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"I said I'm fine."

I look at her. She looks at me. I have what she calls an omega omission detector. She’s not telling me something. I let it go. For now.

She nibbles the edge of a glazed donut. I watch her do it with my peripheral vision while I pull up my laptop and try not to make a face. Lark Jensen-Caron does not nibble donuts. Lark Jensen-Caron eats donuts like a normal person. On Wednesdays. Because that’s her cheat day. As if omegas need cheat days.

Something is off. If I didn’t know she was on birth control, I’d think she might be pregnant. I don’t say that.

"Okay," I say instead, pulling up the dashboard. "Talk to me. Where are we on the Saint's feature?"

And just like that we're in it. Numbers and open rates and the shipment timelines and whether the Sweet Shot flavor cards need another round of copy edits, which they do not, I will not be going to an eighth draft, I will not. It's easy and familiar and exactly what Wednesday mornings are supposed to feel like. Lark is sharp even when she's not feeling well. It's one of the things that makes her a genuinely great person to work for, which I will also never tell her directly because she'll get smug about it.

We're forty minutes in when she closes one tab, opens another, and says, very casually, "So Graham's research partner is coming to dinner Friday."

I chew the last of my maple donut. "Okay."

"His name is Finn."

"You’ve mentioned him."

She narrows her eyes then continues. "He's," she pauses, choosing words with specific care, "quiet. But in that way where you can tell there's a lot going on underneath. Nerdy. Kind of adorable."

I look up from my screen. "Lark."

She blinks. Innocent as anything. "What?"

"You sent me three separate texts last week about how interesting he is."

"That’s because I think you'd like him."

"What you think is that everyone should be as disgustingly happy as you are."

She opens her mouth.

"Don't," I say pleasantly. "I love you. I love your pack. I love that you found your alphas and that you are absurdly well-taken care of. I love that Saint makes you coffee every morning with the little heart in the foam. And that Silas cooks your dinners. And Graham—well, the mirror thing is pretty amazing." I point at her. "But that is your story. Mine is going to look different."

Lark tilts her head. "Different how?"

I reach into the donut box and select a second one, chocolate glazed, because I am an omega with needs and, currently, my needs are saying chocolate.

"I'd settle for lust," I say, and I mean it as a joke. Mostly.

Lark's expression goes a little sad around the edges. "Just think about it," she says. "We’re hosting him Friday for dinner. I think some of his packmates will be here, too."

I take a bite of my donut. I don't say yes. I don't say no either.

Lark takes a bite of her glazed donut. Then she sets it down with careful, deliberate attention. "Excuse me," she says in a voice that is almost normal, and then she walks, very fast, out of the kitchen.

Definitely maybe preggo. If not, then whatever stomach bug she's picked up is clearly not done with her yet. Poor thing. I make a mental note to text Silas later and tell him to make sure she's actually resting, because left to her own devices Lark will absolutely sit back down at this table in four minutes and try to talk to me about Q3 projections while actively dying.

I pull out my phone. The dating app has notifications. Several of them, which is good. Great actually. This is what I wanted. I open it and start scrolling through my new connections.

Albright Pack.

I tap their profile. Three alphas. Financiers, mostly. One investment banker, one something in private equity, one whose job title says portfolio management which could mean anything. They're attractive in that pressed-shirt, firm-handshake kind of way.

Fine. Sure. Yeah. I swipe right. At minimum they probably know how to pick a restaurant.

Next up: Douglas Pack.