Morning comes through the curtains in pale gold slants, and for a long moment I don’t move. I just lie there, wedged between Griffin’s chest and Damon’s back, with Silas’s arm draped over my waist, and I think about how strange it is that four people can fit in a full-size bed if they try hard enough.
Thistle is at the foot of the bed, curled in the small space between Damon’s feet and the wall. He lifts his head when I stir, blinks once, and goes back to sleep.
I slide out of bed carefully, testing each movement, and somehow manage to extract myself without waking anyone. The floor is cold, and I grab the nearest shirt—Damon’s flannel, again—and pull it on as I head to the kitchen.
I call June from the hallway, my voice low.
“Foxglove and Finch, this is June.”
“It’s Caroline.”
“Caroline. How are you feeling?”
“Better. I called to check on my shifts.”
“Take the week. I’ve already got you covered. Tessa’s in heat too—third one this year, poor thing—so she’s off as well. It’s just August and me holding down the fort.”
I lean against the wall. “June, I’m sorry about all this. I know it’s been?—”
“Stop apologizing. You didn’t ask for your cycle to go haywire. Half the Omegas in town are in the same boat. I’ve sold more aftercare supplies in the past week than I did in the entire month before. Something’s wrong, and we all know it, but that’s not your problem to solve right now. Rest. Recover. That’s an order from your boss.”
I smile despite myself. “Thanks, June.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank whoever’s taking care of you. You sound better than you have in months.”
I hang up and stand in the hallway for a moment, my phone warm in my hand. Then I head to the kitchen to make coffee.
One by one, they filter in. Griffin first, shirtless, hair sticking up in six directions, blinking like he’s not sure what decade it is. Then Damon, who makes a beeline for the coffee pot without saying a word. Silas last, already more put-together than the rest of us combined, his Henley smooth and his hair combed.
We end up around the small kitchen table, mugs in hand, Thistle weaving between our ankles. It should feel crowded. It doesn’t. It feels like exactly the right number of people.
“I called June,” I say. “I’ve got the week off.”
“Good,” Damon says. “You need it.”
“I want to talk about something.” I set my mug down and look at each of them in turn. “I want to date you. All of you. Separately. Amara said?—”
“Amara,” Griffin says, and there’s a note in his voice I can’t quite read.
“Amara pointed out that everything that happened over the last four days happened during a heat. The feelings, the connection, all of it—it was real, but it was amplified. She said I should get to know you outside of that context before I make any decisions about what this is.”
Silas nods slowly. “She’s not wrong.”
“So I want to take each of you on a date. A real one. Dinner somewhere. No sex. Just… talking.”
Griffin’s mouth twitches. “You already asked me.”
“I know. I’m telling the other two.”
Damon looks at me over his coffee mug. “You’re serious.”
“Completely.”
He sets the mug down. “Caroline. There’s something you need to know.”
The shift in his tone makes my stomach tighten. “What?”
He glances at Silas, then at Griffin. Some silent communication passes between them—the kind I’ve only started to recognize, a look or a small gesture that carries weight.
