Your heat is creeping closer, two days out at most, but you finished nesting this morning. The little room they gave you smells like all of them now, blankets and hoodies stolen from every single man in the house piled into one soft, perfect den. You are warm, calm, content, and the moment you step into the common room every alpha in the building knows it.

The air shifts before you even cross the threshold. The low murmur of conversation dies. Six heads turn at once.

Price is the first on his feet, chair scraping back, cigar forgotten in the ashtray. His blue eyes go soft the way they only ever do for family, and the lines around them deepen when he smiles.

Nikto rises beside him, slow and deliberate, the scarred side of his face catching the lamplight, but his uncovered eye is warm, almost sleepy with affection. Ghost stands like he was born upright, mask in place, but his shoulders loosen the second he sees you, the perpetual tension bleeding out of him. Gaz is already halfway across the room, easy grin spreading, dark eyes bright. Soap vaults the back of the couch without bothering to walk around it, landing light on his feet, mohawk a little mussed from where he’s been lying on König’s lap. König himself unfolds from the corner armchair, all seven feet of him moving careful and quiet, hood low but pale eyes gentle behind the fabric. They surround you without crowding, the way they’ve done a hundred times before.

Gaz reaches you first, hands coming up to cup your jaw, thumbs brushing the stubble there. “There he is,” he murmurs, voice low and fond, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. Soap is right behind him, sliding an arm around your waist from the side, cheek rubbing against your shoulder like he’s scenting you all over again. “Smell so good, love,” he whispers, Scottish accent thick with happiness. König steps in last of the three, massive hand settling on the back of your neck, thumb stroking the short hair at your nape while he leans down to touch his masked forehead to yours. “You are calm today,” he says in that quiet, rumbling German, “it is good.”

Price waits until the younger ones have had their moment, then shoulders through gently, callused palm sliding along your cheek. “Alright, lad?” he asks, voice gravel and smoke, and when you nod he pulls you into a slow, steady hug, beard scratching your temple. Nikto hangs back half a step, arms folded, but the moment Price releases you the Russian steps in, gripping your chin with two careful fingers, tilting your face so he can study you. “Pretty boy,” he mutters in Russian, then switches to English just for you, “you made your nest good?” You nod again and he hums approval, leaning in to kiss you slow and thorough, tasting like black tea and gun oil. Ghost is last, always last, standing a little apart until you turn to him. The mask stays on, but he reaches out, gloved hand settling over your heart for a second before he reels you in by the front of your shirt. His kiss is firm, almost chaste compared to the others, but he lingers, breathing you in through the fabric. “Good,” he says simply, voice rough.

They don’t ask if you need anything. They already know you’re taken care of, that the nest is perfect, that you’re here because you want to be close before the heat locks you away for days. So they simply stay around you, Price steering you to the biggest couch, Nikto dropping down on one side, Ghost taking the other. Gaz sprawls across the ottoman at your feet, Soap curls into your lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and König sits on the floor with his back to your knees, content to be near.

The room settles again, quieter now, filled with the low rumble of six alphas who would burn the world down before letting anything touch their omega. And you sit in the middle of it all, warm, safe, loved so completely it doesn’t need to be said out loud.