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The highway stretched endlessly ahead. Style had insisted on driving when Fadel's pain and exhaustion had finally caught up with him around 2 PM. Now Fadel was passed out in the backseat, his injured arm cradled against his chest, his face peaceful in sleep in a way it never was when he was awake.

Style glanced at him in the rearview mirror and felt his chest tighten with affection and fear in equal measure.

They were driving toward a confrontation that could end any number of ways, most of them bad. And Style still hadn’t told Fadel about the pills, about the possibility that was becoming more real with each passing day.

His hand drifted to his stomach again before he forced it back to the steering wheel.

Focus. One crisis at a time.

The silence was starting to get to him. Style reached for the radio, found only static, and gave up. He wondered if Fadel had any CDs in the car. The Jeep was old enough to still have a CD player.

He popped open the glovebox one-handed, keeping his eyes mostly on the road.

Papers, a registration, some receipts, and…

A photograph.

Style pulled it out, curious. It showed a young Omega man, maybe in his early twenties, with sharp features and the cutest dimples. He was standing on a beach somewhere, the ocean behind him, looking happy and carefree.

Style had never seen him before.

Who was he? An ex? A friend? Someone Fadel had–

The photo was worn at the edges, like it had been looked at many times.

Style felt a strange pang in his chest. Jealousy? Curiosity? He wasn't sure.

Behind him, Fadel stirred.

Style quickly shoved the photo back into the glovebox and snapped it shut, returning both hands to the wheel as Fadel sat up.

“Did I not drive smoothly? You seemed to sleep quite well.” Style kept his eyes on the road. “How's your arm?”

“It’s fine.” Fadel shifted, grimacing slightly. “Where are we? How long was I out?”

“Couple hours. We’re about halfway to the coast. Should reach the ferry by four o’clock.”

Fadel was quiet for a moment, processing. 

“I hope Kant is still alive. That we’re not… that we're not too late.”

Fadel’s jaw tightened. “I can’t promise that. Knowing Bison, knowing how hurt he is…” He didn’t finish what he was saying.

The silence that followed was heavy.

Style fidgeted in his seat, then caught a whiff of himself and wrinkled his nose. “God, I’ve been wearing your clothes for two days straight. They’re sticky and they smell!” He looked down at the borrowed shirt and cargo pants, both too big for him. “I’m going to look terrible as a corpse.”

“What?”

“I said I need new clothes. For when you inevitably shoot me. I should at least look good.” Style tried for levity but his voice shook slightly.

“You’re not going to die.”

“I'd still like to be in clothes that fit.” Style pointed to an upcoming exit. “There. I saw a sign for a second-hand shop. It’s on the way.”

“We don’t have time.”

“It’ll take fifteen minutes. Please? I just… I need to not smell like fear and old sweat when we get there.” Style’s voice dropped. “Please, Fadel. Let me have this one small thing.”

Fadel looked at him for a long moment, then sighed and gestured at the upcoming exit.

“Fifteen minutes. That’s it.”

“You’re the best.” Style’s smile was genuine despite everything.

***

The second-hand shop was small and cluttered, racks of clothes packed tightly together, the smell of detergent and old fabric heavy in the air. An elderly, tired-looking beta man at the counter barely looked up from his magazine as they entered.

Style immediately started browsing, his mood lifting slightly at the distraction.

“What do you think?” He held up a gaudy floral shirt. “Too much?”

“Way too much.”

“But I’d die memorable.” Style put it back, moving to another rack. He found a simple black t-shirt, cropped of course, and held it up against his chest. “Better?” 

Fadel leaned against a rack, watching him with an expression that was almost fond despite his best efforts. “Fine,” he rumbled.

“Just fine?” Style found some ripped denim shorts next, checked the size. “What if I want to look better than fine?”

“You always look-” Fadel stopped himself. “Just pick something already.”

“What were you going to say?” Style moved closer, his voice dropping to something more intimate. “That I always look what?”

“Nothing. Twelve minutes remain.”

Style held up the jeans, pressing them against his bare waist. “Do you think these will fit? Maybe I should try them on.”

“Style…”

“I’ll be quick.” Style headed toward the fitting room at the back, then paused and looked back at Fadel. “Unless you want to help? Make sure they fit properly?”

“We don’t have time for this.”

“We have eleven minutes left. I can change quickly.” Style’s smile was wicked. “Or slowly. Your choice.”

Fadel’s expression said he knew exactly what Style was doing – the teasing, the flirting, the attempt to distract from the looming confrontation. But he followed Style toward the fitting rooms anyway, drawn like a magnet.

Style was just pulling the curtain closed when the shop’s bell chimed.

A figure stepped inside. They were tall, wearing a motorcycle helmet, face completely obscured. They moved with purpose, reaching into their jacket–

“Get down!” Fadel shoved Style hard just as the gunshot rang out.

The bullet shattered a mirror behind where Style had been standing. Fadel had his pistol out instantly, returning fire as he used a clothing rack for cover.

Style scrambled behind a shelf, his heart hammering. The shop descended into chaos – the elderly man yelping and diving for cover, clothes flying as bullets tore through fabric and wood, glass shattering.

Fadel fired three more shots, trying to pin down the attacker. But they were fast, professional, moving between racks with practiced ease.

Another exchange of gunfire. Then Fadel’s pistol clicked empty.

“Fuck.” Fadel reached for his back pocket and the spare magazine he always carried… and found nothing.

He’d left it in the Jeep. Too distracted by Style to remember to bring it.

The attacker realized immediately. Started advancing.

“I’ll distract them.” Style stood up before Fadel could stop him.

“No! Style, get back down!”

“Hey!” Style shouted at the attacker, drawing their attention. “Over here, asshole!”

“Style, don’t–!”

But Style was already moving, running toward the back of the shop, making himself a target.

The attacker turned, aimed.

Fadel launched himself forward with a roar that was barely human. He crashed into the attacker, his injured arm screaming in protest, but he could have cared less. They went down hard, Fadel on top, and he fought like something wild and desperate, ripping at the thick leather of his opponent’s clothes as if to dislodge skin from flesh.

The attacker was strong, trained, but Fadel was running on pure Alpha rage and protective terror. He wrestled for their gun, slamming their wrist against the floor until they dropped it. Then he was on them, hands at their throat, growling and snapping like a feral animal protecting its mate.

The attacker kicked out, connected with Fadel’s injured arm. Fadel’s grip loosened just enough for them to roll away. They scrambled toward the door, moving fast.

A gunshot. A yelp.

The attacker had grabbed their weapon back. Fired blindly as they ran.

And hit Style.

“No!” Fadel’s scream was anguished. He tried to catch the attacker but they were already out the door, the sound of a motorcycle engine roaring to life.

Fadel let them go.

Because Style was on the ground, blood spreading across his upper arm, his face pale with shock.

“Style! fuck…” Fadel was beside him in an instant, his hands shaking as he assessed the wound. “You stupid, reckless, idiotic–!”

“It’s just a graze,” Style said, though his voice was thin and shaking with pain. “I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay, you're bleeding.” Fadel was already tearing fabric, making a tourniquet. His first aid training kicked in despite his panic. “Why did you do that? Why did you– You could have been…”

“You were out of bullets. I had to–” Style winced as Fadel tightened the makeshift bandage. “Ow, shit!”

“Hold still.” Fadel’s voice was harsh, but his hands were gentle. “You’re so stupid. So fucking stupid. Running from someone with a gun.”

“It worked though. You got them.” Style tried to smile. “I’m a great distraction.”

“You’re an idiot.” Fadel pressed the bandage firmly, trying to stop the bleeding. “A reckless, suicidal idiot who doesn’t think before he acts.”

“Fadel.” Style reached up with his good arm, touching Fadel’s face. “I’m okay. Really. It’s just a graze.”

But Fadel was shaking. His hands trembling as he worked, his breathing uneven.

“You can’t do that,” he said, his voice breaking. “You can’t… you can'’t just throw yourself in danger like that. What if they’d hit something vital? What if you’d-”

“But I didn’t.” Style’s voice was soft. “I’m right here. I’m okay.”

“This time.” Fadel finished securing the bandage, but didn't let go of Style. “What about next time? What if-”

“There might not be a next time.” Style’s smile was sad. “So I’m going to use this time to protect you. Even if you hate me for it.”

“I don’t hate you.” The admission came out strangled. “I wish I did. This would be so much easier if I hated you.”

The elderly shop owner appeared, phone in hand, speaking rapidly. Police. Ambulance.

“We need to go,” Fadel said, helping Style to his feet. “Now.”

“The clothes–”

“I’ll leave money. Come on.” Fadel half-carried Style toward the exit, scanning for any sign the attacker had returned.

Style grabbed the black shirt and shorts with his good hand as they passed. “At least let me die in clothes that fit.”

“You’re not going to die.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.” Fadel got him to the Jeep, helped him into the passenger seat. “You’re not going to die. I won’t let you.”

As Fadel started the engine and pulled out, sirens already audible in the distance, Style leaned back against the seat, his arm throbbing.

“Who was that?” he asked. “Who’s trying to kill us?”

“I don’t know.” Fadel’s jaw was clenched. “But they knew where we were. Knew we’d be on this route.”

“How?”

“That's what I’m trying to figure out.” Fadel glanced at Style, his expression tight with worry. “How's your arm?”

“Hurts. But I’ll live.” Style closed his eyes. “Guess I’m not dying today after all.”

“No. You’re not.” Fadel's voice was fierce. “I won’t let you.”

The conviction in his voice made Style’s chest tight.

“Fadel?”

“What?”

“Thank you. For… for saving me.”

“You need to stop getting into situations where you need saving. Immediately.”

“I’ll try.” Style’s smile was weak but genuine. “No promises though.”

“Impossible Omega,” Fadel muttered, but his hand found Style’s good one and squeezed gently.

They drove in silence, leaving the second-hand shop and its chaos behind, heading toward the coast and whatever waited for them there.

***

The ferry ride had been hell. Style had spent most of it leaning over the railing, trying not to vomit, his injured arm throbbing with every swell of the waves. The midday heat was oppressive, the sun beating down mercilessly, and Style’s borrowed clothes were soaked with sweat and blood.

Fadel had stayed close the entire time, one hand on Style’s back, supporting him without saying anything. Just being there.

Now they were on the island. A small, private piece of land with dense jungle and a single house on a hill, barely visible through the trees. The beach where the ferry had dropped them was pristine and isolated, exactly the kind of place you’d go to disappear.

Or to kill someone where no one would find the body.

Style stumbled as they walked up the beach, his legs weak. Fadel caught him immediately, wrapping an arm around his waist.

“I’ve got you.”

“I'm okay,” Style mumbled, but he leaned heavily against Fadel anyway. “Just… really dizzy. Hot.”

“We’re almost there. Just a little further.”

They rounded a cluster of palm trees and found two figures standing on the path ahead.

Bison and Kant.

Both alive. Both unharmed.

“Fadel!” Bison started forward, relief clear on his face.

But it was Style and Kant who spoke first, their voices overlapping as Kant drew near and stopped at their side.

“Kant, you're alive!”

“Style, thank god you're okay!”

They moved toward each other, Style stumbling slightly, Kant reaching out to steady him.

An enraged growl ripped from Fadel’s throat.

It was a sound Style had heard him make before. At the host club backlot. Primal, possessive, dangerous. Fadel yanked Style back against his chest, his good arm wrapping around him protectively.

“Don’t touch him,” Fadel snarled at Kant.

Kant froze, his hands raised. “I was just trying to help–”

“I said don’t touch him.” Fadel’s eyes were wild, his Alpha presence and territorial scent flooding the space between them. Before anyone could react, he swept Style up into a bridal carry, ignoring the way his injured arm screamed in protest.

“Fadel, you’re still hurt!” Style protested weakly.

“Shut up.” But Fadel’s voice was gentle despite the words. “Just be quiet. Let me carry you.”

Style didn’t have the energy to argue. He let his head rest against Fadel’s shoulder as the Alpha carried him toward the house, Bison and Kant following at a careful distance so as not to incite more territorial rage.

The house was large and well-maintained, clearly used regularly despite being so remote. Fadel carried Style to a couch and set him down carefully.

“Bison, first aid. Now.”

“On it.” Bison disappeared into another room.

Kant hovered near the doorway, looking torn between wanting to help and being terrified of Fadel’s reaction.

“I'm glad you’re alive,” Style said quietly to Kant. “I was so worried.”

“I’m glad you’re alive too.” Kant’s eyes went to Style’s bloodied arm. “What happened?”

“Someone shot at us.” Style’s voice was weak. “We don’t know who.”

Bison returned with a medical kit that looked professional-grade. “Shirt off. Let me see the wound.”

Style started to comply, wincing as he tried to move his injured arm. Fadel immediately helped, gently easing the borrowed shirt off, revealing the makeshift bandage now soaked through with blood.

“This is going to hurt,” Bison warned, opening the kit. “I need to clean it and stitch it. We don’t have any anesthetic.”

Style’s face went pale. “Okay.”

“I’ll be quick.” Bison pulled on gloves, his expression professional. “Fadel, hold him still.”

Fadel positioned himself behind Style, wrapping his good arm around Style’s chest, using his body weight to keep the Omega in place.

Bison peeled off the makeshift bandage. Style hissed in pain.

“Sorry,” Bison muttered. He reached for the antiseptic. “This is gonna sting.”

He poured it over the wound.

Style screamed.

It was a raw, agonized sound that made Fadel’s chest constrict painfully. Style thrashed, trying to pull away, but Fadel held him firm.

“Shh, I know, I know it hurts," Fadel’s voice was soothing even as he kept Style restrained. “Just breathe. It'll be over soon.”

“It burns! Fuck, it burns.” Tears streamed down Style’s face.

Kant moved forward instinctively, wanting to help, to comfort.

Fadel’s head snapped up, his eyes feral. “Get back,” he snarled. “Get the fuck away from him.”

Kant retreated immediately, hands raised, dark eyes anguished and gleaming.

Bison worked quickly, cleaning the wound with efficient movements despite his brother's aggressive posturing. “It’s not deep. The bullet just grazed him. He’s lucky.”

“Doesn’t feel lucky,” Style gasped.

“I know.” Bison threaded a needle. “This part won’t hurt as much.”

It still hurt though. Style sobbed through the stitching, his good hand clutching at Fadel’s arm, squeezing so hard it would leave bruises. Fadel let him, murmuring constant reassurance, pressing kisses to Style’s temple between words.

“You’re doing so good. Almost there. Just a little more. I’ve got you.”

When it was finally over, Bison wrapped the wound in clean bandages and stepped back. “Done. Keep it clean and dry. Change the bandage daily. The stitches should dissolve on their own in about a week.”

Style was shaking, pale and sweating, completely exhausted. His eyes were already drooping.

“He needs to rest,” Bison said quietly. “Bedroom’s down the hall. First door on the right.”

Fadel picked Style up again, carrying him to the guest bedroom, his injured arm throbbing with a sort of low-grade agony. He laid Style down on the bed, pulled a light sheet over him, and sat beside him until Style’s breathing evened out into sleep.

Only then did Fadel allow himself to let go.

His arm was screaming. His whole body ached. And the terror of watching Style get shot, of seeing him in pain, of nearly losing him…

Fadel stood abruptly and left the room before he could break down completely.

***

Outside, the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. Fadel found Bison sitting on the porch, staring at the ocean behind the trees. Fadel sat down beside him without a word.

They were quiet for a long moment. Then:

“How could you be so stupid?” Fadel’s voice was tired. “Running off with Kant. Disappearing. Not answering your phone. Do you have any idea how worried I was?”

“I’m sorry.” Bison’s voice was small. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was just… so angry. So hurt. I needed to get away.”

“To kill him?”

“Yeah.” Bison’s laugh was bitter. “I really wanted to. Brought him here thinking I’d– That I could…” He stopped.

Fadel rolled his eyes. “The Kant inside is a ghost then?”

“Fadel, I couldn't–” Bison’s voice broke. “I love him. Even after everything, even knowing what he did, I love him. And I–I can’t kill someone I love.”

Fadel was quiet.

“We talked,” Bison continued. “Really talked. Kant told me everything. About how the Police Captain forced him into it. How Kant’s brother Babe – he's just a kid, seventeen years old. The Captain threatened to arrest Kant on old charges unless he spied for them. Said Kant could either help them or go to prison and abandon his little brother.”

“And you believe that?”

“I do. Because Kant showed me–” Bison pulled out his phone, showed Fadel text messages, emails, evidence of the coercion. “It’s all real. The Captain manipulated him. Manipulated Style through Kant. They didn’t want to betray us, they just… they didn't have a choice.”

“Everyone has a choice.”

“Do they?” Bison looked at his brother. “What would you have done? If someone threatened me? Said they’d hurt me unless you did what they wanted?”

Fadel didn’t answer.

Because they both knew what he would have done.

Anything.

Everything.

Fadel stood abruptly, pulling out his pistol. His face was cold, determined. “This is stupid. You’re being manipulated again. Kant might have had reasons but that doesn't change what he did. What they both did.”

He started walking toward the door, gun in hand, intent clear.

“Fadel, wait!” Bison scrambled up, moving to block him. “What are you doing?!”

“What I should have done weeks ago.” Fadel’s voice was ice. “Ending this. Both of them. Quick and clean. It's the only way we stay safe.”

“Are you really ready to see Style dead?” Bison’s voice was quiet but firm. “Because that’s what you’re saying. You’re ready to kill him.”

Fadel stopped. The gun trembled in his hand.

“I saw how you held him just now,” Bison continued. “How gently you looked at him. How you carried him even though your arm is injured. How you snarled at Kant for even trying to get close.” His voice softened. “I know exactly how you feel about Style, Fadel. Because it’s exactly how I feel about Kant.”

“This is different.”

“How? How is it different? We both fell for people who betrayed us. We’re both hurt and angry and terrified. And we both–” Bison’s voice broke. “We both love them anyway. Despite everything. We can't help it.”

Fadel’s gun hand dropped to his side.

“I can’t do it,” he admitted, his voice hollow. “I thought I could. I thought if I just… If I could make myself pull the trigger… but I can’t.”

“I know.” Bison took the gun gently, removed it from Fadel's grip, and set it aside. “Me neither.”

Fadel sank down onto the porch steps, head in his hands. “What are we supposed to do? They betrayed us. Put us in danger. The police are probably still looking for us. How do we come back from this?”

“I don’t know.” Bison sat beside him. “But we figure it out, together. Like we always do.”

They sat in silence as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the ocean in shades of purple and gold.

“How are you doing?” Fadel asked finally. "Really."

“Confused. Hurt.” Bison paused. ”But also relieved. That I didn’t kill him. That I have a chance to try to understand. To maybe, eventually, forgive.”

“You’re a better person than me.”

“No. I'm just in love with an idiot who made terrible choices for good reasons.” Bison smiled sadly. “Just like you.”

Fadel huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh. “Style got shot today. Trying to protect me. Threw himself in front of a gunman because I was out of bullets.”

Bison looked at him, eyes wet and shining with empathy. “Sounds like something an Omega in love would do.”

“Sounds like something a suicidal idiot would do.”

“Both can be true.” Bison bumped his shoulder against Fadel's. “He loves you. Whatever else is true, that is. I saw his face when you picked him up. When you carried him inside. He looks at you like you’re his whole world.”

“I don’t deserve that.”

“Maybe not. But you have it anyway.” Bison stood, offering Fadel his hand. “Come on. Let’s go inside. Check on them. Make sure Kant's still alive and Style hasn’t developed a fever.”

***

Style woke to pain radiating through his arm and the dim light of early morning filtering through unfamiliar curtains. For a moment, he couldn’t remember where he was – then it all came flooding back. The island. Bison. Kant alive. Getting stitched up without anesthetic.

He groaned, trying to sit up, and heard movement nearby.

“Hey, take it easy.” Kant appeared beside the bed, holding a glass of water and some pills. “Bison said you’d be hurting when you woke up. These should help.”

Style accepted the medication gratefully, swallowing the pills and draining half the glass. “Thanks.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I got shot and then sewn back together without painkillers.” Style shifted, wincing.

Kant sat carefully on the edge of the bed, his expression concerned. “You scared the shit out of me when I saw all that blood.”

“Yeah, well, you scared the shit out of me when I thought Bison had killed you and buried you on this island.” Style managed a weak smile. “Glad to see you’re still breathing.”

“Me too.” Kant’s smile was soft. “Bison and I talked. Really talked. I told him everything. About the Captain, about Babe, about why I agreed to spy in the first place.”

“And?”

“Annd… he didn’t kill me. He said,” Kant's voice was thick with emotion, “he said he loves me. Even after everything. He still loves me.”

“The power of love!” Style tried to raise his good arm dramatically and immediately regretted it as pain shot through his body. “Ow. Okay, no celebrating yet.”

“Idiot.” But Kant was smiling. “What about you and Fadel?”

“What about us?” Style’s smile faded. “He still hates me. Or wants to hate me. Or is trying really hard to hate me and failing.” He sighed. “It’s complicated.”

“Love usually is.”

“And now it’s even more complicated because not only are the police after them, but someone else is trying to kill us too.” Style’s voice was strained. “That person at the second-hand shop… They knew where we'd be. They were waiting for us. How did they–?”

His voice broke suddenly. The fear and stress and pain of the past few days crashing over him all at once.

Style started crying. Not the quiet tears from the motel. Full, wrenching sobs that made his injured arm scream in protest but he couldn't stop.

“Hey, hey, Style, what’s wrong?” Kant moved closer, alarmed. “Is it the pain? Should I get Bison?”

“No, it’s not…” Style tried to catch his breath. “I can’t… Kant, I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. When nothing is fine. When everything is falling apart and I…”

“Slow down. Breathe. Tell me what’s really wrong.”

Style looked at his best friend – his brother in everything but blood – and the secret he’d been carrying felt too heavy to hold alone anymore.

“I think I might be pregnant.”

Kant’s eyes went wide. “What?”

“Fadel… During my heat, he gave me my birth control pills but…” Style’s words tumbled out in a rush. “But they were the wrong ones. The placebo pills. He didn’t know, he’s an Alpha, he probably doesn’t understand how birth control works. And I didn’t notice until after and now it’s been almost two weeks and I–”

“Okay, okay, slow down.” Kant’s hand found Style’s good one, squeezing. “Have you taken a test?”

“It’s too early, the tests might not work.” Style’s voice was desperate. “But Kant… I was,” he swallowed hard and blushed, “knotted. Multiple times during heat. If the birth control failed, that almost guarantees–”

Kant shook his head and smiled comfortingly. “It doesn’t guarantee anything. Lots of Omegas get knotted during heat and don't get pregnant.”

“But lots do. Especially with compatible Alphas. And Fadel and I…” Style's hand drifted to his stomach. “We’re really compatible.”

Kant was quiet for a moment, processing. Then: “Does Fadel know?”

“No. Gods, no. How am I supposed to tell him?” Style’s tears came harder. “He already hates me for betraying him. How do I add ‘oh, and by the way, I might be pregnant because you accidentally gave me the wrong pills’? He’ll think I’m trying to trap him!”

“He won’t think that. Fadel’s not stupid. He’ll understand it was a mistake.”

“Will he? Because right now he can barely look at me without flinching. He carried me today and held me while Bison stitched me up but he won’t talk to me. Not really. He’s so angry and hurt and I don’t blame him but–" Style’s voice cracked. “But what if there’s a baby? What if I’m carrying his pup and he can’t forgive me? What do I do then?”

“We’ll figure it out.” Kant’s voice was firm. “I’ll help you. I’ll get pregnancy tests – multiple brands. And if you are pregnant, we’ll deal with it. Together.”

“He might kill me, Kant. Once everything else is settled and we’re safe, he might decide that I’m too much of a liability. Too dangerous to keep around.” Style met his friend’s eyes. “And if I’m pregnant…”

“He won’t hurt you. Has he ever?”

Style shook his head.

Kant gave him an encouraging nod. “I saw the way he looked at you today. When you got shot, when he was holding you during the stitches. Style, that man loves you. He’s hurt and angry, but he loves you. He won’t hurt you.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“No. But I believe it.” Kant squeezed his hand again. “And we’ll face it together. Whatever happens. You and me. Like always.”

Style managed a watery smile.

Kant sighed. “Thank you. For coming to look for me.”

“Are you kidding? I didn’t come looking for you, Fadel dragged my ass here!” But Style’s smile was genuine now.

Kant laughed despite everything. “Fine, fine. If you love me, you can say so. Stop making excuses.”

“Ew, don’t make it sound like that.”

“You know what I mean! Like brothers.”

“I know what you meant, I’m just giving you shit.” Style’s smile faded slightly. “What did Fadel look like? While Bison was patching me up? I was kind of… out of it.”

“Oh man.” Kant’s expression turned theatrical. “He was… Here, let me show you.”

Kant leaned in, his face transforming into an exaggerated mask of anguish and fury. His eyes went wide and desperate, his jaw clenched, and he made a low growling sound in the back of his throat that made Style giggle.

“Every time I tried to get close to help,” Kant continued in a dramatic whisper, still doing the face, “he looked like he wanted to rip my throat out. Like a feral wolf protecting its wounded mate. And when you screamed–” Kant’s voice broke convincingly. “His whole face just crumpled. Like your pain was physically hurting him.”

Style laughed despite himself. “Stop, you’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being accurate!” Kant was fully committed to the bit now, making tragically pained faces and dramatic gestures. “He was kissing your temple and whispering sweet nothings while simultaneously looking like he wanted to murder everyone else in the room.”

Kant had been leaning in closer and closer while demonstrating, and suddenly they both realized they were mere inches apart, almost nose-to-nose.

They both recoiled instantly.

“EW!”

“GROSS!”

“Get your face away from my face!”

“You leaned in first!”

They scrambled apart, Style clutching his injured arm as the movement jostled it, both of them making exaggerated gagging sounds.

“That gave me the creeps,” Style declared.

“Yeah,” Kant agreed. “You’re like my brother.”

“You’re like my brother. The gross, annoying kind.”

“Says the Omega who just cried all over me about his possible pregnancy.”

“I hate you.”

“Love you too.” Kant stood up, grinning. “Now get some more rest. Those painkillers should kick in soon. And Style?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s going to be okay. All of it. We’ll figure it out.”

Style wanted to believe him and tried to find comfort in the certainty in Kant’s voice.

***

The smell of grilling fish filled the air, mixing with the salt breeze from the ocean. Bison stood hunched over the outdoor grill, turning mackerel with mechanical precision while Fadel prepared a marinade beside him.

They’d been working in comfortable silence for the past twenty minutes – the kind of quiet that only came from years of being brothers, of understanding each other without words.

Then Kant appeared on the path from the house, carrying empty plates, clearly coming to help.

Fadel stood so fast his chair toppled backward.

“Fadel–” Bison started.

But Fadel was already moving. He was silent as a shadow, didn’t growl, didn’t posture first, didn’t even show his fangs. Three strides and he was in front of Kant. His fist connected with Kant’s jaw with a sickening crack.

Kant went down hard, some of the plates shattering on the ground around him.

“Fadel, stop!” Bison's voice was high and panicked.

But Fadel wasn’t listening. Weeks of rage and hurt and betrayal were pouring out of him, focused entirely on the Alpha who’d orchestrated Style’s deception. Who’d manipulated his best friend into spying on Fadel.

Kant rolled, blood streaming from his split lip, but instead of staying down he surged back up, tackling Fadel around the waist.

They went down together, grappling in the grass. Kant, even if he wasn’t a trained fighter, got in a solid hit to Fadel’s ribs. Fadel responded with an elbow to Kant’s temple, sending him reeling. Both were fueled and muddled by emotion, Fadel’s rage, Kant’s guilt and Alpha pride colliding.

“Stop it! Both of you, stop!” Bison was circling them, hands outstretched but not knowing how to intervene. As an Omega, his instincts screamed at him not to get between two fighting Alphas, but these were the two people he loved most. “Please!”

Fadel got the upper hand, pinning Kant down, his forearm across Kant’s throat. But Kant bucked hard, throwing him off.

They scrambled apart, both breathing hard, both bleeding.

Fadel’s hand went to his waistband.

“No!” Bison breathed.

The pistol came out, pointed directly at Kant’s chest.

“You destroyed everything,” Fadel’s voice was cold, deadly calm despite his heavy breathing. “You manipulated Style. You put us in danger. You made me–” His voice cracked. “You made me fall for someone I can’t trust.”

Kant stayed on his knees, hands raised but not in surrender. “I know. And I’m sorry. But Fadel–”

The sound of another gun being cocked made everyone freeze.

Bison stood five feet away, his own pistol drawn, pointed at Fadel.

“Put it down, Fadel.” Bison’s voice shook but his hands were steady. “I won’t let you kill him.”

“Bison.” Fadel’s eyes widened with betrayal. “You’re pointing a gun at me? Your own brother?”

“And you’re pointing one at the man I love.” Bison’s eyes were wet but his jaw was set. “Put it down. Please. Don’t make me choose.”

“You’ve already chosen!” Fadel's voice rose. “You’re choosing him over–”

“Fadel!”

Style’s scream cut through the tension like a blade. He stumbled out of the house, his injured arm cradled against his chest, his face pale with pain and fear.

“Fadel, put the gun away!” Style was moving too fast for someone who’d been shot, desperation overriding pain. “Please, please don’t do this!”

“Stay back, Style.”

But Style didn’t stay back. He dropped to his knees beside Kant, half putting himself between Kant and Fadel’s gun.

“If you’re going to shoot him, you’ll have to shoot me too.” Style’s voice was fierce despite his trembling.

Fadel’s expression was set in stone. “Get out of the way.”

“No!” Style’s eyes blazed. “You want to punish someone? Punish me! I’m the one who pursued you. I’m the one who kept lying even after I fell in love with you. Kant just… He was trying to protect his brother. But I made my own choices. So if you’re going to kill anyone, kill me!”

“You don’t know what you're saying.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying!” Style’s hand found Kant’s shoulder, gripping tight. ”Kant is my brother. In every way that matters. And I won’t let you hurt him.”

“Style, stop.” Kant tried to pull away. “This isn’t your fault. This is on me. I got you into this mess. I convinced you to–”

“And I agreed!” Style turned to Kant, the look on his face fierce. “I could have said no. I could have walked away. But I didn’t. So this is on both of us.”

They looked at each other, these two best friends who’d grown up together, who’d been inseparable since childhood, who’d gotten into this mess together.

“Thank you,” Kant said quietly. “For everything. For being my brother. For– for making this life worth living.”

“Don’t.” Style’s voice cracked. “Don’t say it like that. Don’t say goodbye.”

“If this is it…” Kant's smile was sad, “I’m glad I got to spend this time with you. You’ve been the best friend anyone could ask for.”

“You too.” Style’s eyes were tearing up. “You too, you idiot.”

Fadel watched them, his gun still raised, his heart tearing itself apart. When he spoke, his voice came out harsh. “How do I know you’re not bluffing? How do I know this isn’t just another manipulation? Another lie to save yourselves?”

Style turned to look at him, and the raw honesty in his eyes made Fadel’s breath catch. It was familiar, because now he recognized it had always been there.

“Because I would never risk my life if I wasn’t completely in love with you.” Style’s voice was quiet but certain. “I know you don’t believe me. I know I’ve lied too many times. But this…” He gestured at himself, on his knees in the dirt, between Kant and a gun. “This is real. I love you. I would die for you. I would die for the chance that maybe, someday, you could forgive me.”

“We both love you,” Kant added, looking between Fadel and Bison. “Style loves you more than anything in this world, Fadel. And I love Bison the same way. We’re both ready to die for that. We’re both ready to do anything to see you two get the life you deserve. The life you want. Even if that life doesn’t include us.”

Fadel’s gun hand trembled.

He looked at Style. On his knees despite his injury, protecting Kant with his own body, tears threatening to spill but his expression still resolute, stalwart in the truth of his feelings.

He looked at Bison. His little brother, pointing a gun at him with shaking hands, choosing love over loyalty.

He looked at Kant. Bloodied and beaten, but not cowering, ready to accept whatever came.

And Fadel saw it. The truth cradled underneath all the lies. They loved each other. Style wasn’t bluffing. He would die here, right now, if Fadel pulled the trigger.

And Fadel…

Fadel just couldn’t do it. Couldn’t destroy the person he loved, even if that person had destroyed him first.

The gun lowered. Fadel’s hand dropped to his side, the weapon hanging loose from his fingers. Bison immediately lowered his own gun, rushing to Kant’s side. Style sagged with relief, his good hand still gripping Kant’s shoulder.

Fadel turned away from all of them, unable to watch Bison fuss over Kant’s injuries, unable to see Style’s grateful tears. He walked to the edge of the clearing, staring out through the trees at the beach, his shoulders rigid with tension. Behind him, he could hear soft voices. Bison was asking if Kant was okay, Style was checking his own stitches, Kant assured them both he was fine.

The sounds of people who loved each other, taking care of each other. Fadel closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the agony.

He’d almost killed the man his brother loved. Almost destroyed Style by forcing him to watch.

Almost become the monster he’d always feared he was.

But he hadn’t, and he didn't know if that made him weak or only human.

Minutes passed. The voices behind him settled into quieter tones. Eventually, Fadel heard footsteps approaching. Light ones. Not Style. He didn’t know if he was disappointed or not.

It was Bison who came to stand beside him.

“Thank you,” his brother said quietly. “For not… For stopping.”

“Don’t thank me. I wanted to do it.”

“But you didn’t.” Bison’s hand found Fadel’s shoulder. “That’s what matters.”

They stood in silence, watching the waves and the whispering sway of the trees.

“I’m sorry,” Bison continued. “For pointing a gun at you. For choosing–”

“Don’t apologize for loving someone.” Fadel’s voice was rough. “I understand. Better than you think.”

More footsteps. Citrus and vanilla in his nose. It made his muscles unwind instinctually.

“Fadel…” Style’s voice was tentative.

“Don’t.” Fadel held up his hand. “I need– I need a minute. Just, go back to the house. All of you.”

“But–”

“Please, Style. Just give me some space.”

He heard Style hesitate, then retreat. Heard the three of them walk back toward the house together, giving him the solitude he’d asked for.

Fadel stood alone, watching the ocean, trying to piece himself back together. He’d let them live. That had to mean something.

That had to be the first step toward something. Forgiveness, maybe. Hopefully.

***

The night outside was warm and glowing blue, the sound of waves providing a gentle backdrop as Style stood next to a first story window, Bison’s phone clutched in his hand. He’d finally worked up the courage to call his Dad. He’d been putting it off, afraid of what he’d say, afraid of lying again.

Jay answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Dad, it’s me.”

“Style!” The relief in his father’s voice made Style’s chest tight. “Where are you? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Dad. I’m at the beach with some friends. Just needed to get away for a bit. Clear my head.”

A pause. “Is Fadel with you?”

Style closed his eyes. “Yeah. He’s here.”

“Good.” Jay’s voice softened. “I’m glad you’re not alone. When are you coming home?”

“I don’t know yet. Soon. Maybe a few days.” Style’s voice wavered. “Dad, I–I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner. I just needed some time to figure things out.”

“I understand. Just be safe. And Style?”

“Yeah?”

“Whatever’s going on, you know you can tell me, right? Whatever it is. I’m here.”

Style felt tears prick his eyes. “I know. I love you, Dad.”

“Love you too, son. Call me when you’re heading back.”

“I will. Promise.”

Style ended the call and sat there, staring at the phone, his father’s words echoing in his head.

Whatever's going on, you can tell me.

But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not when he didn’t even know for sure.

“You okay?”

Style looked up at Bison sitting on a white leather loveseat a short distance away, concern written across his face.

“Yeah. Just–” Style’s voice cracked. “No. Not really.”

Bison gestured for him to sit down beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched. His fresh jungle scent spread into the room and twined with Style’s acrid citrus and smoked vanilla, soothing and gentle. There was something comforting about being near another Omega, someone who understood certain things on a fundamental level that Alphas never quite could.

“Want to talk about it?”

Style looked at Bison. This person who'd been hurt by Kant the same way Fadel had been hurt by Style. Who’d chosen love anyway. Who’d pointed a gun at his own brother to protect the person he loved.

“Can I… Can I tell you something? Something I haven’t told anyone except Kant?”

“Of course.”

Style took a shaky breath. “I think I might be pregnant.”

Bison’s eyes went wide. Then, to Style’s surprise, a smile spread across his face. “Really? That’s… Style, that’s amazing!”

“Is it?” Style’s laugh was slightly hysterical. “Because it feels like the worst possible timing in the history of terrible timing.”

“Okay, yes, the timing is awful,” Bison conceded. “But a pup! That’s– I’ve always wanted pups someday. I think about it sometimes, what it would be like. Teaching them things, watching them grow.” His expression turned wistful. “A family.”

“Even with everything else going on?”

“Especially with everything else going on.” Bison’s voice was certain. “Something good. Something pure. Something that’s just… love. No complications, no betrayals, just a pup.”

Style felt his eyes burning. “I’m really scared.”

“I know.” Bison squeezed his shoulder, his scent strengthening. “But wait! How could you be pregnant? You were taking birth control during your heat, right?”

Style’s face flushed red. “I was. Or… I thought I was. But Fadel…” He couldn't help the small, slightly hysterical laugh that escaped. “Fadel gave me the wrong pills.”

Bison stared at him, mouth agape. “What?”

“He gave me the reminder pills.” Style covered his face with his good hand. “I guess he didn’t know the difference.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Bison started laughing.

“I’m sorry!” He tried to stop, but couldn't. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t laugh, but–” He dissolved into giggles again. “Fadel? Fadel who researches everything obsessively? Fadel who made lists for your heat care? Fadel gave you the wrong pills?”

“It’s not funny!” But Style was fighting back his own laughter despite the tears.

“It’s a little funny.” Bison was wiping his eyes. “Oh gods, I’m never letting him live this down. Never. For the rest of our lives, I’m going to bring this up. ‘Hey Fadel, remember that time you accidentally got your Omega pregnant because you didn’t know how birth control works?’”

Style gave him a look. “Bison…”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry." Bison got control of himself, though his eyes were still dancing with mirth. “But you have to admit, it’s kind of perfect. Fadel, who’s so careful about everything, makes one mistake and…” He gestured at Style’s stomach.

Style’s hand moved there automatically, protectively. “Yeah. One mistake.”

Bison sobered, seeing the fear in Style’s expression. “Hey. It’s gonna be okay.”

“Is it?” Style’s voice was small. “What if– What if I tell him and he leaves? What if he thinks I did it on purpose? What if he can’t forgive me for the betrayal and now there’s a baby and–”

“Style.” Bison turned to face Style and took both of his hands in his. “Listen to me. Fadel loves you. I’ve seen it. The way he looks at you, the way he held you when you were hurt. He loves you so much it’s painful to watch.”

“But he’s so angry…”

“Anger and love aren’t mutually exclusive. Trust me, I know.” Bison’s smile was sad. “He’s hurt and he needs time. But a pup… Style, a pup might be exactly what you both need. Something to fight for. Something that’s bigger than the hurt.”

“Or something that makes everything worse.”

“Maybe. But you won’t know until you tell him.” Bison squeezed his hands. “You need to tell him. Soon. Before he figures it out on his own.”

“I’m terrified.”

“I know. But you’re also brave. You threw yourself between Kant and a gun today. You can do this.”

Style was quiet for a long moment, tears sliding down his cheeks. “What if he doesn’t want it? What if he…”

“Then we’ll figure it out. You, me, Kant. We’ll help you. You won’t be alone.” Bison’s voice was fierce. “But Style, I don't think that's going to happen. I think Fadel is going to surprise you.”

“You really think so?”

“I know my brother. And I know he’s going to want this. Even if he’s scared. Even if the timing is terrible. He’s going to want you and the pup.”

Style wanted so badly to believe him. “When should I…? How do I even–?”

“Tonight. Tell him tonight.” Bison stood, pulling Style up with him. “He's on the beach. Waiting. I think… I think he wants to talk to you. To really talk.”

“About what?”

“About everything. About where you go from here. About whether…” Bison paused. “About whether he can try to forgive you.”

Style’s breath caught. “Really?”

"Really. So go. Talk to him. And Style?" Bison smiled. "Tell him about the pup. He deserves to know."

"I'm scared."

"I know. But you're going anyway. Because that's what you do when you love someone."

Style nodded, wiping his eyes. He handed Bison back his phone. "Thank you. For—for this. For listening. For not thinking I'm crazy."

"You are crazy. But so am I. So is Fadel. So is Kant. We're all crazy." Bison grinned. "But we're crazy together. And that's what makes it work."

Style hugged him—a quick, tight embrace between omegas who understood each other.

Then he took a deep breath and headed toward the beach.

***

Fadel was going through the guest room dresser, looking for something to wear after his shower. They had laid low here with Bison before so they were mostly his clothes or clothes that would otherwise fit him. His nose caught the scent of spring rain and fresh cotton before Kant stepped into the room.

Fadel bristled and yanked his towel higher on his hips, feeling a bit disadvantaged. He had officially forgiven Kant but the Alpha did not forgive or forget those he fought with easily. It was all instinctual.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Kant was showing his neck as a peace offering, his body angled away from Fadel. “Bison asked me to bring you this toiletry bag.” He dropped the item in question onto the bed.

Then he finally actually met Fadel’s eyes. It made Fadel relax a bit. The gesture felt much more honest than all that semi-submissive posing Kant always did.

“What?” he asked when Kant didn't say anything at first.

“Thank you for giving me a chance,” the other Alpha said finally. “I won’t let you down.”

“You don’t need to promise me anything,” Fadel grumbled dismissively. “If you don’t live up to what you said, I’ll just kill you.”

“Okay. But don’t take it out on Style,” Kant said. “I asked him to hit on you. I even promised him my car.”

Fadel frowned. “Your car? In exchange for hitting on me?”

“Not at first,” Kant amended and visibly regretted ever saying anything. “I see you still doubt. Listen, right now, that car he’s been eyeing since he was a toddler? He could care less. He really loves you.”

“I heard you the first time. Stop speaking for him.”

“Style and I have been friends since we were pups. He has a lot of good things in his life. If he wasn’t serious about you, he wouldn’t have given it all up to be with you.”

Fadel paused to think. Yes, Style did have a lot of great aspects in his life. His father, the garage and its employees, lots of friends. Even Kant, as wily and untrustworthy as he was. Why indeed endanger all of that happiness just for Fadel if his feelings weren’t true?

“Bison has something to talk to you about,” Kant continued and sauntered towards the door. “He’s waiting for you on the beach.”

“Why didn’t he come himself, why send you?” Fadel pressed.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s about something he doesn’t want me to know,” Kant said, offhanded as always.

Fadel walked down to the beach, irritation prickling at his skin. But when his feet hit the sand, it wasn’t Bison waiting in the moonlight.

It was Style.

Fadel stopped dead. “Where's Bison?”

“Why would Bison be here?” Style asked. “He told me you wanted to talk to me.”

Of course. Bison and Kant had conspired. Fadel turned to leave. Style’s hand on his arm stopped him.

“Fadel, don’t.” Style’s voice was uncharacteristically grave. “Please. Let’s just talk. That’s all I’m asking.”

Fadel stopped. “Fine. Talk.”

“Can you look at me? Please?”

Slowly, Fadel turned. Style stood in the moonlight, his injured arm still bandaged, his expression open and vulnerable in a way that made Fadel’s chest ache.

“I'm listening.”

Style reached into his pocket with his good hand and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He held it out.

Fadel took it, unfolded it, and stared.

It was a list of names. Dozens of them. At the top, in Style’s handwriting: My family.

Jay’s name was first. Then possibly aunts, uncles, cousins – an extensive family tree written out in careful detail.

“What is this?” Fadel’s voice was harsh.

“A list of everyone I love. Everyone who matters to me.” Style’s voice was steady despite the fear in his eyes. “I want you to know that I’ll never lie to you again. And if I do, you can kill me and every single person on that list.”

Fadel stared at him. “Are you insane?”

“I’m serious!” Style whined like they were fighting over what to have for dinner. “I’m giving you leverage. Real leverage. The kind you can’t fake or manipulate. If I lie to you again, you have every right to do whatever you need to do.”

“Why the hell would you do something like this?” Fadel's voice rose, anger and confusion warring in his chest. “Do you have any idea what you’re offering?”

“I’m sure.” Style’s voice was firm. “I’m completely sure that I’ll never lie to you again. So this list is insurance. It’s me putting everything I have on the line to show you that I mean what I say.”

Fadel looked down at the list, at Jay’s name written at the top. Style was offering him the power to destroy everyone the Omega loved.

It was senseless.

It was also the most trust anyone had ever shown him.

“I’m so tired of defending myself.” Style’s voice was suddenly quieter than Fadel had ever heard it, barely audible over the crashing of the waves. “I’ve poured my heart out to you. I’ve thrown myself between you and bullets. I’ve offered you my family’s lives. What more do you want from me?”

“I don’t know!” Fadel’s own voice cracked. “I don’t know what I want except for this to stop hurting.”

“Then let it stop.” Style stepped forward, close enough to touch now. “I know we can be together. I know we can make this work, if we both just try. If we both choose to believe in each other instead of in the hurt.”

“Style…”

“I’m done pleading.” Style’s voice steadied, took on a fierce certainty. “I’m done begging you to forgive me. But I’m not done fighting for us. I promise to stay by your side, through whatever comes next.”

Fadel wanted to believe him. God, he wanted to believe him so badly it physically hurt.

“If you give me a chance,” Style continued, his eyes locked on Fadel’s. “Just one real chance. I promise to show you that I’m serious..”

Fadel stared at him, this impossible Omega who was offering him everything. Trust and vulnerability and power and love all tangled together.

But the hurt was still there. The betrayal still raw like a wound. So Fadel said nothing.

Style’s expression shifted – pain and resignation and something like defiance all at once.

“Fine.” Style turned and started walking toward the water. “If words aren’t enough, I’ll show you.”

“What are you doing?”

“Showing you I’m an Omega of my word.” Style kept walking, the waves lapping at his ankles, then his knees. “I said I’d stay by your side. I meant it. Even if you don’t want me there.”

“Style, stop!”

“I’m going now, bye bye!”

Style kept walking, the water rising to his waist, his bandaged arm held above the waterline.

“You’re only going to get an infection!” Fadel shouted. Style kept walking, his shoulders set with determination. The water was at his chest now.

“Damnit.” Fadel kicked off his shoes and ran into the water after him. “Style! Stop!”

“Why?” Style turned to face him, standing in the deep water, the waves rocking him gently.

Fadel reached him, grabbed his good arm. “Because you’re being reckless and stupid and–”

“And what? You care?" Style's voice was challenging. “You care if I get hurt?”

“Of course I care, you…!”

“Then why won’t you give me a chance? Why won’t you let me prove it?”

“Because I’m scared!” The admission tore out of Fadel, surprising even himself. “I’m terrified that I’ll let myself believe you and you’ll break me all over again.”

“I won’t.” Style’s free hand came up to Fadel’s face, gentle like the waves pushing them together and apart. “I swear to you, I won’t. Not again. Never again.”

They stood there in the water, close enough that Fadel could see the moonlight reflecting in Style’s eyes.

“If you’re not completely true with me from now on,” Fadel said quietly, dangerously, “you'll pay for it. You understand?”

“Yes, I understand.” Style’s voice was steady. He bit his lip, staring at Fadel’s. Like they were just having a little fun romp in the water. “What would you like to do to me? If we weren’t fighting?”

Fadel’s answer was to kiss him.

He pulled Style against him, both of them standing in deep water, the waves cradling them as their lips met. Style made a sound. Relief and need and love all mixed together. He wrapped his good arm around Fadel’s neck.

The kiss was desperate and hungry and tasted like salt water. Fadel’s hand found Style’s waist, holding him close as the ocean moved around them, supporting them, rocking them gently.

When they broke apart, both breathing hard, Style’s smile was radiant despite his tears.

“Does this mean…?”

“It means I’m trying.” Fadel’s forehead rested against Style’s. “I’m trying to forgive you. To trust you again. It’s going to take time.”

“I got time.” Style’s voice was fierce even as he grinned. “All the time in the world.”

***

Fadel was changing Style’s bandage when he asked the question. The moment had been so serene, so perfect in its quietness. Well, not actually quiet as Style didn’t really know how to be that, jabbing that Fadel needed big declarations and a show to believe his words.

“I found a photo of a man from your glovebox. Who is he?”

Fadel paused, his chest constricting around an old, yawning void.

“I’m sorry for looking through your stuff,” Style said when Fadel didn’t react for a while. “You don’t have to tell me, it’s okay.”

Fadel settled next to him and stared off into space, fighting against visions of the past. “He’s my ex.”

Style nodded. “How long were you together?”

“A little over two years.”

“So why did you break up?”

Fadel sighed. “He was afraid to start a new life with me.”

Four years earlier

The bar was nearly empty on a Tuesday night, just how Fadel preferred it. Quiet. Private. Safe.

He sat next to Fluke at the counter, watching the Omega sip his drink, his sharp features softened in the dim lighting. Fluke was beautiful. Gentle and kind and everything Fadel had thought he wanted.

"I talked to Mother today," Fadel said.

Fluke looked up, curious. "Your foster mother?"

"Yeah. She…" Fadel took a breath. "She agreed to let me leave. To let me walk away from the work."

"Really?" Fluke's eyes lit up. "Fadel, that's… That's amazing! I know how worried you've been about asking her."

"She said she wants me to have a mate. To live a normal life." Fadel reached across the table, taking Fluke's hand. "We can do it. Move to the south like we talked about. Buy that little house near the beach. Start over."

"A normal life." Fluke smiled, but there was something uncertain in his eyes. "What kind of work do you do, Fadel? You've never really told me."

Fadel's expression shuttered slightly. "It doesn't matter. That'll all be behind us soon."

"But–"

"Don't concern yourself with it." Fadel squeezed his hand. "I just want to focus on our future. On us. On building something real."

Fluke studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Okay. Our future."

Music started playing from the old jukebox in the corner. Something slow and romantic. Fadel stood, offering his hand.

"Dance with me."

"Here?" Fluke laughed. "Fadel, there's no one else–"

"That's exactly why. Come on."

Fluke took his hand, let himself be pulled into Fadel's arms in the small space between tables. They swayed together, Fluke's head resting on Fadel's shoulder.

"You're stepping on my toes," Fadel said, but his voice was warm with affection.

"Sorry." Fluke did it again immediately, giggling. "I'm terrible at this."

"I'll teach you." Fadel guided him gently, showing him the steps. "When we move south, we'll have time. I'll teach you to dance properly. We'll have all the time in the world."

"All the time in the world," Fluke echoed, but his voice was distant. Sad, almost.

Fadel noticed but didn't push. Just held him closer as they moved together in the empty bar, making promises about a future that felt so close Fadel could almost touch it.

Two weeks later

Fadel sat alone at the same bar, checking his phone for the seventeenth time. Fluke was late. Very late. They were supposed to meet here, finalize the plans for the move. Fadel had already quit his last job, told Mother he was done. Everything was arranged.

Except Fluke wasn't here.

Fadel called again. Straight to voicemail. He waited another hour. Then two.

Fluke never came.

And Fadel would never see him again.

“He disappeared without a trace,” Fadel said, his voice carefully empty as he secured the fresh bandage. “No note. No explanation. Just gone.”

Style watched him, saw the pain Fadel was trying to hide. “Did you look for him?”

“Of course I looked for him. For months.” Fadel's smile was bitter. “But if someone wants to disappear badly enough, they can. Especially from someone like me.”

“What do you mean?”

“He probably didn’t want to break up so he just left.” Fadel's voice was light, almost amused, but his hands were shaking slightly. “He was probably scared I would kill him if he broke up with me face to face.”

The smile on Fadel’s face was wrong, forced. Style could see the agony behind it. The wound that had never healed.

“Fadel…”

“It’s fine. It was a long time ago.” But Fadel’s voice cracked on the last word.

Style took Fadel’s hand, holding it firmly. “I’ve never been afraid of you.”

Fadel looked at him, surprised.

“Not really,” Style continued. “Even when maybe I should have been. My Omega," He touched his chest. “It’s always seen you as safe. Always known you would’'t hurt me.”

“Style–”

“And that feeling only got stronger when I saw you at the bowling alley. You threw yourself in front of a gun to protect that woman. Put yourself in danger for complete strangers.” Style’s voice was certain. “You’re a good person, Fadel. Whatever work you do, whatever violence is in your past – you’re good. And I know I’m in love with the right man.”

Fadel stared at him, something vulnerable and raw in his expression. Then, slowly, he moved closer and laid his head down in Style’s lap.

Style’s breath caught. This – Fadel seeking comfort from him, allowing himself to be vulnerable – was more than he’d hoped for.

Style’s good hand moved automatically to Fadel’s hair, stroking gently. They sat like that for a long moment, quiet and close.

This was the moment. Style knew it. If he was going to tell Fadel, it had to be now. While Fadel was open. While they were finding their way back to each other.

Style gathered all his courage.

“Fadel?”

“Mm?”

“There’s something I need to tell you.” Style’s hand stilled in Fadel’s hair. “Something important.”

Fadel lifted his head slightly, looking up at Style. “What is it?”

“During my heat…” Style heard his own voice shake. “When you gave me my birth control pills. Do you remember?”

“Of course. I gave them to you every morning. Made sure you took them.”

“Yeah. You did.” Style took a breath. “But they weren’t the right pills.”

Fadel sat up fully now, confusion clear on his face. “What do you mean?”

“Birth control packets have two types of pills. Active pills that prevent pregnancy, and reminder pills that are just… placebo. They look different. The active ones are blue, the reminders are white.” Style met Fadel’s eyes. “You gave me the white ones.”

Fadel’s face went pale. “I– what?”

“You didn’t know. How could you? You’re an Alpha, you’ve never taken birth control. You just grabbed pills from the packet and assumed they were all the same.” Style’s voice was gentle. “It was an honest mistake.”

“But that means– That means you really…” Fadel’s hand went to Style’s stomach, hovering without touching. “Style, are you–?”

“I don’t know yet. It’s only been about two weeks. It might be too early for a test to be accurate.” Style’s own hand covered Fadel’s, pressing it against his stomach. “But I was knotted. Multiple times. During peak heat. With no actual birth control. The chances are–”

“High.” Fadel's voice was barely audible.

“Yeah.”

They sat in silence, Fadel’s hand now pressed to Style’s stomach, both of them processing.

“I should have checked,” Fadel said finally. “I should have made sure–”

“And I didn’t even think to verify. I just trusted you were giving me the right ones.” Style’s voice was soft. “This isn’t your fault. It’s just something that happened.”

“A baby.” Fadel’s voice was hollow. “You might be pregnant with my baby”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re telling me this now. After everything. After…” Fadel swallowed the rest of his words and looked up at Style. “Why? Why tell me when you don’t even know for sure?”

“Because you deserved to know. Because I promised no more secrets.” Style’s eyes were wet. “And because I'm terrified and I needed you to know.”

Fadel pulled him close, careful of his injured arm, and just held him.

“I don’t know what to think,” Fadel admitted quietly. “I don’t– This is–”

“I know. It’s too much. Everything is too much right now.”

“If you are pregnant…” Fadel’s voice was careful. “What do you want?”

Style pulled back enough to look at him. “What do I want?”

“Do you want…?” Fadel seemed to struggle with the words. “Do you want to keep it? If there is a– if you're actually pregnant.”

“Yes.” Style didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I want to keep it. I want…” His voice softened. “I want a family with you. If you’ll have us. Both of us.”

Fadel’s expression was tangled – fear and wonder and uncertainty all mixed together. His scent stayed in the air, strong but easy for Style to breathe. Reassuring.

“I don’t know how to be a father,” Fadel said finally.

“I don’t know how to be a parent either,” Style’s laugh was watery. “But we’d figure it out. Together. If you want to.”

“If I want to.” Fadel’s hand was still on Style’s stomach. “A pup. Our pup.”

“Maybe. We don’t know yet.”

“But maybe.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

They sat like that, Fadel’s hand on Style’s stomach, both of them thinking about possibilities and futures and a tiny life or lives that might exist.

“I knew.” Fadel’s voice was hollow. “Part of me knew. The way you kept touching your stomach. The way you looked when you got shot. The way you–” He stopped. “But I couldn’t let myself believe it. Couldn’t process what it meant.”

“And now?”

“Now you've said it out loud and I—" Fadel's hands came up to his face. “I don’t know what to think. I can’t… I can’t think.”

“Are you angry?”

“I don’t know.” Fadel's voice was muffled. “I don’t know what I feel. It's too much. But Style,” Fadel looked up at him, something vulnerable in his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere. Whatever happens. I can say this much. Not like…”

“Like Fluke did.” Style finished gently.

“Yeah.” Fadel’s voice was rough.

“I know.” Style’s smile was soft. “You’re not him. You’re you. And that’s exactly who I need.”

Fadel leaned up and kissed him lightly. Soft and careful and full of promise.

When they broke apart, Fadel rested his forehead against Style’s.

“A baby,” he whispered, as if needing to adjust to the thought by speaking it aloud. “We might have a baby.”

“We might.”

“That’s…”

“Terrifying?”

“Yeah. But also,” Fadel paused, “not entirely terrible.”

Style laughed, the sound bright and hopeful. “I’ll take that.”

“For now, that’s all I can give you.”

“Then that’s enough.” Style kissed him again. “For now, that’s more than enough.”