Page 78 of Heat Clickbait
The first section we encountered was dedicated to basics, sheets, pillowcases, simple comfort items in soothing neutrals. I ran my fingers over a silk pillow cover, the fabric cool and impossibly smooth against my skin, like water made solid. The price tag made me wince, but the texture was addictive, begging to be touched.
"My mother would have said silk was impractical," I murmured, more to myself than to them, remembering countless lectures about being sensible, about not getting above my station, about remembering that Omegas who wanted too much usually ended up with nothing. "Too delicate, too expensive, too... much."
"Your mother isn't here," Nova said simply, but there was steel beneath the quiet words. "What do you say?"
The question hung in the air like a challenge. I grabbed three sets in different colors, rose gold that caught the light like spun metal, deep purple that reminded me of twilight, and midnight blue dark enough to disappear into. The small act of defiance, of choosing luxury for its own sake rather than its practicality, made something loosen in my chest that I hadn't even realized was clenched tight.
We wandered through sections organized by sensation rather than function. Smooth textures that invited touch, rough weaves that provided contrast, warming fabrics that promised comfort, cooling materials that offered relief.
The organization was clever, designed to let customers follow their instincts rather than their rational minds. I found myself drawn to unexpected combinations that shouldn't have worked together but somehow did.
A chunky knit throw that looked hand-made caught my attention, its deliberate imperfections making it perfect in a way that machine-made perfection never could be. The yarn was soft but substantial, the kind of weight that would feel like a hug. Memory foam pillows that would hold their shape and remember the curve of my body. A quilt that smelled faintly of cedar, reminding me of forests I'd never visited but somehow missed, like genetic memory calling me home to places my ancestors might have known.
"This is beautiful," Milo said, appearing at my elbow with a blanket woven with threads that seemed to change color depending on the angle of view, shifting from gold to bronze to copper as he moved it in the light. "It's like your hair when the light hits it just right, all those hidden colors that only show up sometimes."
I flushed at the comparison, heat creeping up my neck at the casual intimacy of the observation. He'd been watching me closely enough to notice the way light played in my pink bob, had thought it worth commenting on. The blanket joined our growing collection without further discussion.
In the technology section, Ghost became animated in his quiet way, his usual stillness replaced by focused energy as he showed me discrete charging stations that could be built into the nest's structure, LED strips that could mimic natural light patterns throughout the day, even a white noise system that could create a sonic bubble of privacy around the entire space.
"The nest already has most of this," I pointed out, running my fingers over the sleek surface of a tablet designed specifically for controlling nest environments. "You guys went full smart-home when you set it up originally."
He typed quickly, fingers flying over his phone screen with the efficiency of someone who communicated this way more often than with his voice.
But you didn't choose it. This is about making it yours, not accepting what we assumed you'd want. Even our thoughtfulness can be presumptuous.
The consideration in that, the recognition that even their careful attention to my needs could be a form of assumption if I wasn't involved in the choosing, made my eyes burn with unexpected tears. It was such a Ghost thing to say, cutting straight to the heart of something complex with brutal honesty wrapped in gentleness.
"Hey," Blitz said softly, appearing at my elbow with a tissue he'd seemingly produced from nowhere, his alpha instincts finely tuned to distress even when I was trying to hide it. "You okay, gorgeous?"
"More than okay." I accepted the tissue, dabbing carefully at my eyes to avoid smearing the glittery eyeliner I'd applied that morning out of habit. "Just... overwhelmed. Good overwhelmed, like when you eat something so perfect it makes you want to cry." The heat that was burning my eyes with tears I was trying not to let fall seemed to spread out over my skin, making me feel flushed.
"That's allowed," he said with that easy confidence that made him so good at his job, then held up what looked like a very expensive athletic recovery pad, all sleek lines and promising buttons. "Speaking of overwhelming, this thing has fourteen different massage settings and heats up to the exact temperature of human skin. Like, eerily exact."
I frowned at the object in his hands. "That sounds either amazing or creepy."
"Both?" Crash suggested, already tossing one in the cart with the enthusiasm of someone who'd never met a gadget he didn'twant to try. "Both is good. Creepy can be fun if it's the right kind of creepy."
"That's a very concerning philosophy," I told him, but I was laughing.
We'd been shopping for nearly two hours. One cart had clearly been a massive mistake so now we had multiple carts, and they were all overflowing with my impulsive choices and careful considerations, which was, of course, when I found it tucked in a corner display labeled "Vintage Comfort" in flowing script.
The perfect blanket.
It was a patchwork of different colors and clearly designed to look handmade despite probably being manufactured. Each square a different pattern and texture. Some squares were silk that whispered against my fingers, others cotton soft from countless washings, a few that felt like cashmere and probably cost more than my first car. It was chaotic and beautiful and somehow perfect, like organized chaos made manifest.
"It reminds me of us," I said, running my fingers over the different textures, feeling how they somehow created harmony despite their differences. "All these different pieces that shouldn't work together but do. Like how Crash's chaos balances Ghost's quiet, or how Blitz's energy complements Milo's steadiness."
"Then we're definitely getting it," Nova said with the kind of certainty he usually reserved for business decisions, the tone that brooked no argument and suggested the matter was settled beyond discussion.
As we made our way to the checkout, a warmth built in my chest that had nothing to do with the pack bonds humming contentedly in the back of my mind. They'd taken what could have been a simple shopping trip and turned it into somethingprofound, a declaration that I wasn't just living in their space but actively making it ours. Mine.
The cashier was a cheerful Beta with kind eyes who definitely recognized us, her double-take when she saw Blitz was barely concealed, but professionally pretended not to, treating us like any other pack making a major nest investment. She began scanning our items with practiced efficiency, the total climbing to a number that made me physically wince and reach reflexively for Nova's arm.
"This is too much. Seriously, this is way more than?—"
"It's exactly enough," he said firmly, covering my hand with his and handing over his card without even glancing at the total. "Besides, I have spreadsheets projecting our earnings from the renewed interest after your mother's visit. Controversy sells, apparently. We can afford to make you comfortable."
"You have spreadsheets for everything," I accused, but I was smiling, thinking of his color-coded charts for pack schedules and detailed analyses of optimal streaming times.
