Page 120 of Heat Island

“You’re crying,” Lucas points out gently, moving toward me.

I shake my head, struggling to articulate the realization clanging through my head like a church bell. “I just...I spent so many years convinced that this was what I wanted. This pristine space that was just mine. No compromises, no mess, no...”

“No pack,” Kyren finishes softly.

“No life,” I correct him, looking around at the sterile environment I’ve called home. “I was so proud of this place. The view, the address, how it impressed clients. But standing here now, I see how empty it was. How empty I was.”

Cash approaches, his steady beta presence calming. “You weren’t empty, Trinity. You were building something important.”

“I know. But I was also lying to myself about what I was missing.” I gesture around the apartment. “This wasn’t freedom. It was isolation. And I convinced myself it was what I wanted because I was afraid of being rejected again.”

Matheo wraps his arms around me from behind, his scent enveloping me in security. “You don’t have to choose anymore. Your career and your pack—you can have both.”

“That’s just it,” I say, leaning back against him. “None of you has ever once asked me to choose. You’ve supported my business, helped at events, celebrated my successes. But Egret and the others—they wanted me to be something I’m not.”

Lucas kneels in front of me, taking my hands. “We love you exactly as you are, Trinity. Workaholic tendencies and all.”

“And if you want to get married someday, we’re game,” Kyren adds with his characteristic directness. “If you want kids, great. If not, also great.”

“Though Lucas might liberate a few shelter dogs if we don’t get him something to take care of eventually,” Cash says dryly, making everyone laugh. “He’ll be the one on potty-training duty no matter what, though.”

Lucas shrugs. “I’m doing pretty good with the daycare. I get my kid fix every day.”

“You’re our omega,” Matheo murmurs against my hair. “However you want that to look.”

Fresh tears spill over, but they’re different now—full of gratitude and wonder rather than revelation. “I love you. All of you.”

They surround me in a group embrace that feels like coming home, even in this place that never truly was one.

When we separate, all four immediately reach for the few remaining items—a plant, a framed photo, my laptop bag—refusing to let me carry anything.

“We’ve got this,” Cash says firmly. “You’ve been on your feet all day at the venue launch.”

I start to protest but catch myself, realizing that accepting help doesn’t diminish me. This is what packs do—they support each other.

I take one last look around the empty apartment, nolonger feeling any attachment to its cold perfection. My future lies elsewhere, with these four remarkable men who want me exactly as I am.

“Let’s go home,” I say, the words feeling right in a way they never have before.

And as we leave, the future almost as beautiful and impossible to predict as each of my mates, I don’t bother looking back.