Page 44 of Omega in Love
"He did well," Dante observes quietly, his deep voice barely above a whisper as he folds garment bags with methodical precision.
"Too well," I respond, rubbing the back of my neck where stress has knotted the muscles. "That's what worries me." The perfection of his performance means he's burying everything deeper, where it will fester.
Hero nods in understanding, his hazel eyes thoughtful as he straightens the living room, erasing all evidence of the morning's invasion. "First test passed. Now we prepare for the next one."
The stillness of our morning lasts about as long as the shower. Precisely twenty-seven minutes after Mathéo's dramatic exit, our doorbell announces Charlotte Matthews' arrival, like a starting gun in a race we didn't sign up for.
I pull the door open to find not just Charlotte, but what appears to be all of Pack Hudson crowding our hallway. Charlotte stands front and center, radiant in a yellow sundress that somehow makes her look both powerful and approachable. Behind her, like sentinels with varying degrees of professionalism, stand Teagan, Beaux, Josiah, and Moses. The hallway suddenly feels narrower with their collective presence, and I can already feel our carefully maintained sanctuary being invaded.
"We come bearing gifts and good vibes," Charlotte announces, lifting a bag that smells deliciously of fresh pastries, the buttery scent wafting through the doorway. "And by good vibes, I mean we're here to make sure Brookes doesn't spend the next twenty-four hours overthinking tomorrow's show." Her smile is determined, the kind that brooks no argument.
I step aside, resigned to the invasion. This one, at least, comes with good intentions and food. My protective instinctswar briefly with knowing Brookes needs this connection to his chosen family.
"Is that croissants I smell?" Brookes appears from the hallway, hair still damp from his shower, wrapped in the blue robe that makes him look smaller with blue and grey plaid pajama bottoms covering his legs. The transformation is remarkable, gone is the tension that lined his face earlier. His eyes brighten at the sight of Charlotte, and his scent blooms fuller, sweeter. It's the first genuine lightness I've seen in him today, and something in my chest eases at the sight.
"Only the best for my bestie," Charlotte crosses the room and embraces him, careful and gentle, mindful of boundaries in a way that speaks to their shared history. "Those vultures leave yet?" Her voice carries a protective edge that mirrors my own feelings.
"Just escaped," Brookes confirms, accepting the bag with a grateful smile, peeking inside with childlike eagerness. "Though I think Levi was contemplating homicide when Mathéo's assistant kept adjusting my inseam." His eyes flick to mine, teasing.
"It crossed my mind," I admit, my lips quirking despite my attempt at stoicism. The relief of seeing him smile, really smile, loosens something in my chest. I don't add that I'd calculated exactly how much pressure it would take to break the assistant's wrist when his hands lingered too long.
"Heya, gorgeous," Beaux saunters in, his golden-boy charm cranked to maximum as he approaches Brookes. His easy confidence fills the space as he moves. "Looking like a snack even in a bathrobe. How's that fair to the rest of us mere mortals?" He keeps a respectful distance, though, they all do. Pack Hudson knows Brookes’ boundaries, especially out of respect for us.
Brookes rolls his eyes, but there's no real annoyance there. "Maximum charm, Beaux. Save it for your Harlequin." He clutches the pastry bag closer, as if afraid Beaux might commandeer his breakfast.
"Hey, I can show you love too. You were ours first!" Beaux protests dramatically, clutching his chest with theatrical flair. "Don't you love us anymore, Brookie?" His pout is exaggerated enough to be comical rather than pressuring.
"Beaux, you're an attention whore." Charlotte's deadpan delivery cracks the room open with laughter, the sound filling our usually quiet space.
Dante and Hero emerge from their respective posts, drawn by the sudden life filling our space. I catch Hero's subtle scan of the room, even as he offers a small nod of greeting. The energy shifts palpably in our penthouse, transforming it from a quiet sanctuary to something livelier, brighter. I scan Brookes reflexively, looking for any sign this is too much, too soon after the morning's stress. My fingers twitch, ready to clear the room at the first sign of discomfort. Instead, I find his shoulders relaxed, his posture open as he debates the merits of various pastries with Charlotte, gesturing animatedly with a half-eaten croissant.
Moses heads straight for the kitchen with grocery bags I hadn't initially noticed, moving with the confidence of someone who's been here before. "I'm making margaritas," he announces, already rifling through our cabinets for glasses. "And before Dante gives me that look, yes, they can be virgin for anyone who's working. I'm not trying to compromise security." He shoots Dante a preemptive glance, catching the beginning of his scowl.
Josiah, meanwhile, has already pulled out his tablet and is scowling at it, his fingers flying over the screen. "Just need to keep an eye on the building's security footage," he informs me,as if the man can't help himself. When is he not working? "We have about three blind spots in the lobby alone. I hate it, but it's the way this building was designed." His dissatisfaction is palpable, and I make a mental note to discuss these trouble spots with him later.
"You're not working," Teagan reminds him, plucking the tablet away and kissing his temple. "We're socializing. Like humans." His tone is gentle but firm, the way you'd speak to a workaholic child.
"Socializing is inefficient," Josiah grumbles, but allows himself to be led toward the emerging breakfast spread, his eyes still darting to security points around the room.
I find myself settling against the kitchen counter, watching as our carefully ordered world dissolves into cheerful chaos. The controlled environment we maintain for Brookes’ safety now filled with laughter, overlapping conversations, and the clatter of plates. Hero catches my eye across the room, his expression softening with understanding. This is good for Brookes. Chaotic, yes, but necessary. The vanilla notes in my scent must be strengthening with contentment, because I notice Dante's subtle nod of agreement.
"So," Charlotte perches on the arm of the sofa beside Brookes, balancing a plate of pastries on her knee, "tell me everything about tomorrow's look. I read that Mathéo is doing a ridiculous 'fashion as rebellion' concept." Her tone makes it clear what she thinks of such pretension.
"Worse," Brookes groans, biting into a croissant and closing his eyes briefly in pleasure. A dusting of flakes clings to his lips. "Now it's 'fashion as resurrection'. He called me his phoenix at least six times." He rolls his eyes dramatically, but there's a hint of pride there too, he knows he's good at what he does.
"Of course he did," Charlotte's eye roll is practically audible as she steals a piece of his pastry. "Remember when thatdesigner made you wear wings made of actual bird feathers and you had a sneezing fit on the runway?" She nudges his shoulder gently.
"Milan, 2021!" Brookes laughs, a real laugh that reaches his eyes and makes the room feel lighter. "I sneezed so hard one of the wings detached. Thank the heavens I was done walking and had reached the exit. I thought I had some latent allergy." He mimics an exaggerated sneeze.
"And somehow the fashion critics called it 'a deconstruction of beauty standards' instead of 'model has allergic reaction'." Charlotte shakes her head, her free hand gesturing expansively. "This industry, I swear. They'd call a nosebleed 'avant-garde expression through bodily fluids'."
"Speaking of resurrections," Beaux drops onto the couch beside Brookes, close enough to be friendly but not so close as to crowd him. "When are we getting you and your boys to St. Lucia with us? The villa has your name written all over it, literally. I had a plaque made for your bedroom door."
"I don't recall being invited to this villa," Brookes raises an eyebrow, accepting a margarita from Moses with a grateful nod. The salt rim catches the light as he takes a careful sip.
"Standing invitation," Charlotte confirms, tapping her glass against his. "Saltwater heals everything. Plus, Beaux looks ridiculous trying to surf, and everyone should witness that at least once in their lifetime. Last time he wiped out so hard his shorts came off." Her grin is wicked as Beaux protests loudly.
The conversation flows like this for hours, light, teasing, normal in a way that feels almost surreal after months of careful recovery. I watch as Brookes gradually becomes more animated, his hands gesturing as he tells stories, his laughter coming easier. The transformation is subtle but profound, like watching a flower that's been kept in shade finally turn toward the sun. The rose scent of him fills the room, no longer tight andcontrolled, but open and sweet. Charlotte inhales and smiles, as Omegas you would think being this close would make them anxious, but these two are an exception to the rule.
