Page 25 of Omega in Love
"You always take care of me," he says, quieter now, vulnerability threading through his words. "Even when you want more. Even when it would be easier not to."
"Always," I promise without hesitation, brushing my lips to his temple, breathing in that intoxicating rose scent. "That's what this is about. But when you're ready to give more, Bloom? I'll take it all. Everything you've got."
The air vibrates between us, charged and electric yet somehow tender. He pulls back with a soft sigh that feels like it comes from somewhere deep inside him, resting his hands on the counter behind him.
"We really do need a bigger bed," he mutters, shaking his head. "This four-man arrangement is getting ridiculous."
I chuckle and tap the tip of his nose, delighting in how it crinkles. "You're the one who insists on sleeping starfish-style. Pretty sure Hero still has bruises from your elbow."
He sticks out his tongue, playful and carefree, and for a second it's just lightness, joy, something easy and uncomplicated that we've fought hard to earn. I plate the pancakes, adding an extra drizzle of syrup to his, and hand him one as he slides off the counter with a wink that promises we'll continue this conversation later.
It's not until we're heading toward the front door, Brookes tucking his bag under his arm, that I feel it—a shift, a change in the air around us. Brookes’ scent is suddenly stronger, more alluring, richer. . .fuck. A slight hint of spice amongst the roses, like cinnamon or clove warming through a garden. My gut tightens in a different way this time, instinct flaring to life. I check my watch as Dante opens the SUV door for Brookes, his eyes meeting mine briefly over Brookes’ head, one eyebrow raised in silent question. I let the brewing apprehension simmer as Hero and I join them in the car.
Maybe I'm just imagining it but the Alpha in me is suddenly very, very alert.
Two weeks, I think to myself as I take in our new reality as I drive us to the commercial shoot.
That's all it took for my entire life to realign itself around one beautiful, stubborn Omega and two equally devoted Alphas. Like gravity had shifted, and we'd all just naturally fallen into orbit around each other.
I've spent fourteen mornings waking up beside Brookes. Sometimes with him curled against my chest, sometimes with him sprawled across Hero's lap, sometimes with his feet tucked under Dante's thigh. It doesn't matter the configuration. What matters is that he's there, and we're allowed to reach for him.
The mattress situation became a running joke after the third night. Four grown men on one king-sized bed is ambitious. Especially when one of those men stretches out like he's trying to touch all four corners at once. I've woken up with Brookes' foot in my face more times than I care to admit, but I wouldn't trade it for anything.
"You're thinking too loud," Hero mutters beside me, eyes on the road as I continue to drive us to Brookes' shoot.
I glance in the rearview mirror, catching Brookes' profile where he's leaning against Dante's shoulder in the backseat, scrolling through his phone. My chest tightens at the casual intimacy of it.
"Just reflecting," I admit.
"On how much better your cooking has gotten since you've had someone to impress?" Dante's deep voice rumbles from behind us, laced with amusement.
I snort. "My cooking was always good."
"Your cooking is the bomb," Brookes agrees without looking up from his screen. "But your timing could use work. We're going to be cutting it close today."
"Says the man who spent twenty minutes picking out sunglasses," I counter, and Brookes finally glances up, flashing me that smile that makes my insides somersault.
"Worth it, though."
I can't argue with that. The oversized frames perched on his nose make him look like a movie star from another era. They also hide the dark circles under his eyes. A remnant of last night's nightmare that had him thrashing against invisiblehands at three in the morning. None of us mention it. Some days are harder than others, and we all know today is a workday. Brookes doesn't like mixing his trauma with his job.
That's one of the unspoken rules we've developed over these past two weeks. Work is work. Home is home. Brookes decides when and how much of himself he shares in either space.
We pull up to the studio, a converted warehouse with floor-to-ceiling windows that flood the space with natural light. It's one of Brookes’ favorite venues, familiar territory, friendly crew. The security is top-notch too, which eases some of the perpetual tension I carry in my shoulders.
"You sure you want all three of us here today?" I ask as Hero parks. "We can rotate if you need space."
Brookes fiddles with the strap of his bag, hesitating. I know what he's thinking, now that things have changed with us that he doesn't want to seem clingy. We are still his security, we still have a job to do.
"I want you here," he finally admits, so quietly I almost miss it. "All of you."
Dante's hand briefly covers Brookes’ on the seat between them, a silent acknowledgment. "Then we're here."
The four of us move like a well-oiled machine now, falling into formation without having to discuss it. Hero leads, clearing the path. I stay beside Brookes, while Dante brings up the rear, his eyes constantly scanning. It should feel militaristic, but somehow it doesn't. It just feels like us, like protection born from care rather than obligation.
Inside, the energy shifts. This is Brookes’ domain, where he transforms from the soft, sleep-rumpled man who steals my shirts to the poised professional who commands attention with a single glance. I watch the change come over him, shoulders straightening, chin lifting, stride lengthening. It's mesmerizing, this glimpse into another facet of him.
"Brookes! Finally!" A woman with electric blue hair rushes toward us, clipboard in hand. "Camilla's been asking for you for twenty minutes."
