Chapter Text
"Jesus fucking Christ." Max groaned into his pillow as Sassy's ear-splitting yowls tore through the hallway outside his bedroom. He rolled onto his stomach, dragging the pillow over his head in a last ditch attempt to preserve whatever remnants of sleep he might be able to get.
It was hopeless of course, because soon enough Jimmy joined his sister's yodelling in search of food. Their wails bounced off the hardwood floors, almost like a feline rendition of a fire alarm. Max groaned again, deeper this time, as Jimmy's paw slid under the door with a rhythmic scratching that made his teeth ache.
Max reached blindly for his phone, fingers fumbling across the nightstand. He squinted against the sudden brightness as the screen flared to life, the numbers burning into his retinas.
5:46 AM. Just lovely.
Sassy let out another scream, this one sharp enough to make him wince. He finally surrendered, shoving himself off the mattress with a grunt. His knees cracked as he stood, the cold hardwood biting into his bare feet.
He almost regrets deciding the cats sleep outside of his bedroom. Almost. He still remembers the early days when Jimmy pissed on his bed. Twice. The second time had been a deliberate power play, Max was sure of it. Payback for when he'd dared to sleep through the bastard's 4 AM breakfast demands. The ammonia stench had clung to his sheets for days no matter how many times he'd washed them and he had to throw out perfectly good sheets.
His limbs feel heavy as he moves towards the bedroom door, eyelids dropping with exhaustion. The sun hasn't even broken the horizon yet. The house was silent except for the faint hum of the fridge and the soft step of his own feet.
It was almost peaceful.
At least until Jimmy launched himself at Max's ankles like a furry torpedo the second the door cracked open. "Fucking-" Max hissed through clenched teeth, pushing the cat off gently with his other foot. Jimmy rolled dramatically before springing up again, tail flicking.
Jimmy bolted past Max's legs in a blur, claws skittering on hardwood as he made a beeline for the kitchen. Sassy followed at a more dignified pace, tail flicking. Then she lunged, swiping at her brother's hindquarters with a hiss.
"Guys. Chill, please." Max muttered, rubbing sleep from his eyes...just as Sassy sank her teeth into his bare ankle. He jerked back with a bitten-off curse, kicking out reflexively. But the cat had already danced away with a flick of her tail and her eyes gleamed with something suspiciously close to satisfaction.
Patience, he told himself. You chose them.
Jimmy headbutted his calf, purring like a malfunctioning engine. Sassy sat primly by the fridge, her tail twitching in a slow, predatory rhythm.
Max exhaled through his nose, his patience fraying like the ends of the old hoodie he wore. He crouched down, knees protesting the movement, and reached for Jimmy. The cat immediately shoved his face into Max’s palm, purring so hard his entire body vibrated. His fur was warm, softer than it looked, and Max scratched under his chin absently, feeling the rumble travel up his fingertips.
Max almost smiled. Almost. The warmth of Jimmy's fur under his fingers and the ridiculous purring vibrating against his palm tugged at something in his chest. But the moment he felt his lips twitch, Sassy's claws hooked into the hem of his sweatpants, yanking sharply as if to remind him No. We don’t do that here.
Breakfast was the usual. Oatmeal for him because Valtteri kept getting on his ass about running on an empty stomach. Something or another about hypoglycemia and muscle breakdown that Max only half-listened to. The microwave beeped, and he stirred the lumpy mess with a grimace, adding a splash of milk that did little to improve the texture. Kibble for the cats, poured into their respective bowls, Sassy’s by the fridge and Jimmy’s near the island. Because God forbid they ate within three feet of each other without starting World War III.
The house had that hollow quality again, where footsteps echoed just a little too loud. Two days since Kimi's car seat had been buckled into George's sleek Mercedes Benz, two days since Max had stood on the porch watching taillights disappear down the driveway and already the silence was clotting in his throat. He stabbed at the oatmeal, the spoon clinking against ceramic with a noise that made Jimmy's ears twitch.
The notification ping from his phone was the third one in twenty minutes. Max didn’t bother glancing at it. It was probably just another Twitch follower alert or a message from Daniel that would inevitably start with "mate, you alive?" He shoved the phone deeper into his hoodie pocket.
The oatmeal tasted like wet cardboard, but Max shoveled it down, barely registering the texture. He rinsed the bowl, watching the last stubborn clump circle the drain before disappearing. The water pressure made the sink spray droplets onto the counter, and he wiped them away with a rough swipe of his forearm, ignoring the way his skin caught on the rough edge of a chipped tile.
The trail near his house was nearly deserted this early. Enough to keep his thoughts manageable. The run didn't help much. It never did. He tried after leaving his paramedic job, to burn off the nightmares, the panic and the adrenaline that clung to his chest. It helped on some days, less on others.
Today, his lungs burned with every inhale, the crisp morning air sharp as shattered glass. His muscles protested each stride, still heavy with exhaustion, but he pushed harder, willing to do anything to outrun the images flickering behind his eyelids. The fractured skull. The too-small body slipping through his grasp. Jos' blood soaking his uniform.
The front door slammed shut behind Max with a finality that made his teeth ache. He braced his palms against the wall, fingers splaying against the cool drywall as he gasped for air that wouldn't come. His lungs burned and sweat dripped from his hairline, tracing the hollow of his throat before disappearing under the damp fabric of his hoodie.
The shower spray hit like liquid ice, instantaneous and brutal. Max gasped as the freezing needles drilled into his shoulders, his skin prickling into goosebumps. He pressed his forehead against the tiles, letting the water carve rivulets down his spine until his teeth stopped chattering and the tremors in his hands stilled. By the time he stepped out, his fingers were wrinkled and numb, his mind scraped hollow.
The towel scraped against Max’s skin as he dried off, rough enough to leave faint pink streaks across his shoulders. He ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and stared out the bathroom window at the empty street below. The morning light was casting long shadows that stretched like skeletal fingers across the pavement. The single remaining streetlamp flickered once before going dark.
No one was coming. No one would be. He knew that, and he liked it that way. Mostly. The house had settled into its usual rhythm with the hum of the fridge, the distant scratch of Sassy sharpening her claws on the couch (again). No footsteps except his own. No voices except the occasional muttered curse when he stubbed his toe on the coffee table. It was better this way.
Breakfast round two consisted of eggs and Red Bull, because the oatmeal hadn't stuck and Max's stomach growled loud enough to startle Jimmy off the counter. The eggs were overcooked, edges browned to a crisp. He drowned them in hot sauce until they tasted like nothing but burning. His phone buzzed against the marble countertop, vibrating like a dying insect. He finally flipped it over, scrolling with his thumb while shoveling eggs into his mouth with the other hand.
It was mostly a string of news Max didn't care about but didn't bother unsubscribe from: Businessman Zak Brown and politician Mattia Binotto were teaming up in a new business deal aiming to make the city more attractive to tourists, there's a storm somewhere, some celebrity Max doesn't care about got divorced. Some stupid idiots are stuck in a submersible somewhere in the ocean.
The phone buzzed again. Max didn't need to look to know it was Christian. The man had a particular rhythm to his texts these days, like Morse code for quit being a stubborn little shit. Max's thumbnail dug into the shell of his Red Bull can, popping the tab with more force than necessary. The metallic snick was drowned out by Jimmy's startled chirp.
Max tossed the phone face-down onto the counter with a clatter. He swallowed the last of his Red Bull in one go, the acidic burn doing little to drown out the memory of Christian's last voicemail.
Kid, you can't just-
Delete. Always delete before the concern could sink its claws in. Because concern meant questions, and questions meant talking, and talking meant cracking open his ribs to let them poke at the rotting mess inside.
The phone rang. He jumped slightly, debating whether to let it go to voicemail. He turned it around, just to check. The screen flashed- Lewis -and Max exhaled through his teeth, thumb hovering over the decline button. He and Lewis never do courtesy calls. Jimmy chirped from the countertop, tail twitching as if sensing the tension. The ringing drilled into Max’s skull, persistent as a dentist’s drill. On the fourth ring, he caved, swiping accept with a bitten-off sigh.
"Hello, Max." Lewis' voice was measured, the way it always was when he was trying not to sound like he was about to ask for a favor. It made Max's shoulders tense before the words even registered.
"Lewis." Max's voice was flat. He could already feel the weight of the unspoken what do you want pressing against his ribs.
"You sitting down?" Lewis asked, voice tight with something Max couldn’t place.
Max's first thought was that someone was dead. The silence stretched a second too long, the static crackle of the line filling the space where a name should’ve been. Jos' blood on his hands. The fractured skull. George’s voice, brittle and final.
I can’t do this anymore.
Max rubbed the tension from his neck, leaning his weight against the cold marble countertop. His fingers dug into the muscle there, pressing hard enough to bruise. "Yeah." he said, voice rough. "What's up?" The words came out flatter than he intended, but Lewis didn’t seem to notice. Or care.
Lewis exhaled sharply on the other end of the line, the sound crackling through the speaker. "I... I've got someone. Needs your help."
Max’s fingers tightened around the phone. The marble countertop leached warmth from his palms. “My help.” he repeated, the words tasting odd. Jimmy chirped again, nudging Max’s elbow with his head, but Max didn’t move.
Lewis shifted uncomfortably on the other end. Max could practically hear the creak of his chair, the tap of fingers against a desk.
Lewis finally speaks.
"There's a pregnant omega." he said, voice measured. "He was trafficked and we got him out in a raid about a week ago." The pause that followed was thick enough for Max to choke on. "He needs a safe space. You okay with taking him in?"
Max froze. His mind started spinning. Not today, not me. I don't—
The words jammed in his throat. The fridge hummed suddenly louder in the silence, the Red Bull can slipping from his grip and rolling across the counter with a hollow metallic clatter. Sassy startled, darting under the couch with a hiss.
“Max? You there?”
The Red Bull dripped off the counter edge, pooling on the tile floor in a slow, sticky trickle. Max watched it seep into the grout lines. His throat clicked when he swallowed. "I... I'll need details, Lewis." The words came out hoarse, scraped raw from somewhere deep in his chest.
Max doesn't even know why he's asking for details. There's no way he can do this. The words taste like ash even as they leave his mouth. Details. Like he's actually considering it. Like he hasn't spent months carefully arranging his life so nothing and no one can pierce the fragile equilibrium he's built. Lewis is still talking, voice low and urgent, but Max barely hears it over the static in his own skull. His fingers twitch toward the abandoned Red Bull can, then abort the motion halfway. Useless.
Max exhaled sharply through his nose, pressing the heel of his palm against his sternum as if he could physically shove down the rising tide of panic. Their pack was a safe haven. Christian and Toto had built it that way, stitching together broken people until the seams held. It's how Max got in, after all.
But that didn’t mean Max knew how to be part of that machine. Not when his own edges were still jagged.
"Lewis, I don't - I can't -" Max's voice cracked, the protest dying halfway up his throat.
Lewis' voice dropped lower, rough with something Max hadn't heard since the incident. "Please, Max. He's in really bad shape, scared out of his mind. We only found out his name from another omega." The line hissed with Lewis' sharp inhale. "He needs a safe space. And you know more than I do how much pregnant omegas need alpha pheromones." The admission landed like a gut punch, wrong and unsettling. Lewis never acknowledged weaknesses, especially not to Max. "I'd take him in myself but I don't have a good track record when it comes to taking care of others-"
"Lewis-"
"Plus, I work really odd hours!" Lewis' voice pitched higher, the forced cheer like nails on chalkboard. "And I couldn't really find someone else who's in a good enough spot at the moment."
So I'm your last choice, Max thought but didn't say. Don't you see why that's a bad idea?
"And you have EMT training!" Lewis continued, voice too bright for the topic. The forced enthusiasm scraped against Max's eardrums like sandpaper. "That's a great bonus. And you have experience with pregnant omegas!"
Max wanted to remind Lewis that having an omega - one who was healthy, un-traumatized, and not living with him - was vastly different from whatever hellscape this was about to become. George had been difficult enough, and that was without the trauma factor.
But the thought of an omega being scared and alone, pregnant on top of that, made him hesitate. Max’s fingers tightened around the phone, the edges digging into his palm.
He thinks of Lance, of Yuki, of Oscar.
George. Kimi.
There was never going to be another choice, was there? The realization settled like lead in Max’s stomach, heavy and inevitable.
"Fine."
"Really?" Lewis' voice cracked through the phone, sharp with disbelief. Like he hadn't actually expected yes.
"Yes. Just tell me what I need to do."
The words tumbled out of Lewis in a clipped rush, almost like he wants to get them out before Max changes his mind. Charles, possibly mid-twenties, mid first trimester. They dissolved into static before they could fully register. Max's fingers twitched against the countertop, nails scraping against marble as Lewis kept talking, listing things Max knew he should be noting down. None of it stuck. The only thing that echoed in his skull was Charles, a name that made his pulse stutter in a way he refused to examine.
"Max," he finally said, voice dropping into something gravelly. "You need to know what you're getting into."
Lewis kept circling back to how the pack would help, how Christian could drop by with supplies, how Daniel or Lando could come over. Max’s fingers flexed around the phone, the plastic creaking under his grip. Pack support. Like that wasn’t the exact fucking problem. Like Max hadn’t spent months carefully untangling himself from the very web Lewis was trying to drag him back into.
The call ended with one last thanks, mate. The house felt wrong immediately. Jimmy chirped again, pawing at Max’s wrist, but Max barely felt the scratch of claws against skin. His phone lay abandoned on the countertop, screen dark, Lewis’ voice still ringing in his skull like a bad echo.
"You can do this." Max muttered to the empty kitchen, fingers gripping the edge of the counter until his knuckles blanched. The words didn't feel true yet, but he'd learned a long time ago that sometimes you had to say things out loud until they stuck.
He grabbed his keys. The metal bit into his palm as he squeezed them too tight. The cats wove between his legs as he stalked toward the door, Jimmy mewling like he knew this wasn’t just another grocery run. Max paused, exhaling sharply through his nose. "I’ll be back." he muttered, half to himself, half to the cats. Sassy flicked her tail at him, disdainful, as if she didn’t believe him.
The hospital smelled like antiseptics and recycled air. A scent that crawled underneath his skin, clinging to the back of his throat.
Lewis met him outside a quiet room, his posture stiff. He looked tired in a way sleep wouldn’t fix, with dark circles under his eyes and his shoulders slumped like he was carrying something heavy. The fluorescent lights overhead washed out his skin, making the lines around his mouth sharper, deeper. He smelled like stale coffee and gunpowder residue, his usual scent suppressed and the acrid tang of adrenaline still clinging to him after whatever raid had gone down.
Lewis gestured to the closed door with a nod. "Charles is in there." His voice was low, frayed at the edges. "He hasn’t spoken. Not a word since we pulled him out."
Max nodded once. "Can I....?"
Lewis stepped aside. "He's asleep." He said quietly. "He was too panicked to cooperate. They gave him something mild. Just to help him rest."
And so he doesn't hurt himself.
The room was dim, the overhead lights off. Only a small lamp glowing softly near the bed. Max stopped just inside the doorway. The scent hit him first. Mandarins and salt, the rotten thread of distress running underneath. His alpha instincts recoiled and surged at once, a warring push-pull that rooted him to the spot.
Charles lay curled slightly on his side, knees drawn in, one arm tucked close to his chest like he was still trying to shield himself from unseen blows. The hospital gown gaped at the collar, exposing the layers upon layers of bite scars on his mating glands and the sharp jut of his collarbones. It was too pronounced, as if his body had been whittled down to its barest architecture. A faint crease lingered between his eyebrows even in sleep, tension carved deep into his expression. His hair clung to his forehead in dull, uneven strands, the brown darkened in patches by what might have been sweat or old blood. Max hopes it is sweat.
Max swallowed hard, his throat tightening as he took in the damage. Charles' eyes were sunken, shadowed with exhaustion. The skin beneath them was discolored, tinged faintly purple like the remnants of a storm cloud. Bruises bloomed across his exposed skin in uneven patterns. Finger-shaped smudges around his wrists, jagged splotches along his ribs where the gown slipped aside. Some were fresh, angry and mottled, others faded into sickly yellows and greens. They layered over each other like a grotesque timeline of suffering. His lips were chapped, cracked at the corners.
Charles’ other arm was curled protectively around his abdomen, fingers pressed white-knuckled against the thin fabric of the hospital gown. Max’s gaze lingered on the way Charles’ fingertips dug into his own skin, as if he could physically hold the life inside him safe from the world.
Max didn't dare step closer, not wanting to risk waking Charles up. He just stood there, hands loose at his sides, chest tight. The omega's scent was a physical weight pressing against his sternum. His alpha instincts snarled at the wrongness of it, at the way Charles' fingers twitched in sleep like he was still trying to fight something off.
"How long?" Max asked softly.
Lewis leaned against the wall, arms folded. "Years, most likely. We're still piecing it together." His lips pressed together. "He's lucky to be alive."
Max nodded again, although he didn't know how true that is. Is it better to have suffered and survived when your life would never be the same? When you'd surely be haunted by everything that happened to you?
No, Max isn't sure he'd consider it lucky. Lucky would be not going through it at all.
"Two more days." Lewis said. "That's how long he has left in here before discharge. We'll keep an eye on him until then. You've got time."
Lewis shifted his weight, his jacket creaking, and Max realized with a cold jolt that Lewis wasn't just informing him. He was asking for confirmation. That Max wouldn't bolt before then.
"Of course." Time. Max didn't know what he was supposed to do with that.
He spent the first day cleaning. Not the cursory wipe-down he usually gave the house before, but a frantic, bone-deep scrubbing that left his knuckles raw and the scent of bleach clinging to his skin. The cats fled to the porch when he attacked the kitchen tiles with a stiff brush, gouging at grout lines that had never bothered him before.
He rearranged furniture twice. First to create clear sightlines from the couch to every exit, then pushed everything back when the open space felt too much like a trap.
Max tore the guest room apart. He ripped sheets off the bed like they were contaminated, stuffing them into a laundry bag with more force than necessary. The pillows followed, then the duvet. He scrubbed the mattress with scent neutralizer until his hands burned. Every surface got the same treatment. The dresser, the nightstand, even the damn light switch. Bleach followed, then water, then air freshener in a frantic layering ritual that left the room smelling like nothing at all.
He paused at one point, breathing hard, spray bottle in hand. The dripping sound of bleach hitting bathroom tile echoed in the hollow silence. His reflection wavered in the puddle, wild-eyed, his sweat-dampened hair sticking to his forehead. His chest rose and fell unevenly as he stared at the distorted image, suddenly struck by the absurdity of it all.
You're overdoing it, he thought.
He kept going anyways.
The second day was worse.
The glow of Max's laptop screen burned into his retinas long after he slammed it shut. The tabs lingered like ghosts. Omega-safe teas. Nesting materials ranked by scent retention. Signs of dissociation. Things that reminded of all the things he wasn’t equipped to handle. He scraped a hand down his face, fingertips catching on the rough stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave. His knee bounced under the table, a jackhammer rhythm matching the pulse in his temples.
He paced between rooms, made lists, crossed them out, rewrote them. The pen tore through the paper on the third attempt - nesting materials (no wool), pre-made meals (soft foods only), scent blockers (hospital grade?) - before he crumpled it into a tight ball and hurled it toward the trash. It bounced off the rim. Jimmy pounced on it like prey.
He stood in the middle of the guest bedroom at some point, staring at the freshly made bed.
"Is this even right?" Max asked the empty room. His voice sounded hollow against the freshly scrubbed walls. The guest bed looked sterile, with it's neutral-toned blankets, not a single wrinkle in sight. It was nothing like a nest. He'd read that omegas needed softness, familiarity, scent-soaked fabrics to burrow into. This looked like a damn hotel room.
Max didn't know what to do about it.
Jimmy meowed at him from the doorway. He padded forward, weaving between his legs, his fur brushing against Max’s bare calves. The contact was warm. Something uncomplicated in the middle of everything else. Sassy sat a little further back, her tail twitching in slow, deliberate arcs, her eyes narrowed with open judgement.
"Don't start."
The cats followed him around as he got dressed, watching him move like he had lost his mind. Jimmy leapt onto the dresser, tail flicking against Max’s folded sweaters as he tracked the alpha’s jerky movements with wide, unblinking eyes. Max yanked a shirt over his head too fast. The fabric caught on his ear and Jimmy let out a chirp that sounded suspiciously like laughter.
The automatic doors hissed open with a gust of refrigerated air that smelled like plastic-wrapped produce and industrial cleaner. Max hesitated on the threshold, his fingers twitching around the crumpled list in his pocket. The fluorescents overhead buzzed faintly, casting harsh light over aisles that suddenly seemed endless.
Sheets first. Neutral tones, soft textures. Blankets. Max’s fingers lingered over the linen section, the crisp packaging crinkling under his grip. He pulled out a set that's sage green, 8000-thread count, the tag promising hypoallergenic and omega-approved. He tossed it into the cart with more force than necessary, the plastic corners bouncing against the metal frame. The next aisle over yielded a weighted blanket, deep gray, advertised for nesting comfort. He hesitated, thumb pressing into the sample swatch. Too heavy? Too restrictive? He threw it in anyway.
The sheets smelled like nothing. That was the problem. Max lifted another plastic-wrapped bundle to his nose, inhaled, and grimaced at the sterile absence of scent. Omegas needed familiarity, and chemical-clean linens wouldn't cut it. His fingers tightened around the packaging, seams protesting under the pressure.
But maybe Charles would prefer that. Maybe sterile and scentless was exactly what he needed after years of being steeped in the stink of strangers. Max exhaled sharply through his nose and tossed the sheets into the cart. He’d let Charles decide.
A stuffed elephant caught his eyes. He went to pick it up but hesitated. It was gray with floppy ears, its stitching uneven around the trunk where the factory seams had pulled slightly. The fabric was soft and when Max pressed his thumb against its belly, the stuffing gave way just enough to feel comforting. He turned it over, searching for flaws he wouldn’t find, then glanced down the aisle where a mother was helping her toddler pick out a stuffed bear twice his size. The kid was laughing, shoving his face into the plush fur like it was the best thing he’d ever touched. Max’s throat tightened. He shoved the elephant into the cart before he could think better of it.
It was stupid, he knew that. Charles would probably be gone by the time the baby arrived anyway.
Back at home, he went into overdrive.
The sheets smelled like lavender detergent when Max pulled them from the dryer. Too strong, too floral. He cursed under his breath and tossed them back in for another cycle with scent-neutralizer pods, watching through the porthole as the fabric tumbled in slow circles. By the third wash, they smelled like nothing at all. Perfect. He folded the blankets and stacked them in the woven basket beside the guest bed like an offering.
The bleach fumes burned Max’s nostrils as he attacked the bathroom tiles with renewed vigor, the stiff brush scraping against grout lines that were already spotless. His muscles burned with the effort, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. The scent of disinfectant clung to his skin. He scrubbed until the tiles gleamed under the harsh bathroom light.
Hours passed. Jimmy and Sassy had retreated to corners, watching him pace, scrub, fold, adjust. The cats’ tails twitched in unison, Sassy from the shadowed perch atop the bookshelf and Jimmy sprawled in a sunspot by the window, their golden eyes tracking Max’s frenetic movements with feline precision. He caught Jimmy’s low, questioning chirp when he rearranged the pillows for the fourth time, stacking them against the headboard only to yank them away again.
Max sank into the chair, hands gripping his knees hard enough to press crescents into his skin through the fabric of his sweatpants. His mind raced with what ifs.
What if Charles panicked at the sight of him? What if his scent triggered something? What if Max couldn't control his instincts? His chest tightened, a vise around his ribs, until his breathing turned shallow and uneven.
He went back out to the store. Again.
The pharmacy aisle was painfully bright. Max grabbed the first box of rut suppressants he saw and shoved it into his basket without looking at the dosage instructions. His fingers twitched toward a second box. Then a third. The plastic packaging crinkled under his grip as he forced himself to walk away before he cleared the entire shelf. Better to have too many than risk that disaster. The cashier’s bored glance lingered a second too long on his haul, and Max resisted the urge to flip her off. He crumpled the receipt in his fist before he even reached the parking lot.
By the time he got home, his nerves were buzzing under his skin like a swarm of agitated hornets.
That's when he calls George.
The phone rang four times before George picked up, his voice crisp with irritation. "It's Kimi's week with you in three days, Max. If this is about swapping days again-"
"George..." Max's voice scraped raw, fingers tightening around the phone until the plastic casing creaked.
"Max?" George's tone shifted, the sharp edge of irritation giving way to something hesitant, almost wary. The silence stretched too long before he spoke again, quieter this time. "You okay?"
Max rubbed his face. "No. Not okay. Lewis wants me to house an omega they rescued from a trafficking ring. He's - he's pregnant, George. Lewis says he needs safety. I-" His throat clicked dryly, the words sticking.
"And he chose you." George interrupted gently.
"Yeah."
"I mean, it's temporary. Right?"
"I mean, yes? He would have told me if the omega is supposed to stay permanently, right?" Max’s voice pitched higher than intended, the uncertainty clawing up his throat like bile.
Lewis wouldn't do that to you. He wouldn't do that with no warning.
"Max, you know he would. And you've got this." George's sigh crackled through the phone, half exasperation, half reluctant reassurance.
"Doesn't feel like I do."
"Doesn't change the fact that you've got it." George's voice was softer now. "We may have our issues, but one thing I've never doubted was your competence. You're one of the most competent people I know."
Max felt something clog his throat.
"You stepped up for Kimi and I, Max. You'll do it again if need be."
"George..." Max's voice cracked like dry timber. "I... I don't know what to do. Lewis says... just keep him safe, but I don't-" His fingers dug into the edge of the kitchen counter, blunt nails scraping against marble. "I've never done this before."
"You'll manage." George's voice was steady, the way it got when he was trying to convince himself as much as Max. "You've got good instincts. You're careful. You're-" A pause, the soft click of his tongue against teeth. "You care, Max. That counts."
"I don't know. What if I make him worse?" Max whispered, the words barely making it past the knot in his throat. "I don't want to fuck this up."
"Then you don't." George's voice sharpened slightly, cutting through Max's spiraling thoughts like a knife. "That's when you call me. Or anyone else who's not... panicking."
I don't panic, Max wanted to say. Both of them know it would be a lie.
"I can come over if you need. Help him settle in, nothing crazy. I'll stay as long as you need me to."
Max shook his head, even though George couldn't see it. "No, better not. Better not to overwhelm him, I think. I can figure this out. Maybe. Probably. I'll...try."
"Okay." George exhales. "You're right. Just...be calm, Max. Take it slow. One step at a time. You're good at taking care of people."
"Thank you, Georgie. That means a lot-" Max froze mid-sentence, realization crashing into him like a bucket of ice water. "Shit. If Charles is here, that means I can't take Kimi next week. Fuck, George. I'm so sorry."
"It's okay, Max. Breathe. I don't mind, you know that." George said. "Focus on - Charles, was it? Focus on him, and I'll take care of Kimi. I'll send you updates for as long as you need, yeah?"
"Just... don't do it alone if you feel like you're drowning. Call me, Dan, Yuki, whoever. Don't let it crush you before it even starts." George's voice softened. It was the voice George used when Kimi was teething, when Max showed up with dark circles under his eyes after back-to-back shifts.
Max nodded, but the thought of taking in a traumatized omega, pregnant and scared, alone in his quiet, isolated house, made the coil in his chest tighten. He hadn’t slept well since Lewis called, thinking about it.
Max stood in the middle of the guest room, the freshly folded linens mocking him from the bed. He hadn’t slept. Hadn’t sat down long enough to think beyond the next task. Feed the cats. Run until his lungs burned. Shower until his skin stung. Chew mechanically through whatever food he’d grabbed from the fridge. The cycle repeated like a broken record, each rotation wearing him thinner, sharper. Now, with nothing left to scrub or rearrange, the reality of what was coming settled over him like a lead blanket. Another life would be breathing in his space, flinching at his movements, recoiling from his scent. He flexed his hands, half-expecting them to shake. They didn’t.
The phone screen dimmed, then went black against the marble countertop. Max stared at his own reflection in the darkened surface, pale and hollow-eyed, three day old stubble shadowing his jaw. He exhaled sharply through his nose, pushing away from the counter with hands that felt too large for his body.
The cats watched him pace the length of the guest bedroom again, their tails flicking in synchronized disapproval. Max halted mid-step, gripping the doorframe as the reality hit him like a sucker punch.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, the empty guest room wouldn’t be empty anymore. Tomorrow, he’d have to face the weight of someone else’s trauma with no script, no protocol, just his own instincts. The thought coiled in his gut like a live wire.
He pushed himself off the chair and got back to work.
The sun bled orange through the blinds by the time Max finally collapsed onto the couch, his muscles trembling with exhaustion. His knuckles were raw from scrubbing, his shoulders tight with the kind of ache that came from hours of relentless motion. The house smelled like antiseptic and freshly laundered fabric. Sterile, impersonal.
And hopefully, safe.
The guestroom looked okay. Neutral. The stuffed elephant sat on the bed, slightly lopsided, one ear folded inward like it was listening for something. Max reached out to adjust it.
Too much.
The elephant was already too much, wasn't it? Some pathetic attempt at comfort.
The phone rang again. A video call. George. Max stared at the screen for a long moment before answering, his thumb hovering over the green icon like it might bite him. When he finally swiped, George’s face filled the screen.
"Hey, Max." George's voice was softer than usual. The omega's curls were loose, free of product, and his shirt collar stretched slightly where Kimi had undoubtedly tugged at it earlier. Max closed the guest bedroom door and went to the kitchen.
"How's it going? You calm down yet?" George's voice was muffled slightly as Kimi let out a delighted shriek in the background, tiny hands slapping against the play mat. Max caught a glimpse of his son’s golden-brown curls bouncing as he wobbled on his knees, reaching for something just out of frame. The sight punched through Max’s ribs, sharp and sudden, a mix of longing and guilt knotting in his throat.
Max's fingers tapped restlessly against the kitchen island, the marble cool under his palms. "I think it's ready," he muttered, staring at the guest room door like it might bite him. "I don't know if I'm ready." Jimmy chirped from the countertop, tail flicking. Sassy, perched on the couch, merely blinked at him with the judgmental air of a creature who had seen this entire spiral before.
"I cleaned, prepped, bought stuff. I even got, I don't know, an elephant." Max muttered, rubbing his temple where a headache was forming.
George chuckled. "Good. That's a start. You're being thoughtful. That's enough for now." The omega's fingers adjusted the camera angle, revealing Kimi's chubby hands clutching at a stuffed giraffe, one Max had bought him last month. The baby's laughter bubbled through the speakers, bright and oblivious. Something sharp twisted behind Max's ribs.
Max stared at his reflection in the stainless steel fridge, the distorted version of himself staring back with hollow blue eyes. You’ll manage, George had said. Max wasn’t sure he believed it, but God, he wanted to. The desire sat like a stone in his gut, heavy and undeniable. He wanted to do right by this omega, this broken thing being handed to him like a shattered vase with no instructions on how to glue it back together. He wanted to be the kind of alpha who didn’t make things worse.
By the morning of the third day, Max felt wrung out. The fatigue clung to him like a second skin, settling into the hollows under his eyes and the twitch of his fingers. He hadn’t slept, not really. Just short bursts of unconsciousness that left him disoriented, jerking awake with a phantom weight pressing down on his chest. The guest room door stood slightly ajar, the elephant still perched on the bed, watching him with its stupid, hopeful eyes every time he passed by.
The shower water scalded his skin red, but Max barely felt it. He scrubbed until his scent glands ached, until his skin stung. The cats wove between his ankles as he pulled on a fresh black hoodie, too large, swallowing his frame and hopefully making him look nonthreatening. He gave them kibble with mechanical precision, watching Jimmy wolf his down while Sassy sniffed disdainfully before nibbling.
The steering wheel creaked under Max's grip as he turned into the hospital parking lot, his knuckles bone-white against the black leather. He hadn’t realized his jaw was clenched until the sharp ache radiated up his temples, the tension coiled so tight he could taste blood where his molars had dug into his cheek. The scent blocker patches made his scent glands itch. He exhaled sharply through his nose and killed the engine, staring at the hospital’s sliding doors like they might swallow him whole.
Lewis stood rigid by the hospital entrance, arms crossed, jaw set. The morning sun cast sharp shadows under his eyes.
He hadn't slept either, then.
His scent blocker was fresh, cedarwood barely detectable beneath it, but Max caught the tension radiating off him in waves anyway. The alpha’s fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against his bicep, his usual composure fraying at the edges.
"They're going to discharge him in about an hour." Lewis said once they reached the elevator. Lewis' fingers twitched at his sides, restless. "He still hasn't spoken. At all."
Max's stomach churned. "Does... does he understand what's going on?"
Lewis didn’t answer immediately, watching the elevator numbers flick upward with the same detached precision Max recognized from crime scenes. The silence stretched thin between them, broken only by the mechanical hum of the lift.
"He understands more than he lets on, I think." Lewis finally said. The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing a sterile white hallway that smelled of antiseptic and a mess of scents from patients and visitors alike. It made Max feel nauseated, and he wonders how Charles feels about it. "He follows instructions. Answers with nods or shakes. But his eyes..." Lewis hesitated, something unreadable flickering across his face. "They track everything."
Max nodded, even though the words didn't really help much.
When they finally went in, Charles was awake.
He was sitting up straight. Too straight, with his spine rigid like a steel rod, hands folded neatly in his lap, fingers interlaced so tight the knuckles blanched white.
Max froze, his own panic clawing up his throat like bile. The omega’s scent was muted under layers of hospital sterility, but Max caught the acrid tang of fear beneath, sour and sharp. His alpha instincts recoiled, then surged forward in a conflicting rush, run away warring with protect, protect, protect.
Charles’s eyes snapped to Max immediately, vivid green and wide and guarded. The omega’s pupils dilated for a fraction of a second before his gaze skittered sideways, settling somewhere near Max’s collarbone. Submissive, but not quite soft. Every muscle in Charles’s body was coiled tight, his breathing shallow and controlled.
The sweatshirt drowned Charles, the fabric swallowing his wrists, the collar gaping to reveal sharp collarbones that looked like they could cut glass and the jagged mess of scars on his mating glands. It was Lewis’s, Max realized. The alpha’s scent lingered on the fabric, cedarwood and leather clinging to the omega like a poorly constructed shield. The sight sent something jagged twisting through Max’s chest. He shouldn’t smell like another alpha. The thought was irrational, possessive in a way that made his skin prickle, and he forced it down before it could take root.
He'll have to get him new clothes at some point.
"Hey," Max said, the word sticking in his throat like wet paper. "I'm Max."
Charles didn't respond, didn't look at his face either. The omega's throat bobbed as he swallowed and Max caught the faintest tremor along his jawline before Charles locked it down again.
Max shifted his weight, suddenly hyper aware of his size, his voice how his shoulders blocked the doorway. He curled his fingers into his palms to dull the urge to reach out, to fix something, anything.
"I'm... I'm the one taking you ho- somewhere safe." Max's corrected. His voice was too rough, the words catching on the dryness in his throat. He cleared it quietly, trying to soften the edges of his tone, acutely aware of how Charles’ fingers spasmed tighter around each other at the sound. "You don't have to say anything. Just...just let me know if you understand, okay?"
Charles’ gaze briefly flickered to Lewis, like a child checking for permission from a parent, then snapped back to Max.
A small nod.
Relief hit Max so hard his knees nearly gave. The nod was slight, barely more than a dip of Charles’ chin, but it was something. Max exhaled sharply through his nose, his shoulders loosening just enough to feel the ache of how tightly he’d been holding them. His fingers twitched at his sides, stupid, useless things that didn’t know whether to reach out or stay locked behind his back.
Okay, Max thought. Okay. I can work with this.