Page 129 of Knotting the Cowboys

His frown deepens.

"A nest. You know, for sleeping?"

Uh…

I shake my head, genuinely confused.

"I don't... I'm not sure what you mean."

Something flashes across his face—surprise, maybe anger, though not directed at me.When he speaks, his voice is carefully controlled. "Did Iron Ridge not let you nest?"

"I honestly don't know what that is," I admit, feeling young and stupid.

Another basic Omega thing I should know but don't, another way I'm deficient.

Cole's jaw works like he's biting back words, then he takes a breath, and his expression gentles.

"Nesting is... it's something Omegas do instinctively for comfort and security. You create a safe space—usually your bed—with soft things that smell like your pack. Blankets, pillows, clothes. The familiar scents help your body relax, especially when you're stressed or haven't been sleeping well."

I process this information, turning it over in my mind like a strange artifact.

"And it actually works?"

"Very well, usually." He's watching me closely now, like he's seeing me for the first time. "Most Omegas start nesting young, but if you were never taught or encouraged..."

"My parents thought omega behaviors were weakness," I say quietly. "Anything that marked me as different from an Alpha was discouraged."

The muscle in Cole's jaw jumps again, and when he speaks, his voice is rough.

"That's neglect, Willa. Criminal neglect."

I shrug, uncomfortable with his anger on my behalf.

"It is what it is."

"No, it's not." He moves closer, voice dropping so the workers can't hear. "You deserve to know your own body, to have comfort when you need it. We can help with that, if you'll let us."

"How?"

"Each of us can give you something with our scent—shirts, pillows, whatever you're comfortable with. You can arrange them however feels right. We've got this huge floor cushion Austin bought when Luna first came to us, didn't know her sleep routine so he went overboard with baby gear. It's ridiculously comfortable, perfect for nesting."

I picture it—surrounded by the scents of these men who've shown me more kindness in days than I received in years.

The thought makes something in my chest loosen and tighten simultaneously.

"That sounds..."

"Yeah?"

"Nice," I finish lamely, though nice doesn't cover the longing that wells up at the idea. "Really nice, actually."

Cole reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a blue bandana that's soft with age and use. Before I can ask what he's doing, he's dabbing gently at my forehead, wiping away perspiration I hadn't realized was there. The gesture is so tender, so careful, that my throat closes up.

"If you're feeling dizzy or overheated, you need to tell me," he says, still patting carefully at my temples. "We can sit for a bit, get you something cold to drink."

"Like ice cream?" The joke slips out before I can stop it, an attempt to lighten the moment before I do something embarrassing like cry over a simple kindness.

Cole's hand stills, and when I look up at him, his gray eyes have darkened to storm clouds. His gaze drops deliberately to my chest, lingering on the way my tank top clings in the heat, and his voice drops to a rumble that vibrates through me.

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