Page 135 of Pack Me Up

I laugh, shaking out my hands. “Don’t jinx it. We still have to get the bridge clean.”

He ignores me, lost in the afterglow. “Britt, seriously, that harmony! Did you feel that? It was like… I don’t know. Like sex, but with more eye contact.”

I snort, rolling my eyes. “You’re obsessed.”

“Yeah, but so are you,” he fires back, and I can’t really argue.

He pulls out his phone, opening the voice memo app. “Okay, we need to get this down before we forget. Play it from the top? Don’t be shy, I’m gonna send this to the label tonight.”

I hesitate. “It’s not ready—”

“It’s not always ready,” Tommy interrupts. “But Oli says you have to be brave. So, let’s be brave.”

That does it. I start the song over, letting my hands move without thinking. The lyrics are raw, barely sanded down: two omegas clawing their way up in a world that wants them soft and quiet. Tommy’s verses are punchy, clever, and full of inside jokes about our time on tour. My chorus is a little more desperate. It’s less of a punchline, more of a confession.

We record the whole thing in one take, then listen back on Tommy’s tiny phone speaker.

He’s right. It’s better than I thought.

“Not bad, right?” he says, voice soft for once.

I nod, feeling something twist in my chest. “It’s good. Really good.”

He plays it again, this time with his eyes closed, like he’s imagining how it’ll sound on stage. When the final note rings out, he looks at me, all teeth and nervous excitement. “You know what would make this perfect?”

I brace myself. Tommy’s perfect ideas usually mean a lot more work for me.

He leans in conspiratorially, lowering his voice like anyone else on the bus could possibly care. “We should ask Oli to sing the last verse with us.”

I nearly drop my pick. “Are you high? Oli’s, like… Oli. She’s busy, and probably too famous for our little omega anthem.”

Tommy scoffs. “She was literally with us last night, telling us to take risks. What’s the worst that happens? She says no, and we still have a badass track.”

I pick at the edge of the guitar, nerves tightening my shoulders. “She might say yes. Then what? What if we suck?”

“Then we practice until we don’t,” Tommy says, matter-of-fact. “Look, Britt, I know you get all in your head about this stuff. But you’ve got to start believing you’re allowed to be here. You’re, like, one of the best omega musicians I know.”

I roll my eyes. “You only know what, two that aren’t you? And one is Oli Hart!”

He grins. “And you still have my full belief!”

His faith in me is almost embarrassing. I’m not used to it. But underneath the nerves, I feel the first flicker of hope. I want Oli to like the song. I want to be good enough to ask her to join.

Tommy must see the change in my face, because he bounces on the stool, clapping his hands. “Oh my god, you’re gonna do it. You’re actually going to do it!”

I glare at him, but I can’t keep a straight face. “Fine. But you have to ask. I’m just moral support.”

He bows, exaggerated. “Deal.”

We continue working on the song until we arrive at the venue in Boston.

Tommy jumps up right away. “Let’s go ask her now!”

I nod, going to the back of the bus to tell my mates where I’m going.

“Tommy and I are going to Oli’s bus,” I tell them.

Saint nods. “How did songwriting go?”