Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Brad Marchand never liked flying alone.

He’d gotten used to the team charters in Boston—guys yelling, cards slapping on tray tables, the familiar stink of sweat and liniment and old jokes. This flight was nothing like that.

He sat by the window in the commercial jet, arms crossed over his chest like armor, watching clouds crawl by in the darkening sky. His jaw ached from clenching. He hadn’t said goodbye to anyone except the GM, and even that had been perfunctory.

“You know how it is,” they’d told him. “Just business.”

Brad knew what that meant. They didn’t want him anymore.

He’d left the locker room without a word to most of them, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, old nest blankets compressed tight at the bottom like he was embarrassed to own them. They smelled stale. They smelled like him.

He didn’t want to think about that.

When he landed in Florida, the air hit him like a wet towel to the face. Oppressive heat, sticky humidity. It felt wrong on his skin. He grimaced as he stepped off the plane.

The team had sent a car. The driver was polite enough not to talk. Brad was grateful. He scrolled aimlessly through old texts, ignoring them all, including the ones from Patrice. He didn’t want to see the pity in the words, even over text.

He watched the palm trees blur past the tinted windows.

New city. New team. Same old problem: him.

⸻

The condo was too big and too new. Polished tile floors. White walls. Big windows that let in too much sun. No personality. No comfort.

Brad dropped his gear bag in the hall and didn’t even bother turning on the lights at first. He prowled from room to room, checking for… he didn’t even know what. Signs of life, maybe. Something that felt like home.

He found nothing.

He ended up in the bedroom, standing awkwardly in the middle of the floor. His gaze snagged on one corner. A perfect nook for a nest.

He swallowed hard.

Boston hadn’t been like that. He’d had to keep everything in a storage tub in his closet. Hide it like it was dirty. Even in his own apartment. Even on away trips. He remembered the lectures about being “professional” and “not distracting the alphas.”

He turned away from the corner before the memories could drag him under.

⸻

That night he didn’t unpack. He lay on the bed fully dressed, one arm over his eyes. The AC clicked on and off with a sterile whoosh.

The place smelled too clean.

No one’s scent. No pack. No safe alpha. Not even his own, really. Just the faint tang of travel sweat and anger.

He hated it.

He wanted to scrub it away. He wanted to strip the room, mark it up, make it his. He wanted…

Brad curled tighter on the mattress, telling himself to stop wanting anything at all.

⸻

Morning meant physicals. He showed up early. The Panthers’ medical staff were cheerful and professional. He offered his chip for scanning without a word, jaw set tight.

“Omega designation confirmed,” the medic said, tone bland.

Brad waited for the condescension.

But the guy just nodded and handed the scanner back. “You’re cleared. Welcome to Florida.”

Brad grunted and left without making eye contact.

⸻

The locker room was worse.

It wasn’t hostile, exactly. Just unfamiliar. Dozens of scents layered over one another, new teammates watching him out of the corners of their eyes. Some curious. Some wary.

He dropped his gear into the empty stall with his name taped above it. The tape looked temporary. He hated that.

He kept his head down, lacing his skates slowly. If he didn’t look at them, maybe they’d leave him alone.

Of course, that was wishful thinking.

⸻

Verhaeghe was the first to wander over, all easy grin and relaxed posture.

“Hey. Marchand, right?”

Brad didn’t glance up. “Guess so.”

“Big trade.”

“Yup.”

Verhaeghe hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “Well. Uh. We’re glad to have you.”

Brad snorted softly but didn’t respond.

Verhaeghe gave him a wary smile and retreated.

⸻

That might have been the end of it, but apparently Matthew Tkachuk hadn’t gotten the memo about leaving him alone.

Brad heard the snort before he saw him.

“Jesus Christ. You’re about as welcoming as a rattlesnake.”

Brad lifted his head slowly.

Matthew was leaning against the wall by the stick rack, arms folded, one eyebrow cocked. He was smirking like Brad’s attitude was the funniest thing he’d seen all day.

Brad’s mouth curled into a sneer. “Go fuck yourself.”

Matthew’s smirk widened. “What, already? We just met. Buy me dinner first.”

Verhaeghe let out an incredulous laugh from across the room.

Brad’s lip twitched, just for a second. Then he remembered himself and scowled harder. He slammed his locker shut and stomped toward the tunnel for practice.

⸻

Practice was fast and hard.

Florida’s systems were different—less rigid than Boston’s, more creativity in the cycle. It should have suited him, but he wasn’t ready to admit it. He struggled to adapt on the fly.

He was so focused on getting it right that he nearly missed Matthew skating up alongside him during a drill.

“Loosen up,” Matthew chirped. “You’re skating like you’re mad at the ice.”

“Fuck off,” Brad spat automatically.

Matthew just laughed.

But he didn’t let up. Every rep, he found a way to talk to Brad. Sometimes it was praise. Sometimes it was trash talk. Always that stupid grin.

⸻

By the time they were done, Brad was exhausted and vibrating with frustrated energy. He wanted to get away before anyone could corner him in the room again.

But no such luck.

Matthew waited for him outside the showers, leaning against the narrow hall with casual arrogance.

“Hey. Marchand.”

Brad didn’t even slow down. “Out of my way.”

Matthew didn’t budge. “You gonna sulk all year?”

Brad stopped dead, chest heaving. He stared him down. “You really want to see how hard I can make this for you?”

Matthew’s eyes softened unexpectedly. “No. I want to see if you’ll let anyone make it easier.”

Brad blinked.

That hit somewhere deep. Somewhere raw.

He swallowed hard, scowl faltering for half a second before he shoved past him without answering.

⸻

He went back to the condo that night feeling like his skin didn’t fit.

He dumped his gear on the tile floor and stood in the doorway, breathing heavily.

The place smelled like old sweat, stale travel, his own stress hormones.

He couldn’t stand it.

He dragged one of his old blankets out of the duffel bag. It smelled like him, faint and bitter.

He stared at the corner of the bedroom.

He told himself not to be pathetic.

But in the end he balled the blanket up and tossed it there anyway.

Not a nest. Not really.

Just a blanket on the floor.

Just in case.

⸻

He didn’t sleep well.

Every time he turned over, he caught a whiff of himself—tense, sharp. He remembered how in Boston he’d tried to neutralize it all the time. Always trying not to “distract” anyone, keeping it bland, flavorless.

Here?

He didn’t know.

He pressed his nose into the blanket and tried not to think about what he was doing.

⸻

Practice was more of the same.

Fast. Aggressive. Less structure, more improvisation.

Matthew was everywhere.

Chirping him, praising him, demanding passes.

He fed Brad a perfect saucer pass on a 3-on-2 and Brad sniped top corner before he could think.

Matthew whooped like they’d won the Cup, skating past to smack him on the ass.

“Atta boy, Marchand!”

Brad flipped him off but couldn’t suppress the twitch in his mouth.

⸻

After practice, Brad tried to duck out quick.

But Matthew was waiting in the parking lot, leaning against his truck.

“Need a ride?”

Brad scoffed. “Got one.”

Matthew tipped his head. “Gonna tell me where you’re staying?”

Brad’s stomach twisted. “No.”

Matthew’s grin softened. “Okay.”

He didn’t push it.

Brad didn’t know what to do with that.

⸻

The next morning there was a bag of groceries on his doorstep.

Organic fruit. Good protein powder. Prepped meals from a health-conscious local shop.

No note.

Brad scowled at it for a solid minute.

He considered throwing it out.

Instead he hauled it inside and stuffed everything into the fridge with force.

He didn’t want to think about who left it.

But it smelled like a certain alpha who didn’t know when to quit.

⸻

That night, Brad sat in the bedroom and stared at the corner.

He dragged a second blanket over.

He caught himself sniffing the protein bar wrapper from the groceries.

He cursed and crumpled it in his fist.

He didn’t throw it away.

He tucked it carefully into the blankets before he lay down.

He told himself he wasn’t nesting.

He was just… making the room tolerable.

That was all.

⸻

He laid awake, breathing in his own scent—uneasy, embarrassed.

He remembered how Boston had made him ashamed of it. How he’d swallowed suppressants until his cycles all but stopped.

Florida felt wrong in a different way.

No one had told him to hide.

That was worse, somehow.

Because he didn’t know how to want things anymore.

⸻

He pressed his face into the blankets and let the tears come.

Silent. Angry.

Unwanted.

He wanted someone.

He just knew he didn’t deserve it.

Chapter Text

Brad tried not to think too much about how quickly the Florida schedule swallowed him up.

Practice. Video. Off-ice training. Team meetings.

He buried himself in it. That part was easy enough. He was good at being relentless—if there was one thing no one could ever say, it was that Brad Marchand didn’t work.

But Florida wasn’t Boston.

The systems were looser, sure. But the culture was too. The first few days, he kept waiting for someone to come down on him for being too aggressive, too mouthy, too… omega.

No one did.

It pissed him off more than he’d admit.

⸻

One morning he got to the rink early, hoping to avoid conversation. He liked having the locker room to himself for those first few quiet minutes. He could tape his stick in peace, let the echo of skates on concrete remind him of simpler days before the league chewed him up.

Except that day, Matthew was already there.

Sitting on the bench by his own stall, scrolling lazily on his phone.

He looked up as Brad walked in, flashing that annoying grin.

“Mornin’.”

Brad stiffened. “Fuck off.”

Matthew chuckled. “Jesus. Sunshine, huh? You sleep in a coffin or something?”

Brad dropped his bag with a thud. “Why are you here?”

“Same reason as you, man. Practice.”

“You don’t usually show up early.”

Matthew shrugged, unbothered. “Figured you might. Thought you could use company.”

Brad’s jaw worked silently for a moment before he turned away, pulling out his skates with unnecessary force.

He didn’t want company.

Or worse, he did.

⸻

They dressed in silence for a while, except for the rustle of gear and the creak of benches.

Brad tried to ignore him.

But Matthew didn’t make it easy.

He had this way of settling in—like he belonged wherever he was. He was big, relaxed, and aggravatingly comfortable in his own skin.

Brad couldn’t stand it.

He laced up, aggressively neutral.

But the whole room smelled of them now.

Matthew’s scent was rich and warm, a little sharp at the edges, alpha confidence just simmering underneath.

Brad hated how his own scent reacted.

He tried to tamp it down. Kept his breathing shallow.

It didn’t help that Matthew occasionally sniffed the air, nose twitching like he couldn’t help noticing.

Brad’s face went hot with embarrassment.

He yanked his jersey over his head.

⸻

Finally, Matthew broke the silence again.

“You got a nest yet?”

Brad froze mid-motion.

He lowered the jersey slowly, eyes narrowing. “What?”

Matthew’s voice stayed casual. “Your condo. You build one yet?”

Brad’s stomach lurched.

“That’s none of your business.”

Matthew blinked once, then nodded.

“Okay.”

He didn’t push.

Brad felt weirdly disappointed by that.

⸻

Practice itself was grueling. They skated hard, ran odd-man rushes until everyone was red-faced and panting.

Brad buried himself in it. He liked the sting in his lungs. The sweat soaking through his gear. It was something physical, something real.

He let himself chirp once or twice—old habits died hard. But the boys just chirped back.

No one treated him like he was fragile.

No one told him to calm down.

It threw him off balance more than if they’d just yelled at him.

⸻

Matthew was everywhere.

They shared a line that day for drills. Brad found himself anticipating the way Matthew read plays. He didn’t want to admit it, but they fit annoyingly well.

One drill had them breaking out of the defensive zone together, two-on-one. Matthew held the puck just long enough to draw the D before dishing it across perfectly.

Brad snapped it home.

Matthew let out an obnoxious whoop.

“That’s it, Marchand! Beautiful!”

Brad glared at him but couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth from twitching.

⸻

After practice, they filed into the weight room.

Brad tried to keep to himself, running through his usual lifts. But Matthew spotted him on the bench press.

“Need a spot?”

Brad growled. “Don’t talk to me.”

Matthew ignored that and helped anyway, fingers light under the bar, voice low and encouraging.

“Breathe. There you go. Don’t rush it.”

Brad wanted to tell him to fuck off.

But he listened.

⸻

In the locker room afterward, Brad was toweling off when Matthew wandered over again.

“Plans tonight?”

Brad gave him a look. “Yeah. Sitting alone in my condo. Staring at the wall.”

Matthew didn’t miss a beat. “Cool. I’ll bring beer.”

Brad blinked.

“No.”

Matthew grinned, entirely undeterred. “Too bad. Text me the address.”

Brad scowled. “Not happening.”

Matthew clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll see.”

⸻

He actually did text later.

Brad sat on his couch staring at his phone like it had grown teeth.

He didn’t respond.

But he didn’t delete the message either.

⸻

That night, Brad messed with the blankets in the corner again.

He tried to tell himself it wasn’t a nest.

It was just… making the space less empty.

He’d added another pillow, too. He caught himself sniffing it, hating how his scent clung to it.

Too sharp. Too defensive.

He scrubbed his face with his hands, embarrassed even though no one was watching.

He remembered the way Matthew had sniffed around him at the rink, the tiniest frown on his face, like he could smell the anxiety.

Brad didn’t want him to.

Didn’t want anyone knowing how raw he felt.

⸻

A couple days later, the team had a morning skate and an off day planned.

Brad showed up early again.

So did Matthew.

He greeted Brad with a lazy salute from his stall. “Mornin’.”

Brad ignored him, tugging on his socks.

Matthew just kept talking.

“Want to hit the beach later? Or you gonna sulk in your cave all day?”

Brad didn’t answer.

⸻

On the ice, Brad’s passes clicked with Matthew’s like they’d played together for years.

Coach noticed.

After the skate, he clapped Brad on the shoulder.

“Good work today.”

Brad blinked, surprised.

Coach gave him an approving nod.

“Guys are glad you’re here.”

Brad didn’t know what to say to that.

He mumbled something that might have been thanks and scuttled away.

⸻

Back at the condo that afternoon, Brad felt edgy.

He prowled the space, unable to settle.

He hated the echo of his own scent in the empty rooms.

He hated the nest in the corner of the bedroom even more.

It was starting to look real now.

Multiple blankets. Pillows. A few of his hoodies, rolled tight and stacked like a barrier.

Worse, it smelled like him.

Stress. Fear. Longing.

He pressed his face into the blankets and tried to calm himself down.

But the scent was all wrong.

He felt sick.

⸻

He jumped when his phone buzzed.

Tkachuk: Open your door.

Brad scowled at the screen.

A second later there was a knock.

He hesitated.

He didn’t want to.

But he went anyway.

⸻

Matthew stood on the stoop holding two six-packs and a paper bag.

He didn’t even wait for an invitation before stepping inside.

Brad sputtered. “You can’t just—”

Matthew dropped the beer on the counter and surveyed the place.

“Jesus. You decorating for a funeral?”

Brad flipped him off.

Matthew ignored it.

⸻

They ended up eating on the couch.

Matthew sprawled like he owned the place, one arm thrown over the back cushion, talking with his mouth full.

Brad sat rigid at the far end, arms crossed.

But he listened.

Matthew told stories about growing up in St. Louis, about the stupidest chirps he’d ever heard in the league.

Brad caught himself laughing once.

Just once.

Matthew grinned wide at that.

⸻

After the second beer, Brad finally relaxed enough to let out a sigh.

Matthew noticed immediately.

“You nesting yet?”

Brad flinched.

“Jesus Christ. Drop it.”

Matthew held up both hands.

“Okay, okay.”

But he didn’t stop watching him.

Not with judgment.

With something else.

Something that made Brad’s throat tight.

⸻

Later, when Matthew finally left, Brad shut the door and leaned against it for a long time.

The condo felt different.

Not better.

But less empty.

He went to the bedroom and looked at the nest corner.

He hated it.

But he curled up in it anyway.

This time, he deliberately tucked the wrapper with Matthew’s scent on it into the middle of the nest.

He pressed his face into the blankets and breathed deep.

And for the first time since the trade, he actually slept.

Chapter Text

Brad wasn’t sure when exactly life in Florida started feeling less like a punishment and more like… routine.

The practices stopped feeling like hostile auditions. The drills made sense, and so did the weird chemistry he and Matthew seemed to have. Passes that clicked, cycles that flowed. Even the coaches noticed.

“You two look like you’ve played together for years,” Coach said after one especially slick rush drill.

Brad scowled at the compliment on instinct. Matthew just laughed and threw an arm over his shoulders before Brad could duck away.

“Aw, he loves me really.”

Brad elbowed him in the ribs hard enough to make him grunt.

But he didn’t deny it.

⸻

He was still the new guy. He felt it in the locker room. Guys were friendly, sure. But they didn’t forget he’d been the enemy for years.

The difference was that in Florida, no one pretended about it.

They chirped him openly about his Boston roots, about being a mouthy pest. They also invited him for beers after practice.

The first time, he said no.

The second time, he said no again.

The third time, Matthew announced he was going anyway, and Brad ended up dragged along more or less bodily.

He sat at the end of the patio table, sulking over a bottle of beer.

But when someone teased him about being a “grumpy omega,” Matthew leaned in without missing a beat.

“Careful. He bites.”

Brad flipped him off automatically.

The boys all laughed.

And that was that.

⸻

They started winning.

Brad wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he liked Florida’s system once it got under his skin. It let him be creative in the O-zone, let him work with Matthew in ways that felt natural.

When they won three straight on the road, the team plane back was noisy, full of jokes and card games.

Brad took the last row alone, leaning his head against the window, pretending to sleep.

He felt raw and exposed in the worst way.

Happy.

⸻

Matthew didn’t let him hide for long.

He dropped into the seat next to him, big and warm and smug.

“Not napping on me, are you?”

Brad cracked one eye. “Get lost.”

Matthew just grinned, then lowered his voice so only Brad could hear.

“You smell better when we win, you know.”

Brad went scarlet.

“Shut the fuck up.”

But he didn’t move away.

⸻

At home, Brad’s nesting corner had expanded almost without him realizing.

What had been a single blanket was now a layered mass of throws and pillows. A couple of his hoodies, too.

And a crumpled protein bar wrapper he’d hidden under the edge.

It still smelled like Matthew.

The alpha’s scent was calming in a way that pissed Brad off.

He hated needing it.

He hated that it worked.

⸻

Matthew kept showing up at his condo unannounced.

“Checking on you,” he’d say breezily, waving a six-pack or takeout container.

Brad would snap at him, scowl, tell him to go home.

Matthew never listened.

He’d drop onto Brad’s couch, kick off his shoes, and make himself comfortable like he belonged there.

And Brad let him.

⸻

One evening after practice, Matthew was sprawled on the living room floor assembling a coffee table Brad had stubbornly refused to touch.

“Looks good there,” Matthew said, sitting back on his heels.

Brad was on the couch, arms crossed. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

Matthew glanced over, one eyebrow up.

“You’re welcome.”

Brad opened his mouth, then closed it.

He cleared his throat, looking away. “…Thanks.”

⸻

They started cooking together sometimes.

Mostly it was Matthew taking over Brad’s sad bachelor meals.

One night he pushed Brad aside at the stove.

“Jesus Christ, you’re gonna burn it.”

“Get out of my kitchen.”

“It’s my kitchen now.”

Brad tried to hip-check him away but Matthew was too big, too solid.

Matthew’s arm curved around him, not quite hugging him but anchoring him.

“Relax,” he murmured.

Brad went stiff. His scent spiked with anxiety before he wrestled it back down.

Matthew didn’t comment.

But he didn’t move away either.

⸻

Brad noticed his own scent more and more.

It felt embarrassing.

Like everyone could smell his need, his insecurity, the way his cycles were getting irregular now that he was off the heavy suppressants.

He tried to keep himself neutral, clean, boring.

But Matthew had a bloodhound’s nose, apparently.

“You’re stressed,” he’d say quietly, sniffing near his hairline.

Brad would shove him away.

“Fuck off.”

Matthew would smile. “Not a chance.”

⸻

He tried to keep the nesting corner a secret.

But one night after a long practice, Matthew let himself in (Brad still hadn’t figured out how the asshole got a key).

Brad was so tired he didn’t hear him at first.

He didn’t hear the footsteps until Matthew was in the bedroom doorway.

Matthew’s voice was quiet, surprised.

“Marchand.”

Brad jerked upright from the middle of the blankets.

His nest. Fully built.

He’d been asleep in it, face buried in a hoodie that wasn’t even his.

Matthew’s hoodie.

Brad felt like his lungs had been replaced with ice water.

“Get out.”

Matthew didn’t move.

Brad’s voice cracked. “I said get out!”

Matthew’s eyes softened.

“It’s okay.”

Brad surged up, fists balled.

“Don’t you dare patronize me—”

Matthew held up both hands, placating.

“I’m not.”

Brad’s scent spiked—raw fear, embarrassment.

Matthew inhaled once, then let it out slow.

“You’re nesting.”

Brad shook his head frantically.

“It’s not— I don’t—”

Matthew took a slow step forward.

“Brad.”

Brad fell silent.

Matthew’s voice dropped to something careful and heartbreakingly gentle.

“You know that’s normal, right?”

Brad squeezed his eyes shut.

He couldn’t answer.

⸻

Matthew knelt at the edge of the nest.

He didn’t touch it.

Didn’t invade.

Just sat there, close enough to share heat.

“You want me to leave?”

Brad hesitated.

He should have said yes.

But he didn’t.

⸻

Matthew exhaled.

“Okay.”

He stayed.

For hours.

Neither of them talking.

Just breathing.

Brad’s scent eventually mellowed.

Settled.

Matthew gave him a small, crooked smile.

“Better,” he murmured.

Brad’s eyes stung.

⸻

After that night, Matthew didn’t tease him about the nest.

He helped.

Casually, like it was nothing.

He’d rearrange blankets after games when Brad was to exhausted to function.

Give Brad random blankets and pillows he thought would look good in the nest.

And leave one of his sweatshirts folded on top like an offering.

Brad pretended not to notice.

But he always buried it somewhere deep.

⸻

The team noticed the change, too.

Brad stopped growling at everyone for existing.

He still snapped if they pushed too hard.

But there was less edge to it.

More quiet sarcasm instead of outright hostility.

They responded in kind.

Banter instead of biting.

Invitations to golf, to barbecue, to nights out.

⸻

The nesting didn’t go away.

It got bigger.

More secure.

He’d catch himself rebuilding it on bad days, digging his hands into the blankets like they could hold him together.

Matthew always seemed to know when those days happened.

He’d bring coffee without being asked.

Sit on the floor next to the nest, scrolling through his phone silently.

Sometimes he’d lean back against the wall, close enough that Brad could smell him.

Alpha.

Warm.

Safe.

Brad hated how badly he needed it.

⸻

One night, after a tough loss, Brad went home with his chest tight.

He wanted to wreck the nest.

Rip it apart for making him feel weak.

Instead he collapsed into it.

He pressed his face into Matthew’s old hoodie and let himself cry.

He felt like an idiot.

A broken omega who couldn’t even pretend to be fine.

⸻

He didn’t hear the door open.

Didn’t hear Matthew’s footsteps until he felt the shift of weight near his side.

A warm hand landed carefully on his shoulder.

“Hey.”

Brad didn’t move.

Didn’t answer.

Matthew exhaled, long and soft.

“You want me to leave?”

Brad’s voice cracked.

“No.”

⸻

Matthew climbed carefully into the nest.

It was too small for both of them but neither complained.

Matthew arranged the blankets around them both, tucking Brad in like he was something precious.

Brad didn’t even try to fight him.

He just hid his face in Matthew’s chest, scent marking like it was the last thing keeping him alive.

Matthew didn’t tease.

Didn’t smirk.

He just held him, murmuring nothing words against his hair.

“Got you. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Brad shook in his arms for a long time.

⸻

Eventually he fell asleep like that.

Wrapped in scent and warmth and safety.

For the first time in weeks.

He didn’t dream.

Chapter Text

Brad didn’t have a clear moment when he realized he’d stopped waiting for everything to go bad.

It just… happened gradually.

He still woke up some mornings expecting to find angry texts from the coach, or shit-talk from the boys.

But it never came.

Instead there were memes in the group chat. Dumb jokes. Plans for dinner.

He was included automatically. Even when he said no, they kept inviting him.

And Matthew always made sure he didn’t stay home too long.

⸻

One Sunday morning he was up early, pacing his condo barefoot, hair a mess. He felt off—irritable, twitchy. His scent was all over the place.

He ended up tearing the nest apart twice.

Rebuilding it each time, muttering curses under his breath.

By the third time he’d given up on pretending it wasn’t nesting.

He’d gotten careful about it, too.

Layers of blankets. A specific order. A hoodie of his, then one of Matthew’s.

He hated how much better it made him feel.

But he couldn’t stop.

⸻

When Matthew knocked on the door that morning, Brad didn’t answer.

Matthew let himself in anyway.

He froze in the doorway to the bedroom.

Brad was half-buried in blankets, eyes red.

The nest was a mess around him.

“Hey.”

Brad glared. “Go away.”

Matthew didn’t move.

“Bad morning?”

Brad’s throat worked. “Fuck you.”

Matthew just exhaled, dropping his bag on the floor.

He approached slowly, like Brad was a spooked animal.

“Let me help.”

Brad laughed, bitter. “Help what? Build my little pathetic omega nest?”

Matthew didn’t flinch.

He lowered himself to the floor next to Brad.

“Yeah,” he said simply. “If you want.”

Brad’s lip trembled.

He hated that he wanted it so bad.

⸻

They didn’t talk much.

Matthew handed him blankets. Smoothed them when Brad fumbled. Rearranged pillows.

He didn’t take over.

He just… assisted.

Like it was normal.

When it was done, Brad slumped in the middle, exhausted.

He caught Matthew sniffing lightly, checking the scent markers.

Brad went scarlet.

“Stop that.”

Matthew gave him a tiny, infuriatingly gentle smile.

“Smells better now.”

Brad threw a pillow at him half-heartedly.

Matthew caught it easily, still grinning.

⸻

Later, they sat on the couch with coffee.

Brad wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Matthew tapped his mug against Brad’s gently.

“Team dinner tonight.”

Brad groaned.

“No.”

“Yes,” Matthew insisted.

Brad scowled. “Why do you even care?”

Matthew’s voice softened.

“Because you’re one of us.”

Brad’s chest felt too tight to breathe.

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t argue again, either.

⸻

Dinner was at Verhaeghe’s place.

Backyard lights strung over the fence. Someone manning the grill. Music playing off a tiny speaker.

It was disgustingly wholesome.

Brad sulked on a patio chair with a beer, watching the guys laugh and shove each other around.

Matthew was holding court near the grill, telling some dramatic story with big hand gestures.

He glanced over, caught Brad’s eye.

Gave him a slow, meaningful wink.

Brad’s cheeks went hot.

He looked away, pretending to check his phone.

⸻

Someone sat next to him.

Lomberg.

He was chewing on a toothpick, arms resting on his knees.

“Glad you came out,” he said eventually.

Brad shrugged. “Didn’t have a choice.”

Lomberg huffed a laugh. “Tkachuk threatened you, huh?”

Brad’s mouth twitched despite himself.

“Something like that.”

Lomberg was quiet for a beat.

Then: “He’s a good alpha. Even if he’s an asshole.”

Brad didn’t know how to respond to that.

Lomberg didn’t wait for an answer.

He clapped Brad on the shoulder once and wandered off to grab another beer.

⸻

After dinner, a few of them sat around the firepit.

Brad stayed on the edges, content to listen.

Matthew eventually dropped onto the chair next to him, beer in hand.

“See? Not so bad.”

Brad didn’t answer.

Matthew nudged his shoulder with his own.

“I’m proud of you.”

Brad’s jaw clenched.

“Don’t.”

Matthew blinked.

“Don’t what?”

Brad’s voice dropped, brittle.

“Don’t pretend I’m something worth being proud of.”

Matthew’s face went soft in the firelight.

He didn’t argue.

He just leaned in, voice low.

“I’m not pretending.”

⸻

That night Brad couldn’t sleep.

He kept rebuilding the nest over and over.

He couldn’t get the words out of his head.

Not pretending.

⸻

Practice the next day was rough.

They ran system drills over and over. Everyone was cranky, sniping at each other.

Brad got into a near-shouting match with Forsling over a blown coverage.

He stormed off the ice for a second, pacing.

He could feel his scent spiking.

Humiliation. Rage.

He was an omega losing control in front of everyone.

He wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

⸻

Matthew caught up to him outside the tunnel.

“Hey.”

Brad didn’t turn.

Matthew stepped closer, nose twitching, reading him.

“Easy,” he murmured. “Breathe.”

Brad’s voice cracked.

“I can’t fucking do this.”

Matthew’s expression didn’t change.

“You’re doing it right now.”

Brad shook his head, fighting tears.

Matthew exhaled slowly.

Then he pressed forward just enough to bump their foreheads together.

The contact was grounding, intimate.

Brad froze.

“Breathe with me,” Matthew whispered.

Brad obeyed, chest shaking.

In. Out.

Matthew’s scent washed over him.

Warm. Solid.

Alpha.

Safe.

⸻

The rest of practice was quiet.

Brad didn’t say another word.

No one chirped him.

No one made a big deal about it.

He was just… allowed to calm down.

⸻

That night he texted Matthew for the first time without being forced.

Marchand: Don’t come over tonight.

Tkachuk: …okay.

Marchand: Just tired.

Tkachuk: Sleep.

Tkachuk: Text me in the morning.

⸻

He lay in the nest, clutching one of Matthew’s sweatshirts.

He pressed his nose into it, breathing deep.

His own scent was calmer tonight.

More settled.

He hated how much he needed that.

But he also knew he wasn’t going to give it up.

⸻

He didn’t text in the morning.

Matthew showed up anyway, coffee in hand.

Brad glared at him sleepily from the nest.

Matthew grinned, unbothered.

“Room service.”

Brad didn’t get up.

Matthew set the cup carefully within reach.

“Don’t have to talk,” he said softly.

Brad grabbed the cup and sipped it, refusing to meet his eyes.

Matthew settled onto the floor by the bed, back against the wall.

He scrolled through his phone, humming something tuneless.

Brad didn’t tell him to leave.

⸻

It became a ritual.

Matthew would bring coffee.

Brad would scowl but drink it.

Sometimes they talked.

Sometimes they didn’t.

Matthew never forced anything.

He just stayed.

⸻

The nest grew again.

Brad started adding things deliberately.

Pillows Matthew had sat on. A hoodie he’d accidentally left in Brad’s truck.

Once, after a bad loss, Matthew handed over his practice jersey without a word.

Brad didn’t even pretend to resist.

He tucked it in deep.

⸻

The team noticed.

They started calling Brad the “team mom” when he checked in on rookies.

Matthew was the obvious “team dad.”

They all thought it was funny.

Brad pretended to hate it.

But he also kept snacks in his locker for the younger guys.

And he always chirped them if they forgot to eat.

Matthew never let him forget that, either.

⸻

The playoffs loomed closer.

Everyone got tenser.

Practice got meaner.

Brad found himself falling back on old habits—snarling, sniping, pushing too hard.

But Matthew was always there to anchor him.

A steady presence at his back.

A hand on his shoulder.

A reminder to breathe.

⸻

Brad didn’t know what they were.

He didn’t dare ask.

He was too afraid of the answer.

Too sure that it would ruin everything if he said it out loud.

So he stayed quiet.

He built his nest.

He let Matthew help.

He let himself want.

Just a little.

Chapter Text

Brad didn’t mean to become the “team mom.” It wasn’t like he made an announcement. It just… happened.

He was still mouthy on the ice, still ready to bite the head off anyone who disrespected him. But in the locker room? He noticed things.

If a rookie was quiet too long, Brad cornered him in the hall with a “What the fuck is your problem?” that somehow turned into them venting about ice time. If someone limped off the ice, Brad got there with tape before the trainer did. He barked at them to drink water. He texted them meal plan reminders. He threatened to bench anyone who skipped stretch.

At first they chirped him for it.
“Jesus, Marchand, chill. You’re not my mom.”

He flipped them off. But he also shoved the protein bar into their hand anyway.

It wasn’t lost on anyone. Not the team. And sure as hell not Matthew.

⸻

One morning, Matthew showed up to practice with an extra-large coffee. He handed it over without a word.

Brad blinked at it. “What’s this for?”

Matthew gave him a slow, infuriating grin. “For the team mom.”

Brad bristled immediately. “Fuck you.”

Matthew only laughed and slung an arm around his shoulders, dragging him toward the rink. “Don’t worry,” he said, voice dropping lower so only Brad could hear. “Every mom needs a dad to back her up.”

Brad went bright red. He shoved Matthew off, scowling fiercely. But he didn’t drop the coffee.

⸻

It got worse after that.

They lost a tight one to Tampa. Tension was high. Everyone was snapping. Forsling hurled his gloves across the room. Reinhart yelled at the whiteboard. Brad felt the growl rising in his own chest—he wanted to snarl at them, tell them to shut the fuck up.

Instead, he forced himself to stand. He walked over and picked up Forsling’s gloves, dropping them neatly on the bench.

“Get it together,” he said calmly. Firmly.

The room went quiet.

Matthew watched all of it from the other side of the locker room. He didn’t say anything. But when Brad sat down, heart pounding, Matthew walked over and dropped a hand onto his neck. Warm. Solid. Brad shivered.

⸻

The teasing didn’t stop.

Lomberg announced one day, “Mom says it’s time for team meeting!” Everyone cackled.

Brad flipped him off, red-faced. But he also handed out the scouting notes he’d marked up the night before.

Off the ice, it was worse. Brad checked in on everyone. Even guys he claimed to hate. If Tkachuk noticed a player sulking on the bus, he’d glance at Brad. Brad would sigh dramatically but get up and go sit with them.

They’d talk. Brad would chirp them about their hair or their shot or their last turnover. But by the end of it, they’d be smiling.

Matthew didn’t even pretend he wasn’t keeping track.

⸻

One night, late, they were sitting on Brad’s couch after dinner. The nest was in the corner of the room now. A permanent fixture. Blankets layered high, pillows stacked carefully, Matthew’s scent soaked into it so thoroughly Brad didn’t even bother denying it anymore.

Matthew watched Brad scroll on his phone for a while. Then he said, casually, “You know they’d fall apart without you, right?”

Brad stiffened. “Shut up.”

Matthew didn’t. “Team mom.”

“Fuck you.”

Matthew leaned back, grinning. “They know it too.”

⸻

Brad didn’t want to care.

Caring made everything too bright. Too raw. He’d tried not to. But he found himself worrying about the guys after games. Checking in if someone took a bad hit. Texting to make sure someone made their flight on time. It was pathetic. He hated himself for it. But he couldn’t stop.

⸻

He and Matthew had gotten into the habit of talking on the phone late at night if they weren’t at the condo. It was stupid. Juvenile. They’d both be half-asleep. But Matthew always called.

One night, Brad answered on the first ring. He didn’t say anything. Matthew didn’t either for a long moment. Then he murmured, “Hey.”

Brad’s voice cracked. “Hey.”

⸻

Brad’s heat was coming. He could feel it simmering under his skin. His scent was getting harder to manage. He tried doubling up suppressants. They made him sick to his stomach. He stopped eating right for a couple days.

The team noticed immediately. Verhaeghe shoved a protein bar at him in the hall. “Marchand, you’re slipping.”

Brad snarled, snatched it, and stormed off. But he ate it anyway.

⸻

Matthew was relentless.

He sniffed him obviously during practice, nose wrinkling.

“Your scent’s a mess,” he said bluntly.

Brad snapped, “Then stop fucking smelling me!”

Matthew didn’t even blink. “Can’t help it.”

Brad’s face went red. He skated off before Matthew could see how close he was to crying.

⸻

The nest became everything.

Brad rebuilt it obsessively. Added new blankets. Washed and re-scented everything. He caught himself on his hands and knees one night, pressing his face into Matthew’s old sweatshirt, scenting so hard he thought he’d suffocate.

He felt filthy. Pathetic.

He cried in the middle of it.

No one there to see.

But the scent stayed. Comforting.

⸻

Matthew noticed. He didn’t say anything right away. But he started hovering more. Brought groceries over without asking. Cooked while Brad sat on the couch, blank-eyed. He didn’t push. He just existed. Brad didn’t tell him to leave.

⸻

One practice, Brad lost it.

Snapped at a rookie.

Pushed Forsling.

Threw his stick.

The whole room went silent. Brad was panting, scent rolling off him in furious waves.

The rookie looked terrified. Forsling looked ready to swing.

Matthew stepped in between them. He didn’t yell. He just put a hand on Brad’s chest.

“Breathe.”

Brad shoved at him. Matthew didn’t move. He pressed in closer, letting their scents mingle. Brad’s eyes went glassy. He sagged. Matthew didn’t let him fall.

⸻

They sat in the hallway outside the locker room afterward. Brad hunched over his knees. Matthew leaned against the wall next to him.

“You good?”

Brad didn’t answer.

Matthew’s voice dropped low. “You’re close, huh?”

Brad flinched.

Matthew didn’t press. Just exhaled slowly.

“Okay. We’ll figure it out.”

Brad’s voice cracked. “There’s nothing to figure out.”

Matthew didn’t argue. But he stayed. Long after everyone else went home.

⸻

That night, Brad didn’t let Matthew leave the condo. He didn’t say the words. Just stood in the doorway, shaking.

Matthew dropped his bag on the floor and held out his arms. Brad fell into them.

They didn’t go to the bedroom right away. They stayed there in the entryway, holding on like the world was ending.

⸻

When they finally did move, Brad crawled straight into the nest. Matthew followed him in. He didn’t touch him at first. Just lay close, scenting the space carefully. Brad watched him with wet eyes.

Matthew’s voice was quiet. “Smells like you.”

Brad swallowed hard. “It’s supposed to.”

Matthew nodded. He sniffed again. “Smells like me too.”

Brad looked away, shame flooding him. Matthew didn’t let him curl in on himself. He nudged him gently until Brad met his eyes.

“It’s okay,” Matthew whispered.

Brad’s lip trembled. “It’s not.”

Matthew leaned in. “It is.”

He tucked them both into the blankets, arms wrapping carefully around Brad’s waist.

Brad tried to fight it. But he couldn’t. He was so fucking tired.

He turned in Matthew’s arms, face pressed to his chest, scenting desperately.

Matthew let him. Held him. Whispered nothing words into his hair.

Neither of them slept much. But Brad didn’t have nightmares.

Not that night.

Not with Matthew there.

Chapter Text

Brad didn’t want it to happen like this.

He’d planned it out in his head dozens of times. How he’d recognize the signs early, lock himself away, deal with it alone like he always had. How he’d keep it hidden from Matthew. But plans didn’t mean shit when biology finally caught up.

It hit after practice on an unseasonably hot day. He’d felt off for hours—restless, twitchy. His scent all over the place. He snapped at a trainer. Growled at a teammate who got too close. Everyone noticed.

Matthew noticed most of all. He kept sniffing the air, eyes narrowing, voice pitched low every time he spoke to Brad.

“Hey. Breathe.”

“Don’t touch me,” Brad snarled.

Matthew’s eyes softened.

“Brad. Look at me.”

Brad couldn’t. Couldn’t even stand being in his own skin.

⸻

By the time he made it home, he was shaking. Heat rolled through him in nauseating waves. His clothes were damp with sweat. His scent was humiliatingly slick. He dropped his bag inside the door and practically collapsed in the nest.

He tried to calm down. He really tried. But it felt like his whole body was on fire. Need clawed at him. He tore at the blankets. Rearranged them. Scented them so hard he gagged. It didn’t help. Nothing helped.

When Matthew knocked, Brad screamed at him to leave. But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. He let himself in and found Brad crumpled in the middle of the nest, shaking.

“Brad,” he breathed.

Brad wouldn’t look at him.

“Get out.”

Matthew dropped to his knees at the edge of the nest.

“Hey. Breathe. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.” Brad’s voice cracked. “It’s happening, I can’t—”

Matthew’s nose twitched. He went very still, reading the scent in the room. He let out a slow exhale.

“Your heat.”

Brad choked on a sob.

“Go away.”

Matthew shook his head.

“Not happening.”

⸻

Brad’s scent spiked in panic.

“Don’t fucking pity me—”

“I don’t.”

Brad clawed at the blankets, wanting to dig a hole and hide. His skin was too hot. His scent too needy. He could smell himself—omega in full heat, desperate, humiliating.

Matthew crawled closer carefully.

“Brad.”

Brad’s eyes were wet.

“Please,” he whispered.

Matthew stopped.

“Please what?”

“Don’t look at me.”

Matthew swallowed hard. But he didn’t look away. Instead he reached out and cupped Brad’s face gently, thumbs brushing the wetness from his cheeks.

“I’m right here.”

Brad let out a broken sob.

“I can’t— I can’t do this alone—”

Matthew’s voice cracked too.

“Then don’t.”

⸻

Brad keened low in his throat.

“Don’t— Don’t make me beg—”

Matthew’s scent washed over him in a wave. Warm. Alpha. Safe. He shuddered violently.

“I’m not gonna make you beg,” Matthew whispered. “Tell me what you need.”

Brad couldn’t speak. He just reached for him blindly.

Matthew didn’t hesitate. He climbed fully into the nest, arms wrapping around Brad’s shaking frame.

Brad buried his face in Matthew’s chest, sobbing, scenting so hard it was nearly feral.

Matthew let him. He kept murmuring, soft and reverent.

“Beautiful. Perfect. I’ve got you.”

Brad whimpered.

“Don’t lie to me.”

Matthew kissed his temple.

“I’m not.”

⸻

Brad’s heat was messy. Unpredictable. He went from begging to biting, pushing Matthew away only to drag him back.

Matthew never got angry. He took it all. Held Brad down gently when he thrashed. Whispered calming words when Brad sobbed. Kept pressing their scents together until the air was saturated.

When it got too much, Brad whined like an animal.

“Matthew—please—”

Matthew kissed the corner of his mouth carefully.

“Okay,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

They didn’t talk about what they did. They didn’t need to.

Matthew was careful. Worshipful. He pressed kisses to Brad’s throat, scent-glands, shoulders. Murmured praise in a voice wrecked with need but held tightly in check.

“Mine. You’re mine if you want it.”

Brad sobbed and clung to him.

They fell apart together in the nest. Sweat and heat and scent tangled so thoroughly Brad didn’t know where he ended and Matthew began.

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t perfect. But Matthew never let go. Never made him feel dirty. Never left him alone.

⸻

When it was over, Brad was wrecked. Exhausted, sticky with sweat and tears and shame. He tried to turn away, to hide his face, but Matthew wouldn’t let him. He held Brad’s jaw gently and made him meet his eyes.

“Don’t,” Brad croaked.

Matthew’s gaze softened.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t pretend you wanted this.”

Matthew’s brows furrowed.

“Brad.”

Brad’s voice cracked.

“I know you didn’t want—this. Me. Like this.”

Matthew’s throat worked. He pressed their foreheads together, voice low and rough with emotion.

“I’ve been wanting you since you got here.”

Brad sobbed once, shuddering.

“Liar.”

Matthew cupped his face with both hands, brushing tears away with his thumbs.

“I’ve been courting you, idiot.”

Brad’s eyes went wide.

“What—”

Matthew exhaled shakily, voice breaking.

“All of it. The coffee. The dinners. The nest. The jerseys. The fucking groceries. That’s how alphas court.”

Brad shook his head, tears spilling over, his breath hitching painfully.

“No. Don’t do this.”

Matthew swallowed, blinking hard.

“I love you.”

Brad let out a strangled sound that sounded like a sob and a curse all at once.

Matthew kissed his wet cheek softly.

“I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Brad couldn’t hold it back anymore. He clung to Matthew so hard it hurt, scenting him back desperately, gasping through sobs.

Matthew let him. Held him tighter. Pressed their foreheads together until Brad’s breathing slowed.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” Matthew whispered, over and over.

They fell asleep like that at last. Wrapped up in the nest they’d built together, buried in tangled blankets and each other’s scent, Brad finally calm.

Safe.

Home.

Chapter Text

Brad woke slowly, heart steady, warmth pressing softly around him.

He blinked against the morning light filtering through the curtains and felt… good.

Safe.

Matthew’s arm was heavy and steady across his waist, face nuzzled into the back of his neck, breathing slow and even.

The nest—soft blankets and pillows piled high—was warm and comforting.

Brad breathed in deeply, catching the familiar scent: Matthew, himself, mingled so completely it was impossible to separate.

He smiled faintly.

Maybe things were finally okay.

Maybe this was home.

But beneath it, a cold voice whispered.

You tricked him.

Your heat made him say those things.

He doesn’t really want you.

Brad’s chest tightened.

His smile faded.

Matthew’s too good for you.

The thought sank like a stone.

He hated how much he needed Matthew.

Hated how vulnerable he’d been.

Hated himself.

Carefully, Brad tried to squirm away.

Matthew made a soft sound and tightened his hold without hesitation.

Brad froze.

He fought back the urge to sob.

His whole body was sore.

He smelled like heat and sex and need.

Like Matthew.

He felt used.

Cheap.

He hated himself.

Finally, he slipped free.

Stumbling out of the nest on legs too shaky to trust.

His clothes were ruined—sweat-damp and torn.

He grabbed sweatpants from the floor and pulled them on clumsily, searching for a shirt when Matthew stirred.

“Brad?”

Matthew’s voice was low, cautious.

Brad went still.

Couldn’t look at him.

Tears burned behind his eyes.

“Don’t,” he managed.

Matthew sat up slowly, blinking away sleep.

“Hey. You okay?”

Brad’s laugh cracked bitterly.

“Am I okay? Are you fucking kidding me?”

Matthew’s brows furrowed as he sniffed the air, nose wrinkling.

“Brad. Breathe.”

“Don’t tell me to fucking breathe!” His voice cracked embarrassingly.

Matthew’s expression shifted—steady, calm alpha.

He climbed out of the nest and approached with open hands.

“Okay. I’m not mad. Just talk to me.”

Brad’s shoulders shook as he wiped at his eyes.

“I can’t— I can’t believe I did this to you.”

Matthew’s jaw tightened.

“Did what?”

“This!” Brad gestured wildly at the nest, the scent, everything.

“I fucking— I went into heat, I used you—”

⸻

Matthew’s eyes softened, painful and honest.

“Brad.”

“No!” Brad snapped, voice cracking. “Don’t do this. Don’t pretend you wanted it. Don’t fucking pity me.”

“I’m not pitying you.”

Brad sobbed.

“I didn’t want to trick you—”

Matthew’s brows pinched.

“Trick me?”

Brad choked on his breath.

“You didn’t want me like this. You didn’t want me at all.”

Matthew’s face crumpled.

He moved forward fast, grabbing Brad’s face in both hands.

Brad tried to pull away, but Matthew held firm.

“Look at me.”

Brad squeezed his eyes shut.

“Brad. Look at me.”

He broke and met Matthew’s gaze.

Matthew’s voice cracked, thick with emotion.

“Everything I said yesterday is true. I want you. I will want you every day, every moment, for as long as you’ll let me. And I will keep telling you that until you believe me, because you’re worth every word, every breath, every second.”

Brad’s lip trembled.

Matthew pressed their foreheads together.

“I love you.”

⸻

Brad let out a raw sound, breaking down completely.

Matthew pulled him in, arms wrapping tight around his shaking frame.

“I love you,” Matthew whispered again, voice cracking.

Brad trembled in his hold, unable to say it back—not yet.

He didn’t believe he deserved it.

But he pressed closer, burying his nose in Matthew’s throat and breathing deep.

They stood there forever.

Matthew scent-marked him carefully—slow and deliberate.

Brad whimpered softly at the intimacy.

Matthew didn’t tease or rush.

He stroked his back, murmuring gentle nonsense.

“I’ve got you.”

“You’re safe.”

“Mine if you want to be.”

When Brad finally calmed, Matthew helped him back into the nest.

Brad resisted.

“Don’t— It’s disgusting.”

Matthew blinked.

“Your nest?”

Brad’s voice cracked.

“It’s pathetic.”

Matthew didn’t argue.

He climbed in first and settled against the pillows, then held out his arms.

“Come here.”

Brad hesitated, breathing ragged.

Matthew’s voice dropped low.

“Please.”

Brad crumpled and crawled in.

Matthew wrapped him immediately, pressing them deep into the blankets, burying them in scent.

“Smells like home,” Matthew whispered into his hair.

Brad sobbed once, quietly.

⸻

They spent the whole day there—sleeping, talking, sometimes not talking.

Matthew wouldn’t let Brad get up for food or water without a promise to come right back.

Brad protested.

But Matthew had him scent-drowsy and pliant.

He always came back.

That night, Matthew cooked dinner in Brad’s tiny kitchen.

Brad sat at the counter, chin on folded arms, watching.

He felt wrung out, emptied, but not as hollow as before.

Matthew glanced over his shoulder.

“Team dinner tomorrow,” he said casually.

Brad groaned.

“No.”

Matthew smirked.

“Mom’s gotta show up.”

Brad weakly threw a spoon at him.

Matthew ducked it, grinning wide.

“Come on. They’ll miss you.”

Brad looked away.

“They don’t need me.”

Matthew went still.

Then crossed to him carefully.

He cupped Brad’s face again, thumb brushing beneath his eye.

“They need you.”

He leaned in, scenting gently.

“I need you.”

Brad shivered.

He didn’t say yes.

But he didn’t say no either.

They ate quietly.

Afterward, Matthew insisted on helping rebuild the nest.

Brad tried to stop him.

“Let me do it. It’s my nest.”

Matthew raised a brow.

“Ours now.”

Brad’s breath hitched.

He watched Matthew tuck a pillow just right, smoothing the blanket.

He didn’t speak for a long time.

That night, they fell asleep tangled up—nose to scent-glands, wrapped so tight there was no air between them.