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The afternoon passes in comfortable domesticity. Dean helps me plan meals for the week, Julian organizes my mail, and Callum fixes the creaky floorboard. It's ordinary and perfect and exactly what I've been afraid to want.

This is how it could be , I think, watching them work. This easy partnership, this shared life.

But underneath the contentment is a nagging awareness.

How quickly I've settled into being cared for.

How natural it feels to let them handle things I could probably figure out myself.

The part of me that came here seeking independence wonders if I'm slipping back into old patterns, just with different people.

As evening approaches and Dean mentions he should probably head home to get ready for his early shift, he pauses at the front door like he's debating something.

I can see the war in his expression, the want to kiss me goodbye against uncertainty about what's appropriate now that the heat-haze has cleared.

"Dean," I say softly, stepping closer.

"Yeah?"

Instead of answering with words, I rise on my toes and press my lips to his.

The kiss starts gentle, affectionate, but when Dean's hands come up to cup my face, when he makes a soft sound of surprise that turns into something hungrier, it deepens into something that has nothing to do with simple goodbye kisses.

When I pull back, his eyes are dark with want, his breathing uneven. "See you tomorrow?"

"Definitely," he says, voice rough with barely contained desire. His thumb traces across my bottom lip, and I have to resist the urge to pull him back down for another kiss.

After he leaves, Julian and Callum begin gathering their things, clearly preparing to give me space. But the thought of them leaving, of being alone in this house after days of constant companionship, makes something panic in my chest.

"You don't have to go," I say suddenly, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

Both of them freeze, looking at me with careful hope.

"I mean," I continue, feeling heat creep up my cheeks, "if you want to stay. The couch pulls out, or there's the bedroom upstairs, or..." I trail off, realizing I'm babbling.

"Are you sure?" Callum asks gently. "We don't want to assume anything."

"I'm sure," I say, more confident now. "I don't want you to assume anything either. But I also don't want you to assume I want space just because my heat is over."

What I want, I realize,is to choose. Not to be left alone because it's what someone thinks I should want, and not to be smothered because someone thinks I need protection. I want to choose, each moment, what feels right.

The relief that floods their faces tells me everything I need to know.

"Okay," Julian says simply, but there's warmth in his voice that makes my chest tight. "We'll stay."

Movie night happens naturally. Julian claiming one end of the couch with a poetry book, Callum taking the other end, me settling in the middle where I can lean against both of them. It's not the desperate closeness of heat, but something better: the choice to be close because we want to be.

Halfway through the movie, I find myself watching Callum more than the screen. The way lamplight catches in his dark hair, how his shoulders fill out his flannel shirt, the careful attention he's paying to the romantic comedy he probably wouldn't have chosen but is watching because I wanted to.

The solid comfort of his presence pulls at something deep in my chest, not heat-driven need, but the simple desire to be closer to someone who makes me feel safe.

Without overthinking it, I shift position, moving from my spot between them to curl up against Callum's side. He goes still for a moment, surprised, then his arm comes around me with careful warmth.

"Better?" he asks quietly, his voice rumbling through his chest.

"Much," I murmur, settling more firmly against him.

Julian's hand finds my ankle, thumb tracing gentle circles through my socks. The casual intimacy of it, the way they both touch me like I'm something precious they're allowed to hold, makes my eyes heavy with contentment rather than exhaustion.

As the movie continues, I feel myself drifting, not toward sleep exactly, but toward a kind of peace I haven't felt in years. Surrounded by the scents and sounds of people who choose to be here, who want to take care of me not because they have to but because they want to.

When Callum starts purring. A low, rumbling sound that vibrates through his chest where my head rests. I let my eyes slip closed and allow myself to float on the edges of consciousness. Safe and warm and exactly where I belong.

"Perfect," I whisper against his shirt, meaning it completely.

This is what I came here looking for without knowing it. Not the absence of people, but the presence of the right people. Not independence from caring, but the freedom to choose who I care about.

And the freedom to choose when I want to be cared for, I think drowsily.To ask for help when I need it and handle things myself when I don't. To be strong enough to be vulnerable .

As I drift toward sleep, surrounded by the quiet contentment of an ordinary evening with extraordinary people, I think about all the Tuesday nights that might stretch ahead of us. All the small moments and quiet comforts and simple joys of building a life together.

It's going to be messy sometimes. Complicated. We'll have to figure out logistics and boundaries and how to be a pack.

But right now, with Callum's purr vibrating against my cheek and Julian's thumb tracing patterns on my skin, all of that feels manageable.

Because we'll figure it out together.

All of us.