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For a moment, the familiar weight of the comforter and the absolute stillness of dawn felt like a cocoon of warm air he didn’t want to leave. Steve shifted among the sheets with a soft whimper, his hand resting instinctively on the rounded curve of his seven-month belly. Morning sunlight filtered through the half-drawn curtains, painting golden lines across the bedroom and over the still-sleeping face of his Alpha.
Eddie lay beside him, dark curly hair spilled across the pillow like an ink halo, his breathing slow and deep, his chest rising and falling with a hypnotic rhythm. Steve smiled, the tips of his fingers barely brushing Eddie’s jaw, tracing the line of his unshaven chin. Even after all these years, after six kids and another on the way, the sight of his sleeping Alpha made his heart flip, a liquid warmth spilling from his core to his fingertips.
A muffled sound came from the hallway. Tiny, rapid footsteps, like a stampede of mice in socks. Then an exaggerated “shhh” that rang out louder than a shout, followed by a “You stepped on my toe!” and a “Don’t push, Lily, you’ll wake Dad!” The door cracked open with a slow, telltale creak, and six messy heads peeked in, stacked on top of each other like a wobbly human tower. Steve pretended to still be asleep, stifling a laugh.
The little ones tiptoed in, gathering around the side of the bed where Eddie slept. Jamie, the eldest at barely seven, held a finger to his lips in a gesture of silence that no one obeyed. Behind him, the six-year-old twins, Milo and Rory, were subtly shoving each other to claim the best spot near their father’s pillow. Lily, five, clung to her plush bunny, her bright eyes fixed on Eddie. Little Rosie, four, sucked her thumb while rocking on her heels. And Ben, the tiniest at just three years old, crawled straight over Steve’s legs to reach the other side.
"Dad," Jamie whispered, leaning close to Eddie’s ear. "Dad, wake up."
Eddie let out a guttural growl, a purely Alpha sound that rumbled in his chest. His arm moved instinctively, wrapping around the empty space where Steve had been moments before, and when he didn’t find him, his eyes snapped open, dark and alert. It took him a second to focus on the six little faces watching him with absolute adoration.
"Good morning, monsters," he purred, his voice rough with sleep, and the effect was immediate: all six pups threw themselves at him like a wave of pajamas and laughter, crushing him against the mattress. Eddie growled again, this time a playful roar, and caught as many as he could in his arms, ruffling their hair, tickling tiny ribs, drawing shrieks that would surely wake the whole neighborhood.
"Daddy, Daddy, today’s Saturday!" Rory shouted, sitting triumphantly on Eddie’s chest, his hazel eyes—identical to Steve’s—sparkling with excitement.
"Hmm, yeah? And what happens on Saturdays?" Eddie asked, feigning ignorance as he gently tugged one of Lily’s loose braids.
"Pancakes!" the chorus of voices answered in unison, as if they’d rehearsed it. Ben, who still hadn’t mastered all his words, simply shouted “Bam!”, slapping his palms against Eddie’s shoulder, and Rosie clapped, her thumb momentarily forgotten.
Steve sat up then, propping himself on his elbows, and the movement drew every gaze. The pups turned their heads toward him, their expressions softening in that particular way they reserved for their Omega mom. Jamie was the first to crawl over to him, planting a gentle kiss on his cheek, right beside the moles Eddie loved so much.
"Good morning, Mommy," Jamie said, and his small hand slid down to Steve’s belly, stroking the fabric of his shirt. "Has the baby brother woken up yet?"
"He’s kicking,” Steve replied, guiding Jamie’s hand to his right side, where a little bump was moving beneath the skin. Jamie’s eyes widened, and instantly, the other five pups abandoned Eddie to crowd around Steve, taking turns touching the belly, whispering “hello” against his navel, asking if the new baby brother could hear them.
"Of course he can hear you," Eddie chimed in, sitting up on the bed, his hair a magnificent mess, the sheet pooled around his waist. "And he can smell you too, so just imagine what he thinks of this little morning foot stink."
"My feet don’t stink!" Milo protested, lifting a bare foot toward Eddie’s face; who pretended to swoon dramatically onto the pillows, sparking another round of laughter. But even in the middle of the joke, Steve noticed how his children’s gazes returned to Eddie like magnetized needles pointing north.
They adored him. They revered him. To them, Eddie Munson wasn’t simply their father; he was a mythical hero, a legendary being who had come down to earth to play guitar, cook pancakes, and tell stories. Steve saw it in the way the twins mimicked Eddie’s gestures when they talked, in how Lily had asked Steve to cut her bangs exactly like her father’s, in how Ben already tried to stick out his tongue rocker-style the moment he saw a camera. And Eddie, his beautiful, chaotic, tender Eddie, absorbed that love with a gratitude so deep it sometimes seemed to spill right out of him, like an overfull glass.
The procession toward the kitchen was a cacophony of bare feet and crumpled pajamas. The house smelled of old wood and books, of a faint Alpha musk that clung to the furniture, and of that sweet, milky scent of pups and the pregnant Omega. Eddie led the way, carrying Ben on his shoulders and holding Rosie’s hand. Behind them, Steve walked more slowly, one hand on his lower back, feeling the familiar, beloved weight of his belly, while Jamie, ever attentive, held his other hand with a seriousness that broke his heart.
"Sit down, Mommy," Jamie commanded, pointing to a kitchen chair with the authority of a little Alpha in training, even though his scent was still the sweet, undefined aroma of a pup. Steve obeyed, grateful, and from there watched the hurricane that was Eddie in the kitchen.
His Alpha moved with electric energy, a kind of improvised choreography between the counter and the fridge. He took out flour, eggs, milk, and the baking powder, naming each ingredient out loud as if he were proclaiming the titles of an epic culinary battle.
"Attention, little warriors! Today we face a formidable enemy: the dragon pancake batter! If we don’t beat it with enough vigor, if we don’t pour our hearts and souls into it, the dragons won’t take flight and we’ll be left with… plain, round pancakes!"
A collective gasp of horror swept through the kitchen.
"No, not plain ones!" Lily pleaded, gripping the edge of the counter with her little hands, going up on tiptoes to see. Eddie winked at her and began the show. He poured the ingredients into the bowl with exaggerated flourishes, spinning the wooden spoon between his fingers like a drumstick. The pups were hypnotized. When the batter was ready and the pan hot, Eddie wielded the ladle like a sword.
"Which dragon would Her Majesty Lily like to see first?" he asked, bowing theatrically to his daughter, who let out a shy giggle.
"A rainbow dragon!"
"A rainbow dragon, the princess requests. Difficult, very difficult. Only the greatest pancake masters can achieve the seven colored scales. Close your eyes, everyone. We must focus the magic."
All six pups closed their eyes tightly, even Ben, who covered his face with both hands. Steve watched, his chin resting on his palm, feeling the baby stir gently inside him. Eddie poured the batter into the pan with a quick flick of his wrist, adding drops of food coloring that he pulled from some secret hiding place with the skill of a street magician. When the children opened their eyes, a pancake rested on the white plate, unmistakably shaped like a dragon; wings spread, tail curled, and tiny spots of color that, with plenty of imagination and the right kind of love, could easily be rainbow scales. The reverent silence that followed spoke louder than any applause.
"It’s… it’s too pretty to eat," Milo whispered, tracing the edge of the plate with the tip of his finger, as if the dragon might come to life and fly around the kitchen.
"That’s exactly what Rory said about the blue dragon last week," Eddie reminded, already readying the next ladleful. "And what happened?"
"I ate it," Rory admitted, with a hint of guilt. "But it was so yummy I don’t regret it."
"Well, today we’re making dragons for everyone, in every color you want. And you know what?" Eddie leaned over the counter, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper that made the pups lean in too, forming a circle of tousled heads. "Whoever eats their whole dragon, including the crunchy wings and the tip of the tail, I’m going to buy them next week… a real dragon."
Six pairs of eyes went wide. Rosie gasped, her thumb halfway to her mouth. Jamie frowned, the skepticism of the eldest battling his unshakable faith in his father.
"A real dragon, Dad?" he asked, his voice brimming with a hope he was trying to hold back.
"Well, a real toy dragon. The kind that blow smoke out of its nose and have wings that move. But only if you eat every last crumb. You can’t half-buy a dragon. You have to earn it."
The kitchen exploded into a symphony of promises and cheers. “I’ll eat it all!”, “Me too!”, “Daddy, make me a purple dragon!”, “No, make me a green one that breathes fire!”
Eddie attended to each request with the solemnity of a Michelin-starred chef, pouring batter, tilting the pan, adding details with the tip of a knife. Steve rose from his chair and approached from behind, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s waist, pressing his cheek against his back, breathing in his deep scent of sandalwood and electricity, of home.
"You’re ridiculously good at this," he murmured against his shoulder blade, feeling the vibration of Eddie’s silent laugh through his shirt.
"I’ve had practice. Six very demanding judges. Soon seven."
"Eight, if you count me."
Eddie turned around, the ladle still in his hand, and planted a kiss on Steve’s lips, a kiss that tasted of coffee and promises. The pups, busy inspecting their respective dragons, paid no attention to the exchange, or maybe they were so used to the displays of affection between their parents that it had become part of the scenery, as natural as pancakes shaped like mythological creatures.
Breakfast unfolded amid careful bites and exclamations of delight. Rory was the first to finish, showing off his empty plate as if it were a morning achievement. Milo followed close behind, a smear of syrup on his cheek that Rosie tried to clean with her napkin, sparking a small scuffle. Lily ate delicately, separating each bite as if she were performing an autopsy on her dragon, making sure not to waste a single colorful scale. Jamie, ever meticulous, had cut his dragon into geometric portions and ate them in order, from tail to head. Ben, the littlest, simply squished his pancake with his palm and shoved it into his mouth by the fistful, under Steve’s gaze—half amused, half horrified.
"Well, technically he’s eating it whole," Eddie commented with a shrug, and Steve had to cover his mouth to keep from bursting out laughing.
After breakfast came the routine Steve secretly loved: pajama time. Because Eddie, his thoughtful and over-the-top Alpha, had established the tradition of giving themed pajamas every so often, and the pups had developed an emotional attachment to those garments that bordered on obsession.
Today, Lily was wearing a green dragon onesie with plush scales and a hood with little golden horns. The twins Milo and Rory had matching shark sets, with fins on their backs and felt teeth sewn around the hood. Jamie wore a knight pajama set, with a printed chainmail tunic and an embroidered shield on the chest. Rosie was a giant strawberry, all red with black seeds and a green little hat that kept slipping over her eyes. And Ben, the spoiled one, toddled around in a dinosaur footed romper with a padded tail that swayed as he walked and tiny T-Rex arms that barely let him use his hands.
"Time to change, pups," Steve announced, carrying a laundry basket of clean clothes. The reaction was expected: a small-scale rebellion.
"I don’t want to take off my jammies!" Lily protested, hugging herself, clutching the sleeves of her dragon as if afraid it might disappear.
"Mommy, sharks need to be in the water, not in the washing machine," Rory argued, with unassailable logic.
"What water?" Milo asked, picking his nose. "There’s water in the washing machine, Rory."
"It’s not real water! It’s water with soap! Sharks can’t breathe soap!"
Steve sighed, the basket propped on his hip, and shot Eddie a look for help. His Alpha, leaning against the doorframe with a cup of coffee in hand, gave him a sly smile in return.
"Sharks, fruits, and dragons, attention to your father!” Eddie announced in a circus ringmaster’s voice, and the effect was instantaneous: all the pups snapped to attention, arguments forgotten, eyes fixed on him. "I’ll make you a deal. If you take off those pajamas right now, no tears or tantrums, and let your mom wash them while we go to the park, this afternoon when we come back, there’ll be a surprise waiting on your beds."
"What surprise?" Jamie asked, ever cautious.
"If I tell you, it stops being a surprise. But I promise it involves… new sleeping clothes."
The pups looked at each other, a silent council. Rosie was the first to give in, yanking off her strawberry hat and tossing it into the basket with fierce determination. Ben followed her lead, wrestling with the buttons of his dinosaur until Eddie knelt down to help him. Soon, a rain of themed pajamas flew into the basket, and the children were left in their underwear, bouncing impatiently around Steve.
"What new pajamas will they be?" Lily asked, tugging at Eddie’s shirt.
"I can’t say. But remember: a magician never reveals his tricks. I’ll only say that… they might have horns. Or gills. Or even… tentacles."
The shrieks of excitement were deafening. Steve shook his head, but he was smiling, because Eddie always kept his promises and because, to be honest, seeing his kids thrilled over something as simple as a new pair of pajamas filled his chest with a tenderness that ached.
That night, after an exhausting afternoon at the park where Eddie had been pirate captain, sea monster, and dragon all at once, chasing his pups through the swings and letting himself be «defeated» in epic tickle battles, the house settled into the warm calm of story time.
The new pajamas had been a huge hit: Lily was now a plush purple dragon, the twins were hammerhead sharks with eyes on the sides of their hoods, Jamie was a wizard with stars that glowed in the dark, Rosie was a watermelon slice, and Ben was a little panda bear. They all crowded onto the big bed, on a pile of pillows and blankets Eddie had arranged like an improvised nest. Steve lay back on one side, his rounded belly resting on a cushion, Eddie’s hand intertwined with his on the quilt.
"What story do you want to hear tonight, my brave ones?" Eddie asked, leaning his back against the headboard. His acoustic guitar rested beside him, and his fingers absently brushed the strings, producing a soft, melancholy chord.
"The one about the dragon and the warrior princess!" Lily requested.
"No, the one about the knight who faces the dark army!" Milo countered.
"Yesterday’s," Ben said, though he probably didn’t remember yesterday’s and just wanted to take part.
"I know," Jamie announced, his serious voice cutting through the chatter. "Tell us the story of how you met Mommy."
Eddie went still, his fingers motionless on the strings. Steve felt his heart quicken, a warm blush creeping up his neck. Their children knew the story, of course—they’d told it a thousand times—but every time they asked, Eddie told it as if it were the first, with new details, new dramatic pauses, new jokes.
"That story is very long," Eddie said, lowering his voice, weaving an atmosphere of intimacy. "Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer dragons?"
"Dragons after!" Lily demanded, and the others nodded vigorously.
"Alright. Once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far away called Hawkins, there was a street bard who didn’t fit in anywhere. People looked at him strangely, whispered when he passed, said his music was too loud, his hair too long, his laugh too wild. But the bard didn’t care, or at least he thought he didn’t, because he had his guitar and his dreams, and that, he believed, was enough."
He paused, making sure all the pups were watching him.
"What the bard didn’t know was that in that very kingdom lived a prince as beautiful as the sun, a prince who wore a crown of golden hair and a smile that lit up every corridor of the castle. Except the prince didn’t feel like a prince. He felt lonely, hidden behind his shining armor, tired of fighting battles others forced upon him. One day, fate, who’s a bit of a prankster, crossed their paths in a dark forest, full of strange creatures and portals to other worlds."
Another pause—this time, his gaze turned to Steve.
"At first, the bard and the prince didn’t like each other. The prince thought the bard was a carnival freak, and the bard thought the prince was a pretty doll with no brain. But then…"
"But then they became friends," Rory interrupted, impatient. "And then they got married. Tell the part about the bats, Dad."
"Bats?" Eddie brought a hand to his chest, pretend-offended. "Who’s the bard here, you or me?"
"You, Daddy."
"Then let the bard tell the story at his own pace. As I was saying, they became friends. Well, more than friends. The bard began to see that behind the prince’s armor beat a huge heart, brave and tender. And the prince discovered that the bard’s music wasn’t loud, it was passion. That his laugh wasn’t too wild, it was pure joy. And that his long hair was perfect for tangling your fingers in. Together they fought monsters, literally, and saved each other. Until one day, after we almost lost the bard..."
Here Eddie’s voice cracked for a moment, barely a millisecond that only Steve caught.
"The prince asked him to stay by his side forever. And the bard, who had never had a real home, found one in the arms of his prince."
"And they had lots of kids," Rosie concluded, snuggling against Eddie’s side.
"That came later, yeah. First came Jamie, who was so tiny and serious he looked like a mini king."
"I’m not a king," Jamie murmured, but his cheeks flushed with pride.
“You’re our first pup, that makes you a king. Then came the earthquakes Milo and Rory, who wouldn’t stop moving even inside Mommy’s belly. After them Lily, our dragon princess with the bell-like laugh. Rosie, who was born smelling like strawberries. And finally Ben, our little warrior panda."
"And now the new one," Milo said, pointing at Steve’s belly.
"And now the new one," Eddie repeated, and his eyes met Steve’s once again across the nest of children and blankets. There was so much love in that gaze, so much gratitude, so much disbelief, that Steve felt a knot in his throat.
"Daddy," Lily’s little voice broke the silence. "Can you play the dragon song before we sleep?"
Eddie nodded, picking up his guitar. He cradled it against his chest, his fingers finding the strings with the ease of someone greeting an old friend. He began to play a soft melody, an arpeggio that rose and fell like the flight of a winged creature. It wasn’t a song that existed on any record; it was something Eddie had composed for them, a private lullaby performed only in the big bed, on Saturday nights, when everyone was together.
The pups gradually went still, their eyelids heavy, their bodies sinking into the pillows. Ben fell asleep first, thumb in his mouth, head resting on Eddie’s thigh. Rosie followed, hugging her plush bunny. Lily fought against sleep, wanting to hear the song to the end, but her eyes closed just as Eddie played the final chord.
Steve and he moved in silence, carrying each pup to their own bed, one by one, in the synchronized choreography of seasoned parents. When the last child was tucked in, the house was wrapped in a deep, sacred hush, broken only by the distant hum of the refrigerator and the creak of floorboards under their feet.
They returned to the main bedroom. Steve sat on the edge of the bed with a sigh of relief, his hands massaging his belly. Eddie knelt in front of him, his hands covering Steve’s, his thumbs drawing soft circles over the fabric of his shirt.
"You’re exhausted," Eddie said—not a question, an observation.
"I’m fine. It’s just that the number seven is getting comfortable on my bladder."
"Seven." Eddie shook his head slowly, a disbelieving smile curving his lips. "How did we get to seven, Steve? At what point did we go from being two scared kids in a trailer to… to this?"
"The moment you told me you were staying," Steve answered, his fingers stroking Eddie’s cheek, the line of his jaw. "Everything else… the kids, this house, this life… came after, only because you stayed."
Eddie closed his eyes, and when he opened them, they were glossy, liquid, dangerously close to spilling over. His hands moved up from Steve’s belly to his shoulders, his arms wrapping around him, his face burying itself in the crook of the Omega’s neck, right where his scent was sweetest, purest.
"You don’t know what you gave me,” he murmured against his skin, his voice breaking. "I was nobody, Stevie. I was the freak, the screw-up, the guy who was going to repeat senior year until he was twenty-five. And you… you looked at me like I was something valuable. You gave me this," he lifted his gaze, taking in the room, the bed, the paintings adorning the walls. "You gave me kids who run to me when I come home. You gave me a home. You gave me… a family."
"Eddie…"
"No, let me finish. Sometimes at night I wake up and I look at you, at the kids. And I can’t believe it’s real. I can’t believe that the Alpha who played guitar in a smoke-filled dive, who had nothing and no one but his uncle, now has this. The kids today… did you see how they looked at me? Like I’m fucking Superman. And I’m not Superman, Steve. I’m a mess with tattoos and a high school diploma I earned at twenty-one. But they… they believe I am. And I never want to let them down."
"You won’t let them down," Steve said, with a conviction that sounded absolute. "You’re the best father those kids could ever have. You’re everything to them. Don’t you see it? They talk about you constantly. At school, at the park, in the damn line at the grocery store. ‘My dad does this, my dad said that, my dad plays guitar better than anyone.’ Sometimes the other parents look at me with this mix of jealousy and exhaustion, like they’re wondering what kind of Alpha they have at home for their kids to be so obsessed with him. And I just smile and say, ‘The best.’"
Eddie broke down. It wasn’t a theatrical gesture, wasn’t a dramatic sob. It was an almost imperceptible tremble, a wet trail that ran down his cheek and fell against the fabric of Steve’s shirt. His Alpha, his rocker with the crooked smile and endless charm, wept in silence, overwhelmed by a love so vast his body didn’t know how to contain it.
"Hey, hey, look at me," Steve took his face in his hands, lifting it to meet his eyes. "You’re crying, you goof. Why are you crying?"
"Because I’m happy," Eddie said, his voice hoarse. "It’s so stupid. I’m so ridiculously happy that I don’t know what to do with it. And it scares me. Scared something will take it away. I’m afraid that one day they’ll wake up and see I’m not so great, that I’m just some guy who got lucky."
"It wasn’t luck. It was you. It’s you. Every pancake, every pair of pajamas, every bedtime story… do you think other parents do that? Do you think it occurs to other parents to buy food-themed pajamas so their kids won’t want to take them off? You’re amazing, Eddie. And I’m not saying it because I love you. I’m saying it because it’s true. Our kids adore you because you’ve given them something most children dream of: a father who’s present, who listens, who plays guitar for them even when he’s tired, who turns an ordinary breakfast into a dragon spectacle. Kids aren’t stupid, Eddie. They see who you are. And what they see, what I see, is the most wonderful man in the world."
Eddie let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob, resting his forehead against Steve’s. His fingers tangled in the golden hair, his warm breath mingling with his Omega’s.
'If you keep this up," Steve whispered, his lips brushing Eddie’s. "I’m going to have to give you more kids. Because I’m absolutely certain they’ll all love you. The way I love you. The way Jamie, Milo, Rory, Lily, Rosie, and Ben love you. We’re yours, Eddie. All of us. Forever."
"Forever," Eddie repeated, and sealed the promise with a slow, deep kiss that tasted of salt and cinnamon. "I love you, Stevie. There are no words. No songs. Just… I love you. You, them, that little one on the way. I love you all so much that sometimes I wake up and my inner wolf is purring. Can you believe it? An Alpha, purring like a pup. Because he’s happy. Because he’s at peace. Because he has a pack."
"Our pack," Steve corrected, taking Eddie’s hand and bringing it to his belly, right where the baby had just delivered a particularly enthusiastic kick. "And it’s still growing."
That night they slept tangled in each other, the Alpha and Omega scents blending into a single fragrance that filled the whole house, a scent of safety and belonging. The pups, in their rooms in their fantasy pajamas, dreamed of dragons and concerts and magical pancakes.
And Eddie, before closing his eyes, stayed awake a few minutes longer, gazing at the sleeping face of his mate, the curve of his belly where their seventh pup was growing, listening to the sounds of the house that was his, of the family he had built, of the love he never, in a million years, would have believed he deserved.
The following Monday, the school routine swept the house up in its usual whirlwind of backpacks, rushed breakfasts, and missing shoes. Eddie parked the van in front of Hawkins Elementary—his old, beloved van that had survived the eighties with more patches than he had on his leather jackets. The three eldest—Jamie, Milo, and Rory—unbuckled their seatbelts and leaned forward to kiss Steve on the cheek, as he waited in the passenger seat.
"Be good," Steve reminded them, ruffling Milo’s hair, who protested weakly. "And don’t fight during recess. Milo, Rory, I’m talking to you two."
"Why is it always us?" Rory complained, offended.
"Because last week you threw yourself on your brother in the sandbox and almost broke one of his teeth."
"It was an accident. He provoked me."
"I didn’t provoke you! You started it!"
"You started it first!"
"Enough!" Eddie’s voice, firm but not angry, cut through the discussion like a hot knife through butter. The twins fell silent instantly, their heads swiveling toward him with that absolute attention only an Alpha could command. "This afternoon we’re going to the record store, and whoever gets in trouble stays home organizing my CDs alphabetically. Understood?"
"Yes, Dad," the three chorused.
"Good. Now go on, you’re running late. Love you, monsters!"
The kids jumped out of the van like a herd of little deer, backpacks bouncing on their backs. Lily, Rosie, and Ben, still too young for school, stayed home with the babysitter, a neighborhood girl Steve adored because she gave him a few hours of peace and a moment alone with his Alpha. But the older ones launched themselves toward the school entrance with the boundless energy of childhood.
Jamie, always first, greeted his teacher with a serious, formal «good morning» that earned him a smile. He sat down at his desk and began taking out his pencils, perfectly aligned. Beside him, Jimmy, a boy with curly hair and freckles, leaned over with a sly grin.
"Hey, Jamie, is it true your dad has a bat tattoo on his back?"
"It’s a dragon, not a bat," Jamie corrected, without looking up from his notebook. "And yeah, it’s true. He got it when he rescued my mom from a monster."
Jimmy’s eyes went wide. "A real monster?"
"The kind that live underground. But my dad’s not scared of anything. Once he fought an army of bats all by himself, with nothing but his bare hands."
That was, technically, a considerable exaggeration of the actual events, but Jamie had heard his aunt and uncle, Robin and Dustin, tell it so many times that to him it was absolute truth. And if his dad never corrected it, then it had to be true, right?
In another classroom, Milo and Rory were surrounded by a group of classmates, all crowded around a sheet of paper Rory was holding like a treasure.
"Your dad drew this?" asked a girl with blonde pigtails, pointing at the page with reverence.
"He drew it for us," Milo answered, his chest swelling with pride. "It’s a dragon that breathes colorful fire. My dad says dragons really exist, but they’re hidden in a parallel world. He knows how to get there."
"How?"
"With his guitar. He plays a special song and a portal opens. But he can’t take us yet because we’re too little. When we’re older, he’s going to teach us."
The girl with the pigtails let out a sigh of admiration Another boy, more skeptical, frowned.
"My dad says your dad dresses weird. That he looks like a vampire."
Milo and Rory exchanged a look. They could have been offended. They could have gotten angry. But instead, Rory smiled smugly, like someone who possessed secret knowledge others couldn’t even imagine.
"Your dad doesn’t get it," Rory said. "My dad’s a musician. He plays guitar in real concerts. Does your dad know how to play guitar?"
"No…"
"Does your dad make you dragon-shaped pancakes on Saturdays?"
"No…"
"Does your dad tell you stories about warrior princesses who fight dark armies?"
"Well, sometimes he reads me a story…"
"My dad makes up the stories," Milo interrupted, taking over. "He makes them up right there, without a book or anything. And they always have dragons, swords, and magic. And when the story’s over, he plays guitar so we fall asleep. He’s the best dad in the world!"
"The best in the universe," Rory corrected. "And the multiverse. Which is a bunch of universes together."
The skeptical boy fell silent, processing that information. The pigtailed girl, meanwhile, asked almost in a whisper. "Do you think your dad would draw me a dragon too?"
"Of course," Milo said, magnanimous. "My dad draws dragons for anyone who asks. He’s super good at drawing. And playing guitar. And cooking. And…"
"Okay, Milo, we get it," Rory laughed, elbowing his twin.
The morning passed between classes and recess, and by the time the dismissal bell rang, the three Munson brothers had told anyone who would listen—and several who wouldn’t—about their father’s exploits. Jamie had narrated the epic battle against the Upside Down bats, conveniently omitting the more terrifying details and adding more heroic ones. Rory had shown the dragon drawing to so many people that the paper was beginning to dangerously crease at the corners. And Milo, the chattiest of the three, had described in lavish detail the texture of the dragon pancakes, the sound of his father’s guitar, and the feeling of brand-new pajamas fresh out of the bag.
So when Eddie pulled the van up in front of the school to pick them up, he wasn’t greeted only by his three sons. A small crowd of children swarmed around the van the moment they saw him step out, his long dark mane rippling in the breeze, his tight black jeans and his worn Iron Maiden t-shirt.
"It’s him! It’s Jamie’s dad!"
"Mr. Munson! Mr. Munson!"
"Is it true you once fought a monster?"
"Can you draw me a dragon?"
"Play the guitar! Did you bring the guitar?"
Eddie stood frozen by the driver’s door, keys still in hand, completely bewildered.His gaze went from Jamie to Milo to Rory, and he found in his three sons an expression of such absolute, radiant pride that his chest felt like it was expanding and tightening all at once.
"Guys…" he started, running a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture he hadn’t lost over the years. "I don’t know what you’re talking about…"
"The bats, Dad!" Jamie exclaimed, running to him and taking his hand. "I told them about the bats from the other side. Well, not everything, but a little."
"A little," Eddie repeated, arching an eyebrow. "Jamie, I told you that was a family secret."
"But they wanted to know!" Rory chimed in, hanging off his other arm. "And besides, we didn’t tell the important stuff. Just that you’re the best."
"The best in the universe," Milo added, hugging to his leg.
The other kids kept staring at Eddie with that mix of admiration and curiosity that only young children can have. A little girl approached him, holding a sheet of paper in her hand, and held it up shyly toward him.
"Mr. Munson, will you sign this? Rory says you’re famous."
Eddie looked down at the piece of paper, then at the little girl, then at Rory, who was smiling with all his teeth, completely oblivious to the embarrassment he should have been feeling.
"Sweetheart, I’m not famous," Eddie said, kneeling down to be at her eye level. "I’m just a dad."
"A dad who fights monsters and plays guitar," Milo pointed out.
"And makes dragon pancakes," Rory added.
"And tells the best stories in the world," Jamie concluded.
Eddie felt a blush creeping up his cheeks. He, Eddie Munson, who had performed in front of a handful of people in seedy bars, who had shouted raunchy lyrics without flinching, was now blushing in front of a group of elementary school kids. Because this was different. This wasn’t a stage. This was irrefutable proof that his children, his pack, his blood, believed in him with blind and total faith.
"Alright," he gave in, taking the paper and a marker that someone handed him. "But for the record, I’m not famous. I’m just a guy who makes pancakes."
He signed the paper with a scribble that was half his name, half a quick sketch of a dragon’s head. The little girl received it like a golden ticket, clutching it to her chest and running toward her mother, who was waiting nearby with an expression somewhere between amused and confused. More kids approached then, asking for autographs, drawings, and confirmation of the stories his children had told. Eddie, overwhelmed but smiling, attended to each one with the infinite patience that only fatherhood had taught him.
"Yes, I fought bats. But they were just ordinary bats, nothing special."
"Daddy, they were from the other side!" Jamie protested.
"From the other side, but small. Very small. Like toy ones. Not dangerous at all."
"What about the pancakes?" asked a chubby boy, licking his lips. "Is it true you make them dragon-shaped and they’re really yummy?"
"Every Saturday. With colored scales and a crunchy tail... My husband always eats three."
"Wow!"
"And the pajamas?"
"Themed. Dragons, sharks, food… My daughter Rosie right now is dressed as a watermelon."
The chubby boy turned to his own mother with an expression of profound injustice. "Mom, why don’t we have food pajamas?"
The woman sighed, shooting Eddie a look that was half exasperation, half recognition of an unbeatable rival in the undeclared competition among cool parents.
Finally, Eddie managed to gather his pups and get them into the van. As they drove away from the school, Milo was the first to speak, his little voice brimming with satisfaction.
"See, Daddy? Everyone wants to have a dad like you."
"Well, I don’t know if everyone…"
"Everyone," Rory insisted. "Even Kevin, who always makes fun of everything, asked me if you could be his dad too. I told him no, we already have enough siblings."
Eddie burst out laughing, one of those characteristic laughs of his that filled the whole space and infected anyone who heard it.
"Well, guys, I hate to disappoint you, but I’m not a superhero. I’m just your father."
"To us," Jamie said, his voice serious and measured as always. "That is being a superhero."
Eddie swallowed the lump that formed in his throat. He looked through the rearview mirror at his three oldest sons, sitting in the back with their backpacks on their laps and their cheeks still flushed from the excitement of the school day. They were so small, so fragile, so utterly his. And they looked at him like he was the center of the universe.
"You know what," he said, his voice a little hoarse. "You’re the best kids an Alpha could ever wish for. I love you, little monsters."
"We love you too, Daddy!" The three chorused.
That night, after another round of stories and lullabies played on the guitar, when all the pups were asleep in their beds and the house was calm, Eddie and Steve sat on the living room sofa, a blanket covering their legs, the TV turned off. Steve had curled up against his Alpha’s side, his head resting on his shoulder, Eddie’s hand resting on his belly.
"I heard something interesting today," Eddie murmured, his lips brushing against Steve’s hair.
"Oh yeah?"
"Turns out I’m famous. Our pups have been telling the whole school that I fight monsters, draw dragons and play guitar like a rock god. There was a little girl who even asked me for an autograph, Stevie. An autograph. Me."
Steve let out a soft laugh, a warm vibration against Eddie’s chest.
"I told you, they adore you. You’re their hero."
"I don’t want to be their hero. I just want to be their father."
"And you are. But to them, those two things are the same. And that, Eddie, is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen."
Eddie fell silent for a moment, his fingers tracing distracted circles on Steve’s belly, feeling the little kicks of the seventh pup joining the pack.
"Do you think this one will adore me too?" he asked, and there was no pride in his voice, only raw vulnerability, an ancient fear of not being enough.
"This one and every one that comes after," Steve answered, lifting his face to kiss his Alpha’s jaw. "Because you’re incredible, Eddie Munson. And we, your pack, are going to spend the rest of our lives proving it to you."
Eddie didn’t reply with words. They weren’t necessary. He simply pulled his Omega tighter against his chest, breathed in the sweet, homey scent of his mate, listened to the beating of his heart and the sounds of the house filled with sleeping pups. And for the first time in a long time, fear retreated to a far corner, silent, insignificant.
Because this was real. This was his. And it wasn’t going anywhere.