Page 35 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

Jace

A nother week’s passed, and somehow—don’t ask me how—Aimee and Wes are… getting along. Not pretending, or tolerating each other, but actually getting along.

They talk now. They laugh now. I saw Wes hand her a fork at dinner the other night and not mutter something under his breath, and I nearly called the Alpha Emergency Hotline because I thought he might be having a stroke.

It’s weird. But it’s also kinda… nice .

We’ve all had some one-on-one time with her lately—little things. Cam took her to a pottery class and somehow ended up crafting what looked like a phallic tribute to Mother Nature. She tried to be supportive, but even she snorted wine out of her nose when he called it ‘abstract’.

Meanwhile, I took her to the batting cages. I thought I’d be cool if I showed her how to swing. Instead, she hit three balls dead center and then strutted around calling herself “Slugger Supreme” while I missed four in a row because I was too busy watching her hips move.

Even Wes caved. I don’t know what they did exactly—she said it was an errand, but they both came back flushed and twitchy, and Wes spent the rest of the night glaring into the middle distance like he was fighting off a stroke.

No details, no commentary, which somehow made it worse; because now I can’t stop wondering what the hell kind of errand ends with an omega looking like that .

But it’s not just the dates. We’ve been doing things together. Pack things. Actual, wholesome, “should we take a picture for a family Christmas card?” things.

On Thursday, we cooked dinner as a group. Real, edible food. Cam wore a novelty apron that said Kiss the Alpha and tried to feed Aimee risotto off a wooden spoon. She slapped his hand away and then kissed him anyway.

We went to watch Cam’s kids’ soccer team on Saturday.

He’s been coaching them for three years now, and he takes it weirdly seriously for someone who still ties their cleats wrong.

Aimee wore his team’s colors, sat on the bleachers between me and Wes, and cheered like a feral sports mom.

When one of the six-year-olds scored, she jumped up yelling “That’s my godson!

” even though she literally met the kid thirty minutes earlier.

After the game, we bought them ice cream, and Aimee ended up with half of it on her shirt because one of the kids decided she looked like a human napkin.

She didn’t even flinch; just laughed and offered to buy the kid another cone.

Cam looked like he was going to imprint on her right there.

Last night, we played Monopoly, and she destroyed us .

I’m not kidding—she built a property empire so fast I think she might be a criminal.

When Wes landed on her hotel-ridden Mayfair and had to mortgage everything, he muttered something about capitalism being a broken system and rage-quit.

She laughed so hard she snorted and then stole his last fifty bucks just to be petty.

And I don’t want to scare her off, but the more time we spend like this, the harder it is to pretend we aren’t already acting like a fully-formed and complete pack.

There’s glitter on the main bathroom mirror and a scented omega lotion in the shower that smells like vanilla and sugar and maybe low-level addiction. She wears shorts around the house that make conversation a struggle and she drinks tea from a new mug that says Alpha Tears in cursive pink.

We’re good. More than good, even.

She came to the gym with me again on Friday, wearing tiny shorts and a sports bra that should’ve been illegal. We stretched, sparred a little. She got feisty, telling me I was all talk when I teased her about how flexible she wasn’t.

So naturally, I had to fuck her over the bench press.

She made the kind of sounds I’d bottle and sell, and then she came home and slept between Cam and I, her cheek on my chest and her leg tossed over his. She woke me up the next morning by pressing slow, sleepy kisses to my neck like she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

We did it again two nights later. Same bed, same girl. Different position, but still perfect.

It’s strange. The four of us have nothing in common, and we shouldn’t work. Aimee’s chaos personified, Wes is an emotional brick wall, Cam’s a golden retriever with abs, and I’m… me. Somewhere in the middle of it all.

But it’s working.

We’re laughing more. Touching more. Talking more. She’s still mouthy and impossible and gets peanut butter on everything, but she’s also happy .

And fuck, I love this. Not just the sight of her—though yeah, I’ll admit, Aimee on the counter in one of our hoodies with a glass of orange juice and legs swinging like she’s lived here forever does something to my chest I don’t have the vocabulary for.

But it’s the sound, too. The low hum of her voice trailing through.

The soft clatter of plates, the hiss of pancake batter hitting the pan, Cam’s off-key singing under his breath while flipping them.

Wes is pretending to read the news on his phone at the table, but he’s not fooling anyone. Every time she laughs, his jaw ticks before softening. He’s trying. That’s the thing. For the first time in a long time, he’s not keeping score. He’s just… here .

“I said ,” Aimee calls, “how many pancakes does an omega have to eat around here before someone starts calling her wife material?”

Cam turns with a spatula in hand, mock-offended. “Are you saying I’m not taking this seriously?”

“I’m saying,” she grins at him over her juice, “that I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes and no one has proposed.”

Wes snorts, not looking up. “What kind of idiot proposes to someone wearing that hoodie?”

“It’s yours,” she fires back sweetly.

“Exactly.”

I bite back a laugh as I head for the coffee pot. “She’s got a point, though. Cam made heart-shaped pancakes yesterday.”

“They were accidental heart shapes,” Cam mutters, cheeks flushing as he flips another one. “The pan is warped.”

“Mmm.” Aimee slides off the counter and pads over to him, stealing a slice of pancake right off the spatula. “Tell that to my heart, Alpha.”

Cam lets her, of course; watching her chew with stars in his eyes.

Wes glances up from his phone, eyes flicking to her and then to me. “She’s got you all hypnotized.”

“Who says you’re not hypnotized too?” I ask, raising a brow.

Wes opens his mouth to reply, then closes it again when Aimee hip-bumps him on the way back to the table. She drops into the seat beside him, curls a hand around his bicep without thinking, and leans against him.

He tenses, though not in a bad way. It’s more… surprised .

But he doesn’t pull away.

I watch him let it happen—her head on his shoulder, the little smile she hides in her mug. He even angles the phone so she can read it too. That alone feels monumental.

I stand there with my coffee and soak it in.

Somehow, this ridiculous, glitter-strewn chaos queen came into our lives and started stitching everything back together.

The four of us are moving around the kitchen like it’s choreographed—Cam humming, Aimee teasing, Wes grumbling but not leaving, and me watching them all like an idiot with a full heart.

We’re not perfect, but we’re trying, and for the first time, I think this thing we’re building…

It might actually last.