"None of your business."
"You have a candy stash and didn't tell me?"
"I wouldn't have a candy stash if I did."
"Go get the mattresses," I tell Raf, holding the bag just out of his reach with one hand and pushing him back by the chest with the other. He struggles against me as if he couldn't pick me up with one finger.
Raf finally stops fighting me for the gummy worms and disappears down the hall to get mattresses. I shove another handful into my mouth and survey the living room.
The sectional is big, but it's notnestbig.
Not that this is a nest.
Obviously.
This is a totally normal, non-omega, non-instinct-driven decision to pile soft things in a room and surround myself with my pack while we watch a movie. It has nothing to do with how exhausted and stressed we all are or the fact that my fucking stalker delivered roses to the studio tonight and nobody is talking about it, including me.
Despite everything, the wordpackechoing through my head sends another flurry of butterflies through me.
And I'm so close to getting Rex to accept he's my mate—to accepthimselfas my mate—I can fucking taste it.
I start with the hall closet.
Three fleece throws. One weighted blanket that weighs as much as a dead body and almost knocks me over when it slides off theshelf. Two decorative pillows from the guest bathroom that have no business being in a bathroom. A quilt that smells like cedar and Phoenix.
I haul everything to the living room and start arranging.
Throws on the base layer. Weighted blanket folded at the center for whoever wants it. Pillows banked along the edges.
I catch myself fluffing a pillow and positioning it at a specific angle and freeze.
You're nesting, you idiot.
I'm not in heat. Not even close. The suppressants are garbage but I'm solidly between cycles.
My hands keep arranging anyway.
Fine.
Let my inner omega havesomething, for once.
A crash from the hallway makes me jump. Raf appears dragging Phoenix's enormous mattress. His muscles are straining, bronze skin gleaming, the kraken tattoo writhing across his arm.
"Little help?" he grunts.
"You're doing great!" I say, clapping to encourage him.
"Bells."
I grab the far end and we wrestle it into position beside the sectional. The combined surface area is now enormous.
Yeah. This is totally a fucking nest.
"I'll get mine," Raf says, disappearing again.
I raid Phoenix's room next. The man has an endless supply of pillows that all smell fucking insane. I huff them because his scent is like a drug to me and grab an armful—the body pillow, the memory foam one, three regular ones—and dump them into the growing pile.
Phoenix appears from the kitchen with two enormous bowls of popcorn, one buttered, one not. He stops and stares at the living room.