Page 20 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

Wes

I t’s happened.

She’s infiltrated the fucking pack-house.

And yes—I invited her. Kind of. But only in the same way one might invite a raccoon into their home to prove it couldn’t handle a doorknob.

It was supposed to scare her off. A strategic suggestion, a surefire way to make her backpedal and admit this whole thing was a chaotic little game. I figured she’d wrinkle that perfect nose, toss her hair, and flounce back to whatever omega-sized hurricane she came from.

Instead, she unpacked.

Within twenty-four hours, we had three new throw pillows on the couch—one of them pink, one sequined, one threateningly motivational. One changes color when you swipe it, and currently spells out WES 3s OMEGAS.

I know it was her. I literally watched her do it. She stared me dead in the eye while grinning and wrote it as if she was carving it onto my grave, then denied all knowledge when the guys came in.

There are lip balms in the fridge. The fridge .

Apparently, it helps with the texture; whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean.

My sleek, black gym towels have been replaced with pastel monstrosities embroidered with motivational threats like “SWEAT NOW, SHINE LATER” in rhinestone thread, and her pajamas are hanging off my drying rack, dripping scented smugness onto my work suits.

At some point, she reorganized the pantry.

I have no idea when she even found the fucking time.

There’s a shelf labeled ALPHA STUFF , and my tactical knife set—my prized, alphabetized, carbon-forged blades—is now in a clear acrylic organizer labeled ‘Sharp Friends’, next to a glittery pink Post-it that says Danger is sexy. xoxo.

My protein shelf now contains something called “ritual collagen,” and there’s a scented candle in the main bathroom labeled Moonlit Vanilla Fantasy that makes my eyes water every time I brush my teeth.

It’s been five days of passive-aggressive glitter, floral-scented betrayal, and waking up in what I can only describe as a live-in estrogen ad. My entire goddamn life smells like a Bath that it’s all innocent, that she’s just nesting. Just a soft little innocent omega making the place feel like home.

Bull. Shit.

This is one-woman psychological ops, and I am the last alpha standing in what used to be a sanctuary of discipline and bare walls.

She caught me glaring at her and had the audacity to tilt her head and ask if I thought she was throwing off the house’s alpha-to-pink ratio.

As if that’s a thing. As if there should be a ratio.

She replaced my pre-workout with fucking strawberry milk and left a note on top that read ‘ Hope this helps with the rage :)’.

It was in pink gel pen. Decorated with hearts .

I blacked out for three seconds.

Don’t even get me started on the yogurt. She’d stood in the middle of the kitchen in tiny shorts, licking mango yogurt off a spoon with a noise that could get someone arrested, and said, “Omega calcium needs, Wes. It’s science .”

I nearly flipped the dining table.

Cam’s tried to walk me through breathing exercises. In the end, he got upset with me .

“She’s trying, man,” he’d sighed. “Don’t be a dick.”

Oh, she’s trying alright.

Trying to give me an aneurysm via aggressively weaponized nesting.

In reality, if anyone’s been trying the way Cam meant it, it’s me. I’ve been playing nice. I haven’t growled at her once this week. I even said good morning yesterday and didn’t spontaneously combust.

But she’s escalating.

She keeps brushing past me and making those soft little omega noises, then blinking at me as though I’m the one who’s unhinged.

She gasps every time I grunt, as though it’s at all surprising that her giant, wound-up alpha ex has a reaction to being glitter-bombed with strategically deployed sweetness.

In the last four hours alone, she’s left a scented velvet scrunchie on my gear bench and renamed the Wi-Fi to OmegaNet: Streaming Hormones 24/7.

And I cannot keep living like this.

Cam told me to lean into the softness. Jace said that maybe it’s time we learned to embrace some color.

But then Aimee blinked up at me after dinner, all wide-eyed and pink-lipped and fake-sweetness as she asked; “Is it okay if I put my diffuser in your room tonight? Yours is the only one without, and it helps with my sleep regulation.”

The diffuser smells like cherry blossoms and emotional sabotage, and this is not okay. This is not normal .

This is a slow, pastel-colored descent into madness, and I am one more sparkle sticker away from Losing. My. Mind.

*

Cam, in his infinite golden-retriever optimism, declared that Saturday was the perfect time for some quality pack bonding.

Translation : group grocery shopping, family-style lunch, and, apparently , the psychological breakdown of one pissed off alpha.

We’re not even past the driveway before I’m assaulted.

Jace’s SUV smells like slick. Specifically, her omega slick. It hitsthe moment I open the door.

“ Oh, ” I say flatly. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Cam does a subtle double inhale. Then another. His brows rise in slow horror. “ Ah .”

Jace shrugs from behind his sunglasses, cool as ever. “Yeah, don’t mind that. We didn’t have wipes.”

I turn to him. “You absolute feral —”

“ Anyway ,” Aimee says sweetly, squeezing past me through the open door and climbing into the front passenger seat like it’s her throne. “Shotgun! Omegas get carsick in the back.”

“That’s not even biologically—” I start, but she’s already kicked her shoes off and propped her bare feet up on the dashboard.

Cam nods, smiling right at her. “That makes total sense.”

I can't hold back my growl of annoyance.

“Here.” She hands me a flavored candy from her pocket and smiles. “You need to calm down.”

I climb into the back with Cam, slam the door harder than necessary and stare ahead.

I’m still trying to process the assault on my senses when I see it.

Dangling—no, swinging —from the rearview mirror like some unholy omen of doom are two giant, fluffy, pastel pink dice.

One reads my alpha. The other?

My omega.

I stare at them in mute horror.

“What,” I whisper. “What. Are. They ?”

“Huh?” Aimee turns around slowly, following my gaze, then smiling as she strokes one of the dice. “Oh, these ? Aren’t they adorable ? I got them at the gas station. They were right next to the sour gummies and those little pine tree air fresheners.”

“They’re a choking hazard to masculinity,” I hiss.

Jace, one hand on the wheel, glances up, shrugs, and actually says, “Kinda vibey.”

VIBEY.

I’m going to combust. I’m going to light myself on fire with pure alpha rage and take this pastel nightmare down with me.

I black out for a second. When I return, it’s to Aimee leaning across the console to tuck something into Jace’s shirt pocket, her voice all low and syrupy. “That’s for later.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says, without even blinking.

Cam makes a soft aww noise.

I make a plotting a murder in four-part harmony noise.

Then Aimee catches my eye in the mirror and honest-to-god smirks .

A pop song starts playing—one of those bubbly omega-core bangers that makes you question whether anyone involved has ever felt a negative emotion. Aimee starts humming, Cam joins in, and Jace drums on the steering wheel.

Meanwhile, I pull out my phone and scour forums for answers to questions like can you be evicted from your own pack.

There are no answers; only the muffled sound of my dignity unraveling to the beat of a synth-pop chorus about soulmates and strawberry lip gloss.

*

At the grocery store, it gets worse. Cam pushes the cart while Jace walks beside Aimee like a bodyguard-slash-boyfriend-slash-freaking idiot in love, and I trail behind them all, miserable and carrying a bag of avocados.

Aimee, of course, is performing.

“Which oat milk, Cam?” she asks, holding up two identical cartons.

He furrows his brow as though this is a life-or-death choice. “Uh… maybe the barista one?”

“Good boy,” she says, ruffling his hair.

I nearly drop the avocados.

She loads the cart with scented dryer sheets, cucumber face mist, glitter pens “ for fridge notes ,” and something called hormone-regulating moon tea.

I tell her that’s not real science. She tells me neither is my toxic masculinity.

At one point, she disappears down an aisle and returns with a pink bathrobe, plops it in the cart, and chirps, “This is for Wes. I noticed he’s been very tense lately.”

Cam snorts, while I contemplate self-immolation via spicy ramen.

Back at the house, we unload groceries in a scene that might look wholesome from the outside—if you ignore the fact that I’m now the proud owner of lavender-scented toilet paper and omega- branded almond butter.

Afterward, lunch is… fine . Cam makes us all grilled cheese, and Jace helps her slice up fruit.

They chatter among themselves as I eat in silence; then Aimee claps her hands together out of nowhere, catching my attention.

“Okay!” she says. “Now that we’re all fed and bonded… I have an idea.”

The others look intrigued.

I start praying for a power outage.

“We need a pack song.”

I blink. “A what ?”

“A song!” she squeals, practically beaming. “Something that represents us .”

She pulls out her phone, scrolls, then her entire face lights up.

“Oh my God. This one. It’s perfect.”

She hits play.

Cam gasps. “Is that—?”

“Yes,” she nods, bouncing on her heels.

Cam gasps again . “The one from the movie?! With the bend and snap?!”

She shrieks. “YES!”

Jace grins. “Solid pick, babe.”

The opening notes blast through the kitchen speakers—a crime against musical taste and alpha dignity—and suddenly Aimee’s swaying her hips and snapping her fingers.

Jace joins her. He’s actually doing choreography. Cam, traitor that he is, starts humming along and throwing in dramatic arm movements like this is some kind of pack musical fever dream; all while I sit frozen at the breakfast bar, halfway through a grilled cheese, staring into the void.

And then—it happens.

“Wes!” Aimee spins toward me, all sugary innocence and thinly veiled evil. “Your part’s next!”

I stare at her. “I’d rather eat glass.”

She pouts. “That’s not very pack-minded of you.”

Cam frowns, betrayed. “C’mon, man. Don’t leave us hanging.”

“Yeah, Wes,” Jace winks. “We’re doing this for emotional growth.”

Emotional growth?! From a pop song that was probably written in a glitter-scented notebook ?!

I clench my jaw. “No.”

Her lip does this thing—this wobble . I see it for the fully weaponized Bambi energy that it is, and I’m just about to call her out on it when I notice the way Cam physically deflates.

He’s looking at me like I’ve personally wounded the spirit of togetherness.

“She’s trying, Wes.”

I want to scream. I want to jump out the window. I want to rewind time to before my borderline psychotic omega ex-girlfriend infiltrated my pack house with her body spray and her pastel mind games.

But instead, I stand, and I say—flatly, miserably —the next line.

The kitchen erupts. Jace twirls her around while Cam claps. The scent of vanilla and manipulation is everywhere while I mumble my way through the next verse, my soul escaping my body through clenched teeth.

Aimee watches me the whole time, her dark eyes sparkling, her lips criminally glossy. She looks at me like she’s just checkmated me on a pink glitter chessboard, and I’m not just losing: I’m losing in harmony.

Because now the Wi-Fi is called OmegaNet, I own a pink bathrobe, and somehow— somehow —I just sang fucking Hoku with idiots who think this is progress.

If this carries on any longer, I am going to lose my goddamn mind.

This is war.

And one way or another, I'm going to win.