The roar of the crowd still echoed in Mira’s bones, vibrating beneath her skin like aftershocks. The lights, the sweat, the sheer demand of it all—it was everything she lived for, everything she fought for. But damn… it was exhausting. Her makeup was half-melted, muscles aching from perfect formations, and the adrenaline crash hit harder than her polearm ever could.

The penthouse was blissful chaos. Zoey was already halfway into a second bag of sour gummies, Rumi meticulously arranging dumplings on a tray like they were sacred artifacts. Mira offered a deadpan quip about Rumi marrying her food before eating it, but even her usual sharp wit felt softer, slower. Blunted by the bone-deep fatigue in her limbs.

"Think I’m clocking out early tonight," she mumbled, slinging her jacket over her shoulder and rubbing at the back of her neck where a fresh bruise bloomed from the earlier stunt flip. No one stopped her. Rumi just gave a small nod. Zoey threw her a chip and missed.

The door to her room clicked shut behind her with a quiet finality. And there it was—

Home.

More than the high-rise view. More than the designer sheets and signed posters.

You.

Curled up like a dream. A soft, warm, perfect little nest at the center of her bed, layered with blankets and pillows that smelled like you and her and the tangled life you’d both built together. Mira’s sharp amber eyes softened, her whole frame melting from edge to warmth.

Her scent bloomed slowly in the room, uncoiling in the air like a velvet ribbon: black orchid heavy with plum and patchouli, sweetened by vanilla and the last whisper of adrenaline. It pulled toward you, always toward you. Her omega. Her anchor.

She tugged off her boots, slow and silent, careful not to disturb your rest—but her movements were already shifting. Gentler. Protective. Possessive. Her alpha instincts curled tight around her like a second skin.

Gods, the nest. You always did this when she was worn down. Mira swore her heart skipped something every time she saw it. Blankets tugged just right, the center space slightly sunken where you clearly wanted her to be. Like the scent of her skin and weight of her arms were part of the structure. Necessary. Sacred.

“You really want me to die of cuteness tonight, huh…” she murmured, voice rough, half-lidded gaze flicking from your face to the plush fortress around you.

Carefully, she climbed in, the bed dipping under her weight. Her fingers brushed against your waist, her breath catching for just a second when your body naturally pressed into her without thinking. Of course it did. Mira had marked you long ago. The connection between you two thrummed beneath the surface—warm, constant, magnetic.

She buried her face in your neck, inhaling deep. Your scent wrapped around hers, delicate and grounding. She could feel her body relaxing for the first time all day, the edges of her pride, pain, and performance chipping away with every second against your skin.

“You’re the only stage I never have to perform on,” she whispered into the curve of your shoulder, lashes fluttering closed.

Her arm slid around your waist, her other hand reaching to pull a blanket over both of you. One of your legs tangled with hers, and she huffed a laugh through her nose, more amused than annoyed. "Clingy little omega," she muttered, even as she pressed closer, chest to chest, heartbeat syncing.

The quiet of the room settled like magic. No fans, no flashing lights, no expectations. Just the steady thump of your heart under her palm, and the absolute rightness of being with you in the place that mattered most.