re doing so good.”

The pressure is building again, twisting into a tight, coiled spring low in your belly. Dean recognizes the shift in your breathing, the frantic, desperate hitch in your chest.

He slides one hand under your lower back, angling your hips up to hit a spot deep inside you that makes you see stars.

“Dean!” You scream, your head thrashing side to side.

“I’ve got you,” he growls. He shifts his weight, pinning you down, and buries his face in the crook of your neck. His lips brush directly over your scent gland. “I’m going to claim you now. I’m going to make you mine permanently. Let me mark you.”

“Yes,” you sob, the word a desperate plea. “Yes, mark me!”

Dean bites down.

His sharp canines pierce the delicate skin over your scent gland. The pain is a sharp, brief sting, instantly swallowed by a blinding, explosive rush of euphoria.

The bond snaps into place.

It is physical. It is emotional. It is a sudden, brilliant tether forming between your chest and his, locking your souls together with an undeniable, permanent gravity. You can feel him. You can feel his love, his possessiveness, his absolute devotion flooding into your mind.

At the exact same moment his teeth break the skin, Dean drives his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt, and unloads deep inside you.

Your own climax hits like a freight train, your body convulsing violently around his knot as it swells, locking you together. You scream his name, your hands desperately clutching at his back.

“Bite me,” Dean commands, his voice muffled against your skin. He pulls back just enough to expose his own neck, baring his throat to you in the ultimate display of alpha submission. “Mark me back, sweetheart. Claim me.”

You don’t hesitate. You surge upward, your lips finding the pulsing scent gland on the side of his neck. You sink your teeth in, tasting the salt of his sweat and the sharp, metallic tang of blood.

Dean lets out a roaring groan, his head falling back as the bond solidifies on his end. The tether snaps tight, completely unbreakable. He grips your hips, riding out the devastating aftershocks of your shared climax, completely lost in the overwhelming high of the mating bond.

For a long time, neither of you moves.

The room is silent except for your ragged, synchronized breathing. Dean’s knot is still firmly locked inside you, keeping you intimately tethered. He collapses completely against you, his heavy weight a comforting, grounding presence.

He gently buries his face in your hair, pressing soft, reverent kisses to your temple.

“Mine,” he whispers, the word laced with pure awe. “You’re actually mine.”

“Yours,” you echo softly, running your hands through his damp blonde hair.

Slowly, the frantic racing of your heart begins to settle. The feverish edge of the heat dulls into a bone-deep, lethargic exhaustion. Your eyelids droop, the sheer physical toll of the last few hours finally catching up to you.

Dean senses it. He shifts slightly, wrapping his arms securely around your waist. “Tired?”

“Exhausted,” you murmur, nuzzling your face into the hollow of his shoulder. “Is it … is it over?”

Dean chuckles softly, his chest rumbling against yours. He reaches up, gently petting your hair, his fingers smoothing the tangled strands.

“Not even close, sweetheart,” Dean says, pressing a kiss to the healing bite mark on your neck. “A normal heat usually lasts anywhere from four to seven days, depending on the omega.”

Your eyes widen slightly, and you try to pull back to look at him, but he keeps you flush against his chest. “Four to seven days? Of that?”

“Usually,” Dean continues, his voice soothing and calm. “But given the circumstances … given how long your parents had you on those heavy suppressants, and how violently your body rejected them … Dr. Goldstein warned me that this one is going to be different. Your biology is rebounding. Hard. This heat is going to be significantly longer, and the peaks are going to be a lot more extreme.”

A spike of nervous anxiety flares in your chest. “Dean, I don’t know if I can-”

“Hey,” Dean interrupts gently, his hand sweeping down your back in a steady, calming rhythm. “Stop. What did I promise you in the hospital?”

You swallow hard. “That you’d take care of me.”

“Exactly. And I will,” Dean says, his gaze burning with absolute certainty. “I am not going anywhere. I’ve got enough food and water in this suite to last us two weeks. I’ll be here for every single wave. You don’t have to think, you don’t have to worry. You just have to let your body do what it needs to do, and I will handle the rest.”

You look at him, really look at the beautiful, devoted alpha who has completely upended your entire life in the span of three days. The fear melts away, completely smothered by the warm, buzzing hum of the mating bond currently singing in your veins.

“Okay,” you whisper, resting your head back against his chest.

“Okay,” Dean echoes. His knot slowly begins to recede, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he shifts, pulling the heavy faux fur blankets up over both of you, completely cocooning you in the nest.

He wraps his arms around you, tucking your head under his chin. His thumb resumes its slow, hypnotic petting of your hair.

“You did so good for me, baby,” Dean murmurs, his voice growing heavy with his own exhaustion. “So perfect. Try to get some sleep. You need to rest before the next wave hits.”

You close your eyes, the scent of cedar and vanilla wrapping around you like a physical shield. The ache is still there, simmering just beneath the surface, but it’s no longer terrifying. It’s natural. It’s right.

For the first time in your life, you aren’t fighting who you are. You aren’t suppressing the deepest, most fundamental parts of your soul. You are exactly where you are supposed to be, safe in the arms of an alpha who looks at you like you are the center of his entire universe.

This is the fairytale. This is everything your mother said didn’t exist.

As you drift off to sleep, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of Dean’s heart beneath your ear, you realize one simple, absolute truth.

The reality is so much better than the dream.

Happy noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He noticed everything about you, even when he pretended not to.

He'd been sleeping over every night since the surgery despite insisting he was only there "in case you need something," which was ridiculous considering he had already memorized your medication schedule, knew exactly which pillow eased the pressure on your hip, and had silently rearranged your kitchen so everything you needed sat within arm's reach without ever asking permission.

He looked at Roscoe.

Then at you.

"You can't walk him."

It wasn't a question.

You sighed, rubbing your face. "I know."

Roscoe let out another dramatic sigh of his own, flopping onto the hardwood floor with all the sorrow of a Victorian orphan.

"I'll figure something out."

Happy stood.

"You did."

You frowned.

"I did?"

He picked up Roscoe's leash from the hook by the door.

"You figured me."

Before you could even process what he'd meant, he clipped the leash onto Roscoe's collar with practiced hands, crouched down to scratch behind those ridiculously soft ears, and said in the exact same flat voice he used before club runs and gun deals, "Let's go."

Roscoe's tail became a metronome.

The dog looked between the two of you like he'd just been informed Christmas had been moved to June.

"But—"

Happy looked over his shoulder.

"I've got him."

That was apparently the end of the discussion.

You assumed it would be for one day.

Maybe two.

Just until you could shuffle around the block yourself.

Instead, every morning before heading to the clubhouse, Happy would arrive at your house before sunrise with a coffee in one hand and Roscoe's leash in the other, barely saying good morning before the basset hound exploded into delighted howls that somehow never seemed to irritate him despite Happy famously having the patience of a landmine.

"You ready?" he'd ask the dog.

Roscoe would bark.

Happy would nod once.

"Thought so."

And off they'd go.

The first time Chibs saw it, he nearly walked into a parked motorcycle.

Happy Lowman.

The club's most terrifying enforcer.

Walking a basset hound whose legs were approximately the height of Happy's boots.

"You've got tae be kiddin' me," Chibs muttered from across the lot.

Happy didn't even acknowledge him.

Roscoe stopped every twelve feet.

To sniff grass.

To inspect a pinecone.

To stare thoughtfully at a squirrel.

To contemplate life itself.

Happy waited through every single delay without complaint.

Tig pulled into the lot halfway through one particularly philosophical sniffing session.

"...Happy."

No answer.

"...Is... is that a basset hound?"

Happy looked down.

"Yeah."

"...You're walking it."

"Yeah."

"...Voluntarily."

"Yeah."

Tig blinked.

"...You got a concussion?"

Happy stared at him long enough that Tig visibly reconsidered every life choice that had led to this conversation.

"No."

Roscoe waddled over and leaned against Happy's boot.

Without thinking, Happy reached down and absentmindedly scratched beneath his chin.

The entire parking lot froze.

Bobby looked up from his coffee.

Juice actually lowered his phone.

Even Kozik looked confused.

"...Did..." Juice whispered. "...Did Happy just baby-talk a dog?"

"I didn't."

"You literally just said 'Who's a good boy?'"

Happy looked irritated.

"He is."

Nobody had an argument for that.

By the second week, Roscoe had developed a routine.

Every morning he waited by the window exactly three minutes before Happy usually arrived.

If Happy's truck rounded the corner, Roscoe erupted into a chorus of excited baying loud enough that you could hear him from the bathroom.

If Happy was two minutes late because club business ran long...

Roscoe staged a protest.

One morning you hobbled into the living room on your crutches to find your dog lying dramatically across the front door.

Happy walked in thirty seconds later.

Roscoe sprang to life.

Traitor.

Happy crouched.

"Miss me?"

Roscoe practically climbed into his lap.

You laughed.

"I think my dog loves you more than me."

Happy didn't answer immediately.

He looked at Roscoe.

Then at you.

"No."

"No?"

"He waits by the door for me." Happy stepped closer. "But he watches the hallway every time you go to the bathroom."

Your smile softened.

"He cries when you leave."

You looked down.

"I didn't know that."

"I did."

Because of course he had.

He noticed everything.

Your physical therapist insisted you begin taking short walks again after several weeks.

You were excited.

Until you actually tried.

Your hip protested almost immediately.

Every step felt uncertain.

Roscoe, thrilled beyond belief to have you holding his leash again, forgot every ounce of his training and surged toward a squirrel.

The leash jerked.

Your balance disappeared.

Before gravity could finish the job, a broad hand caught your elbow while another wrapped firmly around your waist.

Happy.

"I've got you."

Your heartbeat refused to slow.

"I almost had it."

"No."

"I would've—"

"No."

His voice wasn't harsh.

Just certain.

He carefully took the leash from your hand without making you feel incapable.

"You heal."

"I hate feeling helpless."

"I know."

"I feel useless."

"You aren't."

"I can't even walk my own dog."

Happy looked down at Roscoe, who had immediately decided lying in the grass was more interesting than squirrels after all.

Then he looked back at you.

"I never minded."

"You've been walking him for almost six weeks."

"I know."

"I keep meaning to thank you properly."

"You don't have to."

"I do."

"No."

His thumb brushed against your side almost absentmindedly as he steadied you.

"I get to see him."

You smiled.

His eyes met yours.

"And I get to see you."

The words were so simple.

So completely unembellished.

Yet somehow they knocked every coherent thought out of your head.

"You... like coming over that much?"

He frowned as though the answer should have been obvious.

"I like coming home."

You stared at him.

"...Home?"

He glanced toward your little house, where Roscoe had somehow managed to roll onto his back and was now refusing to move unless someone rubbed his stomach.

Happy looked back at you.

"You."

It was the longest declaration of love he had ever made.

No dramatic speeches.

No grand gestures.

Just one word that somehow contained everything.

You.

The woman he'd started making coffee for without asking. The woman whose medication alarms he knew by heart. The woman whose dog now greeted him like family. The woman whose house had quietly become the place he measured every ride back to.

Your eyes filled before you could stop them.

"You absolute idiot."

His brow lifted.

"Yeah."

"You couldn't have said that sooner?"

"I thought I was."

"You thought walking my dog was confessing your feelings?"

"It seemed obvious."

You laughed so hard your hip protested.

He immediately steadied you again.

"Careful."

"You are unbelievable."

"I know."

You leaned forward carefully, ignoring Roscoe's impatient bark from the grass, and kissed him.

Happy didn't hesitate for even a second.

His hand settled gently against your jaw while the other remained firmly around your waist, holding you as though he intended to spend the rest of his life making sure you never lost your balance again, and when you finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours with the smallest, rarest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Behind you, Roscoe barked loudly.

Happy sighed.

"He wants attention."

"He definitely does."

Happy walked over, scratched the basset hound's belly until Roscoe groaned dramatically with happiness, then looked back at you.

"You ready to go home?"

You smiled, realizing he wasn't asking about the walk anymore.

"Yeah."

You'd been around SAMCRO for years.

Long enough that nobody questioned your presence anymore.

Long enough that the clubhouse felt more like home than anywhere else.

Long enough that everyone knew Happy's unofficial rules regarding you.

Rule number one: Don't mess with her.

Rule number two: Refer to rule number one.

Rule number three: If you somehow forget rule number one, Happy will remind you.

Violently.

The rules existed for a reason.

Because Happy loved you with the frightening intensity of a man who had chosen someone as family and then committed himself completely.

It wasn't loud.

Happy wasn't the type to say things.

He wasn't sentimental. Didn't do hugs. Didn't give speeches. Didn't tell you he loved you.

Instead he made sure your car never ran out of gas. Made sure your apartment locks worked. Made sure nobody bothered you. Made sure there was always somebody available if you needed help. Made sure you got home safely.

Made sure the world knew you belonged to him.

Not as property. Not as possession.

As family.

The distinction mattered.

Especially to Happy.

And everybody understood it.

Including Tig.

Unfortunately.

The problem wasn't that you were beautiful.

You were.

Everybody knew that.

But Tig had spent enough time around beautiful women that beauty alone wasn't enough to make him lose his mind.

No.

The problem was everything else. The way you laughed. The way you teased him. The way you rolled your eyes whenever he said something ridiculous. The way you never seemed bothered by his weirdness.

Most people found Tig overwhelming.

Understandably.

He was loud. Chaotic. Occasionally terrifying. Frequently inappropriate. And operated with the impulse control of an unsupervised raccoon on cocaine.

You somehow treated all of that like it was normal.

Like he was normal.

Which was arguably more dangerous than anything else.

Because Tig Trager could survive a gunfight. He could survive prison. He could survive club wars.

But being looked at with genuine affection? That man never stood a chance.

"You got that look again."

Tig looked up from his beer.

Across the table, Juice was grinning.

Jax was already trying not to laugh.

Tig immediately knew this conversation was going to ruin his day.

"What look?"

"The look."

"What look?"

Juice leaned forward.

"The one where you're staring at her like a Victorian woman whose husband went to war."

Jax choked on his drink.

Tig glared.

"Shut up."

Unfortunately, that only made them worse.

Because Jax immediately turned toward Juice.

"You know, you're right."

"I know."

"He really does look like he's writing poetry."

"I know."

"I hate both of you."

Juice pointed across the room.

"Look at him."

Jax actually looked.

Then burst out laughing.

Because unfortunately for Tig, they weren't wrong.

You were standing near the bar talking to Chibs.

And Tig was staring.

Hopelessly.

Pathetically.

Like a man witnessing a religious experience.

The thing was, Tig genuinely tried not to.

He really did.

But every time you walked into a room his brain completely stopped functioning.

Nobody should've been allowed to have that much power.

It wasn't fair.

He was a grown man. A dangerous man. A violent man. And yet somehow one smile from you reduced him to absolute nonsense.

Which was why Jax and Juice spent most of their free time making fun of him.

For sport. For entertainment. For enrichment.

Like zoo visitors observing an endangered species.

"Have you told her?"

Juice asked.

"No."

"Why?"

Tig stared at him.

Then slowly turned his head toward the opposite side of the room.

Where Happy sat cleaning a knife.

A very large knife.

While staring into space.

Juice nodded.

"Fair point."

Happy wasn't stupid.

Contrary to popular belief.

Actually, Happy noticed almost everything.

Especially when it involved you.

Which was unfortunate.

Because Tig had all the subtlety of a fireworks factory explosion.

Happy started noticing things.

The way Tig always sat beside you. The way he always volunteered for jobs if you were involved. The way he somehow appeared whenever you needed help. The way he looked at you. The way you smiled at him. The way Tig became significantly less homicidal whenever you were around.

That last one was particularly suspicious.

One afternoon Happy finally cornered Jax.

"What's wrong with Tig?"

Jax nearly swallowed his cigarette.

"What?"

"Tig."

Happy pointed.

"Tig."

Across the yard, Tig was helping you carry boxes. Looking entirely too happy about it.

Happy narrowed his eyes.

"He's weird."

Jax looked at Juice.

Juice looked at Jax.

Both immediately started laughing.

Which told Happy absolutely everything.

When Happy figured it out, the resulting silence lasted three full minutes.

Nobody moved.

Nobody spoke.

Nobody breathed.

Happy simply sat there.

Thinking.

Processing.

Evaluating.

Meanwhile Jax and Juice watched like children witnessing a natural disaster.

Finally Happy looked up.

"He's in love with her."

Not a question.

A statement.

Juice lost the battle against laughter entirely.

Jax wasn't far behind.

Happy looked offended.

Deeply offended.

As if Tig had committed some kind of personal crime.

"Why?"

That only made them laugh harder.

The terrifying thing was that Happy never actually confronted Tig.

Not immediately.

Instead he started watching him.

Which was somehow worse.

Much worse.

Because Tig eventually noticed.

And once Tig noticed, he began noticing Happy noticing.

Which created a deeply uncomfortable situation where both men kept staring at each other across rooms.

Like two predators attempting psychological warfare.

The rest of the club found it hilarious.

You remained blissfully unaware.

Then came the night everything exploded.

As these things usually did.

The clubhouse was crowded. Music loud. Beer flowing. People everywhere.

You were sitting between Tig and Juice at one of the tables. Laughing about something.

Tig honestly wasn't paying attention to the conversation anymore.

He was too busy being distracted by you.

Again.

Then somebody from outside approached. A stranger. Drunk. Arrogant. The type of man who mistook confidence for charm.

He slid a hand onto your shoulder.

You immediately stiffened.

Tig noticed.

Happy noticed.

And unfortunately for the stranger, both reactions happened at exactly the same time.

The man never stood a chance.

One second he was smiling.

The next second Tig was on his feet. Chair crashing backward.

Meanwhile Happy was already moving from the opposite side of the room. Like a shark sensing blood.

The stranger looked confused.

Then concerned.

Then terrified.

Because suddenly two extremely dangerous men were heading directly toward him.

Fast.

Very fast.

"Oh, this is gonna be good," Juice whispered.

Jax grabbed a beer.

"Front row seats."

Neither made any effort whatsoever to help.

"What are you doing?"

Tig's voice was low.

Dangerously low.

The stranger removed his hand.

Slowly.

"Talking to her."

"No."

Happy arrived beside them.

Expression blank.

Which was significantly scarier than anger.

"No, you weren't."

The man swallowed.

Hard.

Unfortunately he doubled down.

"I'm just being friendly."

Tig laughed.

A completely unhinged sound. The kind of laugh that made sensible people leave immediately.

The stranger did not leave. Because he was stupid.

A fatal condition around SAMCRO.

"What was funny?" the man asked.

Tig smiled. The expression belonged in a horror movie.

Happy looked almost bored.

Which somehow made everything worse.

The stranger looked between them.

Finally realizing he may have made a serious error. A very serious error.

And somewhere behind them, Juice was taking bets on who would hit him first.

Jax bet on Tig.

Juice bet on Happy.

Neither lost.

Because both happened at once.

And that was only the beginning of the story.

By the end of the night, with blood on the floor, Happy issuing death threats terrifying enough to silence an entire room, Tig discovering that you were apparently just as gone for him as he was for you, and Jax and Juice nearly dying from laughter while witnessing the entire disaster unfold, one thing became abundantly clear:

God help Tig Trager.

Because falling in love with you was only the first challenge.

Surviving Happy Lowman afterward was going to be the real test.

It takes less than fifteen minutes for your usual routine to disappear, and you begin understanding Giles’s grumpy disposition every time Buffy enters the school library. When your arrived at the library this morning for work, you didn’t expect the library to become a crime scene. Even as the called the police, you worried about what they might do to the sacred space. If only you could channel your favourite Agatha Christie character or amateur sleuth and solve this yourself.

“Hi, I’m Detective Juliet O’Hara,” a woman in a pantsuit says, smiling from the other side of the desk.

You glance at the time on your computer and nod slowly. “I thought response times were worse than this.”

“Not when the crime is committed in a government-funded building,” her partner interjects. “I have officers speaking to everyone else who was in the library at the time of your 911 call, and they’ll be free to leave soon.”

“What happened?” you inquire.

“Quick, Gus, what’s your favourite book?” a man asks as he enters the library.

Detective Lassiter sighs at his arrival. Detective O’Hara calls, “Shawn!” and beckons him over. “This is Shawn Spencer; he’s a psychic consultant for the SBPD.”

Shawn smiles at you, offering his hand as he repeats, “Shawn. I’ve been told I’m better than any book boyfriend.”

You shake his hand even as you argue, “There is no way anyone has ever said that to you or any other flesh and blood man.”

Lassiter snorts, then turns away from the desk to direct the officers just arriving.

“Well, how many of those book boyfriends have solved over fifty crimes without a badge?”

“That is impressive,” you admit. “Unfortunately, I don’t believe in psychics.”

Shawn’s smile drops as his brows draw together. He tips his head to the side and questions, “Then why can I see us going on a date later?”

Your lips quirk up at that, and Shawn smiles like he won some kind of prize. He tells you that he’ll be back later, then asks Juliet to show him what she’s seen so far. You’re left alone with Gus at the desk, both watching as Shawn stops every few steps to see if you’re still looking at him.

“This is hard to watch,” Gus murmurs.

“Well, what is your favourite book, Gus?” you inquire.

“How mad will you be if I say I don’t know?”

“Not mad. Just disappointed.”

“That’s much, much worse.”

Shawn Spencer is very obviously trying to impress you as he works the case. He lifts a finger to his head and announces he knows how the victim got to the library, watching you as he launches into fantastical details of his so-called ‘vision.’ Later, he stands on a table to declare someone lied on their witness statement. Eventually, he decides that the location has little to do with the crime. Each time he discovers or ‘divines’ something, you become the sole object of his attention.

“I’m still not convinced you’re a psychic,” you mutter when he returns to your desk.

Smiling, Shawn leans over your desk and whispers, “But I have your attention.”

“Are people often able to ignore you?” you wonder.

“I care less about if they’re able to and more about if they do,” he confesses.

“Then why are you so interested in whether I pay attention to you?”

“I already told you, sweetheart,” he flirts, “I can see a future between us. In fact, I can see lots between us.”

“Spencer!” Lassiter barks. “Your hunch—”

“Divination,” Shawn corrects.

“Shut up and let me finish,” Lassie replies. “Seems you were right about the vic not driving here.”

“How’d he get here then? The closest bus stop is two miles away and there isn’t a bus that runs that early,” you muse.

Shawn looks at you, his eyes narrowing as he thinks. “What’s he a victim of?” he whispers.

“Battery and theft, apparently,” you reply, though it seems he should already know that.

Shawn pushes off your desk and mumbles, “Unless there's more.”

“Hi,” Shawn greets, setting his chin on his crossed arms atop your desk. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” you respond, focused on the paperwork you’re completing, since there are no patrons to serve. “You?”

“Do you have a favourite book?”

“Of course I do. A couple, actually.”

“Okay.” Shawn nods, then asks, “Suggest a random book, please?”

“Why?”

“You’re making this hard, my love.”

“And you’re laying it on thick.”

“Shawn,” Gus calls as he approaches the desk. He pauses to look at you and say, “Hello.”

“Hi, Gus,” you answer.

“Shawn, if you know what happened, you should tell them. Lassie’s getting antsy.”

Shawn groans, then glances at you to ensure you’re still watching him.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Shawn yells, drawing the attention of everyone in the library. “And the esteemed K9 Officer Hercules, of course. I can see the victim arriving at the library, but not this morning! No, he came last night, arriving just after closing. He spent the night under the cover of the patio, then wandered through the park before sunrise so no one would know he had trespassed.”

“Why?” Juliet interjects.

“He had to be here at a specific time this morning,” Shawn continues, “but not for books or the state-of-the-art computer library!”

“State-of-the-art is incredibly generous,” you whisper to Gus, temporarily distracting Shawn from solving the case.

“Your suspect had a meeting with the victim to purchase illegal goods. Selling items with no car is hard, but public transportation remains a reliable enough mode of transportation,” Shawn concludes. “So, if you look through the victim’s phone, you’ll find a name of someone he was supposed to meet.”

The officer logging the evidence taps the phone’s screen through the plastic bag it’s secured in several times, then reads, “Bela Darla.”

“The kid from Nemo beat that big guy up?” Gus jokes.

“Her first name was Darla,” you remind him.

“No, it’s an anagram,” Shawn realizes. He stares at the closest shelf briefly, then suggests, “Abel Adlar.”

“He’s been arrested a few times,” one of the uniformed officers says. “Last time was about six months ago for agg assault. Before that, mal mish.”

“Put out an APB,” Lassiter instructs. “I’ll work on a warrant.”

“Well done, Shawn,” Juliet applauds.

Shawn takes a dramatic bow, then walks to your desk. “Would you like to get dinner with me?” he asks.

Lassiter approaches behind him and rolls his eyes.

“I’ll have to ask my husband,” you hum, moving a book rather than looking at him.

Lassie’s eyes widen comically as he looks from Shawn to you and back at Shawn.

“I sense I know what he’ll say,” Shawn continues lowly. “So, are you in?”

Lassie swallows, looking as if he’s about to pass out. You roll your eyes and finally look at Shawn.

“Knock it off, Shawn,” you say. “Someone is going to think we’re actually cheating on each other.”

 “On- on each other?!” Lassiter exclaims.

Shawn doesn’t look away from you to brag, “Oh, yeah, we’re married.”

“He doesn’t always act like it,” you add, rounding the desk.

Shawn smiles and wraps an arm around you, glancing at Lassie to check, “I didn’t mention she’s my wife?”

“No!” Lassie yells. “You left that out!”

“Why do you care?” Gus wonders.

“Because I thought Shawn was harassing an innocent civilian and I’d have to deal with it.”

“Wait, so does that mean I’m no longer an innocent civilian?” you inquire.

Lassie gestures between you and Shawn and explains, “You chose him, so… no.”

“Detective Lassiter?” you call before he steps back. “Thanks for working the case.”

“Yeah, sure,” he mumbles as he turns.

“So, will you go to dinner with me?” Shawn asks before brushing his lips against your cheek.

“Gus said he’d buy me dinner. Maybe next time?” you answer innocently.

“Fine, we can get Mexican with Gus,” Shawn sighs.

“I didn’t invite you,” Gus jokes as you walk toward the door. “And I never said Mexican food.”

“But you were thinking it,” Shawn says, tapping his temple.

“You’re not a psychic,” you remind him.

“I… I was thinking Mexican,” Gus admits.

“Behold my power!” Shawn declares.

“We’re beholding,” you assure him. “Now get in the car so we can eat.”

Shawn Spencer Taglist🏷️ @itzpixiebabe @localpanicattack @greygatorgaygator @book-nerd-fan-girl @freeforalways @redpool @lortheswiftie

The clubhouse was loud that night.

Music blaring.

Bikers yelling over poker games.

Half-drunk croweaters laughing too loud near the bar.

Happy sat at the table in the corner cleaning one of his guns while Tig and Kozik argued over something pointless nearby.

It was normal chaos.

Until the front doors burst open hard enough to rattle the walls.

Everyone looked up instinctively.

You stumbled inside.

Pale.

Breathing hard.

Terrified.

Not upset.

Not startled.

Terrified.

Happy knew the difference immediately.

Your eyes darted frantically around the room before landing on him.

And then—

You ran to him.

Actually ran.

Happy barely had time to stand before you crashed into him hard enough to knock his chair backward.

Your arms wrapped around his middle desperately.

Your face buried against his chest.

The entire clubhouse went dead silent.

Happy froze.

Every muscle in his body locked instantly.

Because you’d never touched him like this before.

Never.

You joked with him.

Sat near him.

Talked to him more than most people dared.

But this—

This was different.

This was instinct.

Fear.

Need.

Your entire body was shaking.

“Hey,” Happy said automatically, startled by how rough his voice sounded.

You made a small, broken sound against his chest that twisted something vicious inside him.

Without thinking, Happy’s arms came around you.

One wrapped tightly around your waist.

The other pressed protectively against the back of your head.

Covering you.

Shielding you.

Like his body moved before his brain caught up.

“It’s okay,” he muttered roughly.

Which was ridiculous because he had no idea what happened.

But you were trembling so hard he could feel it through your ribs.

“Hey. Hey.” His hand tightened gently against your hair. “Look at me.”

You couldn’t.

You just clung harder.

Happy’s jaw flexed sharply.

Rage started building immediately.

Cold and violent.

Because somebody had done this.

Somebody had scared you badly enough to send you running into a room full of killers looking for safety.

And somehow—

Somehow—

you’d chosen him.

“Who?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head against his chest.

Couldn’t speak.

Happy looked over your head immediately.

The room had gone eerily still.

Jax was already standing.

Chibs looked deadly serious.

Even Tig had lost the usual humor in his face.

Happy adjusted his hold on you carefully.

Painfully carefully.

Like you were something fragile despite the violence simmering under his skin.

“Take a breath,” he murmured.

Your fingers clenched tighter in the back of his shirt.

Happy glanced down finally.

Really looked at you.

Your eyes were wet.

Terrified.

And Christ.

Happy had seen bloodier things than nightmares.

Had done bloodier things himself.

But seeing you look genuinely afraid hit him harder than violence ever had.

“It’s okay,” he repeated softly.

The softness startled everybody.

Including him.

You finally managed a shaky breath.

“There was a man—”

Happy went still.

“He followed me,” you whispered. “From the grocery store.”

The room temperature seemed to drop instantly.

Your voice cracked.

“I thought I lost him but then he grabbed me outside my apartment and—”

Happy’s arms locked around you tighter immediately.

Not enough to hurt.

Just enough to anchor.

Rage exploded white-hot behind his ribs.

“Did he hurt you?”

You shook your head quickly.

“No, I got away. I just—I didn’t know where else to go—”

Happy’s expression changed.

Tiny shift.

But devastating.

Because you came here.

To him.

Out of every possible place in Charming, your terrified brain had decided Happy Lowman meant safety.

Not danger.

Safety.

Something ugly and protective twisted violently in his chest.

You finally looked up at him then.

Eyes red.

Face pressed close enough he could feel your breath through his shirt.

And Happy—

Happy melted.

Nobody would’ve called it that.

Not looking at him.

Not with the tattoos and scars and death in his eyes.

But something in him softened instantly around you.

His hand cradled the back of your head more securely.

“You did good,” he said quietly.

Your face crumpled unexpectedly at that.

Like nobody had said the right thing yet.

Tears spilled harder.

Happy visibly panicked.

“Hey.”

You buried your face back into his chest immediately, shaking.

And Happy—

Jesus Christ.

Happy Lowman, who had stabbed men without blinking, looked completely overwhelmed by your tears.

His eyes darted around the room like someone else might know what to do.

Tig made a tiny motion with his hand.

Comfort her, dumbass.

Right.

Happy swallowed hard.

Then lowered his head slightly toward yours.

“It’s alright,” he murmured again, softer now. “Ain’t gonna let anybody touch you.”

You made another shaky sound.

Happy’s hand moved slowly against your hair.

Awkward.

Careful.

Like he was trying not to break you.

And maybe the strangest part was how natural it felt after the first second.

Holding you.

Protecting you.

Keeping you tucked against him while your fear slowly eased.

Like something deep in him had already decided you belonged there.

The clubhouse stayed silent around you.

Mostly because nobody had ever seen Happy like this before.

Gentle.

Patient.

He looked like a wolf trying to hold a wounded bird without crushing it.

Jax finally spoke quietly.

“You know what the guy looked like?”

Your body tensed again immediately.

Happy felt it.

Saw it.

And instantly tightened his hold.

“Nah,” he said flatly without looking away from you. “Not now.”

Jax paused.

Then nodded once.

Because Happy’s tone made it very clear:

This came first.

You came first.

The room slowly resumed movement after that.

Quietly.

Respectfully.

But Happy stayed exactly where he was.

Holding you against his chest while your breathing gradually steadied.

Minutes passed.

Maybe longer.

Eventually, your grip loosened slightly.

Embarrassment started creeping in around the edges now that the panic faded.

You pulled back just enough to wipe your face quickly.

“Sorry,” you mumbled hoarsely.

Happy frowned instantly.

“For what?”

You laughed weakly.

“I basically tackled you.”

“So?”

The answer came so automatically it stunned both of you.

You stared at him.

Happy looked mildly confused by your confusion.

Like he genuinely didn’t understand why this was a problem.

You swallowed hard.

“You don’t really… do this.”

“Do what?”

“This.” You gestured vaguely between your bodies. “Comforting people.”

Happy looked down at you for a long moment.

Then his thumb brushed lightly near your temple, wiping away leftover tears before he even seemed to realize he was doing it.

“Ain’t people,” he muttered.

Your breath caught.

The words hit him about half a second later.

Happy froze.

The room went suspiciously quiet again because apparently everyone heard that.

Tig’s eyes widened dramatically.

Chibs looked delighted.

Happy ignored them completely.

Because you were still looking at him like that.

Soft.

Safe.

Trusting him with parts of yourself most people never got close enough to see.

And Happy realized something ugly and undeniable in that moment:

If that man had actually hurt you—

Really hurt you—

they would never find enough of him left to bury.

The violence of the thought should’ve bothered him.

Instead, all he felt was relief that you were here.

Alive.

In his arms.

You shifted slightly, finally realizing you were still pressed fully against his chest.

But before you could step away, Happy’s hand tightened reflexively against the back of your head.

Not forcing.

Just… keeping you there another second.

His eyes dropped to yours.

“You stayin’ here tonight.”

It wasn’t really a question.

You blinked.

“I don’t wanna inconvenience—”

“You ain’t.”

The firmness in his voice shut that down immediately.

Then quieter:

“You’re safe here.”

Something warm and aching spread through your chest.

Because you believed him instantly.

Happy glanced toward the clubhouse doors again, jaw tight with leftover rage.

Then back at you.

And for the first time since you’d known him, the terrifying brutality everyone feared about Happy Lowman became something else entirely.

Not frightening.

Protective.

His violence curled around you instead of toward you.

A wall between you and anything cruel enough to make you cry.

You looked at him for a long moment.

Then slowly rested your forehead back against his chest.

Happy’s entire body relaxed.

Just a little.

His chin dipped briefly against the top of your head while his arms settled around you more securely.

And this time when he spoke, his voice was low enough only you could hear it.

“Got you.”

Happy did not sleep that night.

Not really.

He stayed awake on the clubhouse couch while you slept in the room down the hall Gemma had practically forced on you.

The lights stayed low.

The TV muttered quietly in the background.

Most of the club eventually drifted off or disappeared into other rooms, but Happy stayed exactly where he was.

Watching the door.

Knife turning slowly between his fingers.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you bursting through the clubhouse doors again.

Terrified.

Shaking.

Running straight into him like your body already knew he’d protect you.

Something vicious settled deep in his chest at the memory.

Protective in a way he didn’t entirely know what to do with.

By morning, the rage had sharpened into focus.

Happy wanted a name.

You woke up embarrassed.

That was the first problem.

Happy knew it immediately from the way you avoided eye contact over breakfast.

You stayed close to him physically—always within arm’s reach—but now there was self-consciousness wrapped around your movements.

Like you regretted last night.

Happy hated it instantly.

“You eat yet?”

You glanced up from your coffee.

“Hm?”

“Food.”

“Oh. Uh. Not really.”

Happy shoved his plate toward you.

You blinked.

“You don’t have to—”

“Eat.”

You stared at him for a second before quietly taking the plate.

Happy watched until you took the first bite.

Only then did he relax slightly.

Gemma noticed from across the room immediately.

Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

Interesting.

You looked up suddenly.

“I should probably go home and grab some clothes.”

“No.”

The answer came so fast you startled.

Happy leaned back against the counter, jaw tight.

“Not alone.”

“I’ll be fine during the day—”

“No.”

There it was again.

That dangerous edge under his voice.

Not angry at you.

Just furious underneath.

You looked at him carefully then.

Really looked at him.

At the exhaustion under his eyes. At the tension in his shoulders. At the way his attention never fully left you even for a second.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

“Happy…”

He looked away first.

“Jax is workin’ on findin’ him.”

That got your attention immediately.

“What?”

“You gave enough description.”

Happy rolled his shoulders slowly.

“Guys are askin’ around.”

Something dark flickered behind his eyes.

“If he’s local, we’ll find him.”

The certainty in his voice should’ve scared you.

Instead, it made you feel safer.

Which maybe said something concerning about you at this point.

It took less than two days.

SAMCRO had roots everywhere.

Bartenders talked.

Dealers talked.

Mechanics talked.

And creeps who grabbed women outside apartment buildings apparently talked too.

Happy got the call while you sat beside him outside the garage drinking a soda.

He answered quietly.

Listened.

Went still.

You noticed immediately.

“What?”

Happy hung up slowly.

His face became unreadable in that terrifying way it sometimes did.

The calm before violence.

“We found him.”

Your stomach dropped.

You set your drink down carefully.

“Oh.”

Happy looked at you then.

Really looked.

And the fury in his expression softened instantly at whatever he saw on your face.

“You stay here.”

You swallowed hard.

“What are you gonna do?”

Silence.

That was worse.

“Happy.”

His jaw flexed.

“He scared you.”

The simplicity of the statement sent a chill through you.

Like in Happy’s mind, that alone justified whatever came next.

You stood quickly.

“Don’t kill him.”

Happy’s eyes lifted to yours.

Cold.

Violent.

Protective.

“You askin’ me not to?”

You stepped closer before you could think better of it.

Happy went still automatically.

“You don’t need to do something awful for me.”

Something changed in his face then.

Small.

Sharp.

Almost offended.

He stepped toward you slowly until there was barely space left between your bodies.

“You think this is for you?”

Your breath caught.

Happy looked down at you with an intensity that made your pulse stutter.

“This is for me.”

The words landed heavy.

Possessive.

Honest.

Because somewhere along the line, your fear had become his too.

Your safety had rooted itself inside his ribs like instinct.

Happy reached up slowly.

Like he was giving you time to pull away.

His rough knuckles brushed gently against your cheek.

“You came to me scared,” he said quietly. “Ain’t nobody gonna think they can do that shit again.”

Your heart slammed painfully against your ribs.

Nobody had ever looked at you the way Happy was looking at you now.

Like protecting you was something sacred.

Like hurting you was unforgivable.

You covered his wrist lightly with your hand.

“Please be careful.”

Happy’s expression shifted immediately.

Softer.

God, it was dangerous when he looked soft.

Because it felt earned.

Rare.

Only for you.

“I always am.”

You both knew that was a lie.

The man’s name was Curtis Bell.

Mid-thirties.

Local drunk.

History of harassment complaints that never went anywhere because Charming had always been better at ignoring women than protecting them.

Happy found him behind a run-down bar just outside town.

The guy recognized immediately that he’d made a catastrophic mistake.

Especially when Happy approached wearing his kutte.

No smile.

No hurry.

Just death walking steadily closer.

Curtis backed up instinctively.

“Hey, man, I didn’t do nothin’—”

Happy punched him hard enough to drop him instantly.

The sound echoed sickeningly through the alley.

Curtis gasped, clutching his bleeding mouth.

Happy crouched slowly in front of him.

Calm.

Terrifyingly calm.

“You touched her.”

“I didn’t—”

Happy grabbed him by the throat and slammed his head against the brick wall.

Once.

Hard.

“You scared her.”

Curtis whimpered.

Happy felt absolutely nothing.

No guilt.

No hesitation.

Only rage.

Because he kept seeing your tear-streaked face buried against his chest.

Kept hearing your shaky breathing.

Happy leaned closer.

And quietly—almost conversationally—said:

“You ever look at her again…”

Curtis started crying immediately.

Actual tears.

Begging.

Happy’s expression never changed.

“They won’t find your body.”

The certainty in his voice broke something in the man completely.

Good.

Happy released him roughly.

Curtis collapsed coughing onto the pavement.

Then Happy stood.

Looked down at him one last time.

And realized something deeply inconvenient.

The violence hadn’t satisfied him.

Not fully.

Because what he’d really wanted—

What had actually been clawing at him for two straight days—

was you.

Your safety.

Your trust.

The feeling of you clinging to him.

Like he was home.

That realization followed him all the way back to the clubhouse.

You were sitting outside when his bike pulled in.

Waiting.

The second you saw him, you stood quickly.

Happy killed the engine.

For one moment neither of you moved.

Then you walked toward him fast enough that his chest tightened instinctively.

“You okay?”

The question hit him strangely hard.

Not “did you do it.”

Not “what happened.”

You okay?

Happy stared at you for a long second before nodding once.

“He won’t bother you again.”

Relief washed across your face so visibly it almost hurt to look at.

“Okay.”

That was it.

Just okay.

Because you trusted him.

Completely.

Happy got off the bike slowly.

You stayed close while he pulled off his gloves.

Your eyes caught on the blood across his knuckles immediately.

Tiny cuts.

Split skin.

Your face tightened.

“Happy…”

“Ain’t mine.”

You exhaled shakily.

Then, before he could process it, you reached for his hand carefully.

Happy froze.

Your fingers wrapped around his wrist gently as you inspected the bruising across his knuckles.

Such a small touch.

But it hit harder than violence ever did.

“You should clean these.”

Happy couldn’t stop staring at you.

At the softness in your expression. At the concern. At the way you held his hand like it wasn’t attached to someone dangerous.

You looked up suddenly and caught him staring.

The air shifted instantly.

Heavy.

Close.

Happy stepped toward you slowly.

Your breath caught.

“You ain’t scared of me,” he said quietly.

Not a question.

You frowned softly.

“Should I be?”

Probably.

But Happy found he didn’t want that.

Not from you.

Never from you.

He lifted one hand carefully.

Slower than a man like him had probably ever moved.

Giving you every chance to pull away.

Instead, you leaned into the touch immediately when his palm settled against your jaw.

Happy exhaled roughly.

Like that tiny movement undid him.

“You ran to me,” he murmured.

Your eyes searched his.

“I knew you’d protect me.”

That did it.

Completely.

Something fierce and aching cracked open inside his chest.

Happy lowered his forehead against yours carefully.

Like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

“You got no idea what that did to me.”

Your hands slid slowly up his chest, gripping the front of his kutte lightly.

And when you kissed him—

Soft.

Tentative.

Warm—

Happy made a low sound in his throat that almost sounded pained.

Then his arms wrapped around you fully.

Secure.

Certain.

One hand cradling the back of your head exactly the same way it had the night you came running to him terrified.

Only now he kissed you like he’d been holding it back for far too long.

Deep.

Intense.

Every ounce of restrained feeling finally surfacing all at once.

And when he finally pulled back, breathing rough, his thumb brushed beneath your eye gently.

“Mine now,” he muttered before he could stop himself.

You blinked once.

Then smiled softly enough to ruin him forever.

You were extremely frustrated with him right now. How could he not see that the marriage was a sham, he was only going to end up hurt.

"y-youre just jealous!" He stutters, trying to his the hurt in his voice by yelling something equally as hurtful back. "Jealous that no guy has ever shown any interest in you!"

You open your mouth to speak but nothing comes out. You stand there silently for a few more seconds before leaving.

That was the last time you'd spoken to him.

***

This morning the house phone had rung. Your mum called you downstairs. "Phone for you!" She'd shouted up the stairs.

"hello?" You say picking it up and holding it to your ear.

"hey i-" Reese. You were still annoyed at him so cut him off.

"what."

"I'm getting married. Today."

"are you trying to piss me off?"

"no, no, I- I just wondered if you'd come."

"are you serious? Reese you havent even apologized for our fight. Actually you haven't spoken to me since our fight which, by the way, was about your marriage and now, now you want me to come to your wedding?!"

"I just wanted my best friend to be there for my big day.." he says less fight in his tone.

If you weren't already annoyed, that might've made you feel bad. "Reese! She doesn't love you! I'm sorry to be the one that says it but she doesn't. I've met her once! One time and I can see it why can't you?"

"oh so you're still jealous?"

You hang up on him. You feel guilty but the frustration you also feel overpowers it.

***

You hadn't spoken to Reese in weeks. However, you'd heard through the grapevine that his wife had cheated on him.

You should feel smug, able to say I told you so but you can't. No matter how much you want to bask in being right, you can't.

Despite your sympathy for him, you don't speak to him about it. You feel if you did you'd only make him feel worse. So you stay away.

Was that the best decision? Possibly, possibly not. Reese was struggling, you saw him almost everyday and it broke your heart. You knew he needed someone right now but you didn't think that It should be you.

***

Only a few days after this, you're walking around school and see photos of Reese opening the door to a pig. The look on his face made your chest tighten as if you could cry for him.

That made you think.

Enough was enough. You were done fighting with him now. You were going to step up and be there for him again instead of just another issue for him.

***

That very night you went and knocked on the Wilkerson's door. Dewey answered it slightly surprised to see you but welcoming nevertheless.

"Reese is in our room"

"thanks Dewey."

Youd been there more than enough times to know which room was theirs. You lightly knock at the door before pushing it open to reveal a Reese shaped lump of blankets on his bed.

"Reese?" You say gently. "Reese it's me.."

At that he looks up. He knew that voice, your voice.

At first he looks happy to see you but he quickly covers that with annoyance upon remembering the fight. "What do you want?"

"to check that you're ok."

"I'm fine. Now go away."

"reese-"

"you were right! Is that what you wanted?"

"no i-"

"she didn't love me. Nobody does! Happy?"

"that's not true, you know it's not."

"really? Cause it seems like it is. First I get cheated on then I get a date with a pig. A pig! That's not love."

"Reese I love you." You blurt out, eyes widening after you realise what you'd just said.

"you mean it?" He asks looking up at you.

"I- I" you stutter still not quite believing what you'd just said.

"oh.. you don't.."

"no, no I meant it. I swear. I just.. didn't mean to tell you."

"what?"

"I've loved you for a long time I just didn't want to tell you and risk losing our friendship.." you admit.

"i.. love you too. It's always been you. Even when I was with others, it was only to distract myself from you. You were right I didn't love raduca I loved you."

"w.. what do we do now..?"

He pulls the corner of his quilt up and pats the space next to him. You lay next to him and stroke his hair as he rests his head on your shoulder. You're both half asleep, eachothers presence making it peaceful enough to do so.

"you wanna be my girlfriend?" He asks quietly.

"yes" you answer before your eyes close.

Banner by strangergraphics

Thank you again for the request. I'm sorry it took so long to get to the fluff but it's definitely there.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ˚₊

you and reese had been best friends for as long as you could remember. you two initially bonded over your chaotic natures and love for getting dirty. 

you didn’t mind going home with dirt stains on your jeans and mud in your hair. as long as you were with reese, you couldn’t care less. all you cared about was the next prank or thrill. 

before your junior year of high school however, you went overseas to europe. your parents took you on a trip they had secured through their jobs. a whole summer without reese sucked, but you toured the likes of italy, spain, and other countries you’ve always wanted to visit. 

while away, you upgraded your wardrobe. you exchanged dingy jeans for skirts that barely reached your mid thigh. your ripped flannels turned into shirts made of nicer material in a color that complimented your skin tone perfectly. 

you were still the same rebellious teenager but with a nicer closet. 

when school started, you were initially nervous to wear your new outfits. you were so comfortable in your jeans and hoodies, you were scared people would stare.

and people did stare. people in this case meaning reese wilkerson. 

he stared at your legs, once covered with muddy pants but now exposed due to the frilly skirt you had on. your figure used to be hidden under oversized tops but was now on full display thanks to the tight fitting clothes you had bought. 

reese couldn’t help but ogle. 

he was so used to seeing you with messy hair and clothes that he would find in his own closet. now, your hair was done, you had light makeup on your face, and the clothes you had on would look incredibly out of place in his house let alone his closet. 

“are we still on for tomorrow?” you asked while closing your locker, snapping reese out of whatever trance he was in. 

“huh? oh, yeah,” he stammered. he didn’t know what was wrong with him. you were always a beautiful girl, but he never noticed. he was always too busy planning his next prank to pull on you. 

“awesome,” you responded with a smile. with your bag slung over your shoulder, you started to walk to the school parking lot. crowds of people littered the hallway, and reese struggled to keep up with you. 

you dumped your bag in the backseat of your car as reese climbed into the passenger seat. he was thankful your car was still the same. the car ride home was silent, the only sound was the music playing softly from the radio. 

you dropped reese off at his house, waving him goodbye with a soft smile on your face. with tinted cheeks, he waved back before entering his house. 

he dreaded tomorrow. you guys just had plans to go to the mall like you usually did. it was your chance to scout out any new victims and stock up on anything you two would need. reese had hoped your change in wardrobe was just for that day. 

but he was wrong. 

he pulled up in your driveway, honking loudly to alert his arrival. you walked out of the house wearing a cute dress. instead of your tote bag, you had a small purse. your lips shined in the sun due to the gloss you were wearing. 

reese couldn’t take his eyes off of you as you walked to his car. he noticed when you got inside that your nails were painted. he swallowed deeply before he greeted you. you gave him a smile, your signature smile, but it looked different.

reese was certain it was the gloss, but your smile looked prettier and more elegant than it usually did. 

your new look was doing things to his head. 

he turned up the radio to try and drown out his thoughts. it was the only sound in the car. you crossed your arms and sighed after about ten minutes of silence. reese had been deadset on looking at the road, not even glancing at you. 

“did i piss you off?” you asked. his grip on the wheel tightened. 

“no,” he responded. 

“then why are you acting so weird? you’ve been like this since i got back.”

“i’m not acting weird,” reese argued. you scoffed. 

“sure,” you said sarcastically. “that’s why you’ve been looking at me differently and ignoring me.”

“you just look different,” he mumbled. he finally glanced over at you. even when mad, you were stunning. your glossy lips were pouted and the sun reflected off your eyes in a way that made the color shine. 

“you look pretty,” he continued. reese felt his face get warm at his admission. your features softened at his words. 

“i mean, you’re always pretty. but lately, it’s been different. i don’t know,” he sighed. 

“i’m always pretty?” you asked, a soft smile on your face and a light pink dusting your cheeks. 

“don’t make it weird,” reese warned, giving you a stern look before he focused on the road again. 

with a newfound confidence, you leaned over the center console and gave him a kiss on the cheek, your lip gloss leaving a mark. and in a moment, the car was pulled over on the side of the road. 

“what was that for?” reese asked, cheeks red and eyebrows furrowed. he stared at you intently. you turned your body in the seat to face him head on. 

“i think you’re pretty too,” you responded with a teasing lilt. it was true, you always thought reese was cute. and being away from him for the entire summer made you realize that you liked the boy more than just a friend. 

like two magnets, you were both inching closer together. you were close enough to reese’s face that you could point out every freckle he had. 

“i’m not pretty,” he muttered. you leaned in even closer, feeling his breath against your face. 

“i think you are,” you whispered. you were the one to kiss him first, capturing his lips softly with yours. of course, he kissed you back. 

you kissed each other softly, like you were both scared of the line you were crossing. you could taste mint on reese’s lips, the same mint of his toothpaste. he gently cupped the side of your face and stroked his thumb across your cheek soothingly. 

when you pulled away, you couldn’t help but giggle. reese had your lip gloss all over his own lips, and he had a dazed smile.

“do you wanna ditch the mall?” he asked. his thumb still rubbed at your cheek, and his eyes were full of love. “the lucky aide parking lot is usually pretty empty, especially in the back.”

you bit your lip and nodded. 

reese finally let go of your face, putting the car back into drive and pulling into the road again. the entire way there, his hand rested on your thigh and your hand rested on top of his. the air felt a lot lighter than before, and you two were laughing with each other like you usually did. 

you knew the next few hours would be spent with your lips on his in the back parking lot of the store where his mom worked. anyone else wouldn’t find it romantic, not one bit. 

thankfully, you were different. no amount of girly clothes or lip gloss could change that. 

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ˚₊

Today, however, was going fine.

Actually...

Today was going suspiciously well.

Happy had nodded at you when you'd walked in.

He'd accepted one of your cinnamon rolls.

He'd even muttered, "Good."

Which, from Happy, was practically a standing ovation.

You should've known the universe was balancing the scales.

Because halfway through unloading pastries into the kitchen, Chibs called from somewhere down the hallway.

"Happy!"

A muffled response.

"Bathroom's flooded again."

Someone groaned.

"Bobby clogged it?"

"It wasn't me!"

Laughter erupted.

You weren't paying attention.

You were carefully arranging muffins into neat rows because presentation mattered, thank you very much, when Tig wandered into the kitchen wearing the expression of someone seconds away from causing problems.

"Hey, sweetheart."

"No."

"I didn't even say anything."

"You've got that face."

"What face?"

"The one that means I should leave."

He looked almost offended.

"I was just gonna tell you Happy's in the spare bathroom."

"...Okay?"

"Shower's working in there."

"...Okay?"

"He went to rinse off after fixing his bike."

"...Okay?"

He grinned.

"So if you need paper towels they're in the linen closet."

You blinked.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing."

Then he walked away laughing to himself.

You frowned after him.

"You're a weird man."

You genuinely thought nothing of it.

Until approximately five minutes later when Gemma shouted from somewhere downstairs.

"Sweetheart! Can you grab the clean towels from the hall closet?"

"Yep!"

You hurried upstairs.

Completely unsuspecting.

Entirely innocent.

Not a single survival instinct present.

The hallway was quiet compared to downstairs, music muted through old walls as you reached the linen closet, pulled open the door, stacked fresh towels into your arms...

...and immediately dropped half of them when another door opened.

Your head snapped toward the sound automatically.

Happy stepped out of the spare bathroom.

Fresh from the shower.

Shirtless.

Hair still damp.

Water glistening over black ink that covered broad shoulders and a chest you'd somehow never really appreciated before because Happy almost always wore layers, flannel over shirt, kutte over flannel, sleeves rolled down, and apparently your imagination had been criminally inadequate because absolutely nothing had prepared you for the reality standing six feet away from you with a towel slung carelessly around his neck, tattoos stretching across muscle earned through decades of violence and motorcycles and work, scars weaving between ink like stories written directly into his skin, droplets of water tracing slow paths downward before disappearing beneath the waistband of worn jeans that sat low on narrow hips, and every coherent thought your brain had ever possessed packed a tiny suitcase, wished you luck, and abandoned ship.

Happy noticed you.

You noticed Happy noticing you.

Time stopped.

Your brain made one final, desperate attempt at functioning.

Say hello.

Easy.

Normal.

Adult.

Instead—

Your eyes got impossibly wide.

Your mouth opened.

Closed.

Opened again.

You made a noise.

Not a word.

A noise.

Something between a squeak and the sound a tea kettle makes right before it explodes.

Happy's eyebrow lifted.

"...Sweets?"

You continued staring.

Absolutely frozen.

Because there were muscles.

So many muscles.

Good lord.

How did one human being—

He had—

His shoulders—

Was that another tattoo—

Dear God, his arms.

Happy tilted his head slightly.

"You alright?"

Your brain finally rebooted.

Unfortunately.

The first thought it produced was:

OH MY GOD HE'S LOOKING AT ME WHILE SHIRTLESS.

You panicked.

Utterly.

Catastrophically.

"Nope!"

The word burst out far louder than intended.

Happy blinked.

You pointed at absolutely nothing.

"I—"

Nothing.

"I have—"

No you didn't.

"I forgot—"

Forgot what?

"My... uh..."

Think.

Think!

"My... taxes!"

Happy stared.

"...Taxes."

"YES."

Silence.

"...It's June."

"I KNOW!"

You wanted the floor to swallow you whole.

Instead—

You spun around so quickly you smacked directly into the linen closet door.

"Ow!"

Recovered.

Barely.

Grabbed approximately three towels instead of the whole stack.

Then, in what would later be remembered by every witness as the least convincing escape attempt in recorded history—

You ran.

Actually ran.

Down the hallway.

Away from the shirtless man.

Away from your dignity.

Away from civilization itself.

Behind you—

There was a long pause.

Then Happy's voice.

"...Sweets."

You ran faster.

Downstairs, Juice looked up just in time to see you bolt through the clubhouse clutching three crooked towels against your chest with the expression of someone fleeing an active crime scene.

"...Everything okay?"

"PERFECT."

"You look like you're about to pass out."

"I AM NOT."

"You sure?"

"I HAVE TO GO."

"You... live thirty minutes away."

"I KNOW."

You dropped the towels and headed straight for the front door.

Behind you came slow, familiar footsteps.

Heavy boots.

Unhurried.

Steady.

Happy.

Tig spotted him immediately.

"...She's runnin'."

"I know."

"You gonna let her?"

"No."

Happy continued walking.

Not fast.

Didn't need to.

You'd barely made it halfway across the parking lot before you heard him.

"Sweets."

You accelerated.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

You could never look him in the eye again.

You'd squeaked.

You'd blamed taxes.

You'd fled.

You deserved exile.

Behind you—

Happy sighed.

Long-suffering.

Then—

"Sweets."

Closer now.

You risked one glance over your shoulder.

Big mistake.

He'd pulled on a black T-shirt.

Which honestly wasn't helping.

Because now you knew what was underneath it.

Your face somehow became even hotter.

"Oh my God..."

Happy watched realization dawn across your expression.

Then watched you turn and immediately speed-walk even faster.

His mouth twitched.

Not quite a smile.

Close.

He caught up effortlessly.

You stubbornly refused to look at him.

"I'm busy."

"Mm."

"I have somewhere to be."

"You don't."

"I absolutely do."

"I parked behind your car."

...

"...That's unfortunate."

"You can't leave."

"...I could walk."

"Thirty miles."

"...Exercise is healthy."

He stopped in front of you, calmly blocking your path without an ounce of aggression, simply existing there with his hands tucked into his pockets, looking down at you with that unreadable expression that usually terrified grown men but somehow only made your heartbeat worse.

You stared determinedly at the laces on his boots.

Anywhere but his face.

Or... anything else.

Happy waited.

Patient.

Finally—

"Sweets."

"...Mm?"

"You gonna look at me?"

"No."

"Why?"

"...Reasons."

"What reasons?"

"...Personal reasons."

Silence.

Then—

"...Was it because I didn't have a shirt on?"

Your soul left your body.

Gone.

Departed.

Ascended.

You covered your face with both hands.