Chapter 19 #2
The endearment cuts through me, not like Gabe’s careless “baby” in the bakery, not like the cruel diminutives Scott used to snarl. This one feels different. Gentle. Protective.
I manage a small smile, heart pounding but steady. “I’m sure.”
Boone squeezes my hand before turning back to the road, and I hold on, letting the hum of the truck engine drown out my fear. I’m no longer bracing for disaster. I’m bracing for possibility.
And that might be even scarier.
The first thing I notice about the house is that it feels… lived in.
Not polished, not magazine-perfect, but real. It’s the kind of place that speaks of men who work long shifts, come home tired, and drop their boots by the door without thinking twice.
A faint smell of smoke clings to everything—woodsmoke from the fireplace, I realize after a second, not the acrid kind from flames devouring a building. Still, my stomach flutters.
Boone opens the door wider, stepping aside so I can enter. My palms sweat against the strap of my bag. It’s one thing to imagine dinner at his place, just us. It’s another to step into the territory of a pack that already takes up so much space in my head.
The living room sprawls wide, a mix of old and new.
A sturdy leather sofa, worn in the cushions, sits against the wall.
A mismatched armchair is angled toward it, a knitted throw draped carelessly over the back.
Framed photos line a shelf above the television: firehouse group shots, town events, candid smiles.
My eyes catch on one picture in particular—two boys in the middle of summer, dripping wet at a lake, grinning into the sun.
Boone’s hand brushes mine lightly. “That’s me and Sawyer. My brother.”
I turn to look at him. There’s a softness in his expression that makes me hold my breath.
“He passed away a while back,” Boone says quietly, not embellishing, not hiding. Just the truth, laid bare.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. The words feel insufficient, too small for the shadow that flickers in his eyes.
He nods once, as if to say “me too,” and then gestures deeper into the house. “Want a tour?”
“Sure.” My voice doesn’t wobble, but I can feel the nerves thrumming under my skin.
We move through the hallway, and it’s a window into their lives.
The kitchen is open and warm, cabinets lined with mugs that don’t match, a fridge plastered with magnets from fire department fundraisers and the Driftwood Cove Fall Fair.
The dining table is sturdy wood, scuffed in places, but polished clean.
Back in the living room, Shepard rises from the couch when we return, setting his beer aside. His eyes land on me, steady, a flicker of something unreadable there before he smiles. “Evening, Sadie.”
“Hi,” I manage, my pulse quickening under his gaze. I’ve been so wrapped up in Boone’s orbit that I’d somehow forgotten how much Shepard affects me too, in that quiet, disarming way.
Gabe emerges from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. His presence is heavier, broader, more commanding. “You made it,” he says, voice casual, but his eyes scan me with a sharpness that makes me want to fidget.
I shift my weight, suddenly hyperaware of the dress that had felt simple at home but now feels almost too revealing. Boone saves me by clearing his throat. “She hasn’t had the tour before. Thought I’d show her around.”
“Good call,” Shepard says. Then, at my glance toward the corner, he adds, “Gus has been sleeping all evening. Lazy thing didn’t even lift his head when Boone came back earlier.”
The mention of the dog loosens something in me, a thread of normalcy. “He’s a good boy,” I say softly.
“He is,” Shepard agrees. “Beer?”
I nod, and he disappears into the kitchen, returning with a chilled bottle. “Make yourself at home.”
That’s easier said than done. I settle on the couch, perching at the edge, watching the three of them move around each other with effortless ease.
Boone leans against the arm of the sofa near me, Shepard takes back his seat, and Gabe finishes setting plates on the table before dropping into a chair with a grunt.
The camaraderie between them is palpable, an unspoken rhythm honed by years of working side by side.
They tease each other in little ways—Shepard reminding Boone to wash his hands before eating, Boone shooting back that Shepard is practically his mother, Gabe muttering something under his breath that makes them both chuckle.
And me? I watch, and I feel… split. Part of me aches at how normal this seems, how much I want to belong to this easy warmth.
Another part recoils, memories crashing back of nights when camaraderie was just a mask for cruelty, when being the Omega at the center meant being devoured until nothing of me was left.
My brain tries to wander, slipping into salacious fantasies—three Alphas, strong and rough, crowding me in this very living room—but I yank myself back sharply.
No. Not that. Not again.
Boone is safe. Boone is kind. Boone is enough. That’s what I need to hold onto.
They ask about my work instead, pulling me back to safer ground.
“Have you decided what mural you’re tackling next?” Shepard asks, his voice mild but attentive.
I sip my beer, letting the cool bitterness anchor me. “I’m thinking of starting the firehouse after I finish at Baxter’s. It’s bigger, so I want to make sure I have the scale right before I dive in.”
Boone beams. “I’m sure it’s going to look incredible.”
“I hope so,” I say, glancing at Gabe. His eyes flick away as soon as mine meet them.
The food comes not long after, and the smell alone nearly makes me melt.
Grilled chicken, seasoned perfectly, charred at the edges just enough.
Roasted vegetables, buttery rolls, a salad bright with vinaigrette.
My stomach growls embarrassingly loud, and Boone grins, piling my plate like he’s been waiting for this moment.
The first bite is heaven. Warmth spreads through me, grounding me in a way I hadn’t expected. I hadn’t realized how long it’s been since I sat at a table like this, surrounded by voices and laughter.
But Gabe’s eyes are on me. I feel them like heat on my skin, tracing me, weighing me down. Every time I glance his way, he isn’t smiling—he’s studying. It makes me want to squirm in my seat, though I force myself to stay still, keep chewing, pretend I don’t notice.
Halfway through dinner, he sets down his fork abruptly. “I need to check on something,” he mutters, standing.
Shepard and Boone exchange a look across the table, quick and subtle, but enough to make my pulse spike.
“What’s he checking on?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Just Gabe being Gabe,” Shepard says smoothly, returning to his plate.
But when Gabe comes back ten minutes later, there’s something different in him. His shoulders are tense, his jaw tight, and he eats without a word, quieter than before. The weight in the room shifts, an undercurrent I can’t name, but I feel it settle in my bones.
I take another bite of chicken, chew slowly, and try to breathe past the sudden knot in my throat.
I came here to have dinner with Boone. Instead, I’m sitting in the middle of a pack I don’t know how to fit into, surrounded by ghosts of what I lost and temptations I don’t dare touch.
And the worst part?
Some reckless, hidden part of me wants to reach across the table, press my hand to Gabe’s clenched fist, and ask him what the hell is wrong.
But I don’t. I just keep eating. Pretending.
Shepard wipes his mouth with a napkin and leans back slightly, his expression thoughtful. “So,” he says, turning to me, “was the material I brought you the other day any help? Those art books Millie found?”
The warmth that swells in my chest at the memory catches me off guard.
I’d stayed up too late leafing through them, tracing the faded sketches of Driftwood Cove’s earliest buildings, the delicate pencil lines of old murals painted decades before I was even born.
I’d felt connected, somehow—like the town had a heartbeat I could hear if I pressed close enough.
I nod quickly. “Yes. They were… perfect, actually. Seeing how artists here told stories with color, how they captured their time—it reminded me that this isn’t just decoration. It’s history.” My voice quiets. “It made me think harder about what I’m trying to leave behind.”
Shepard’s eyes soften, and for a moment, I think I see pride there. Then he just nods once, understated as ever. “Good. That’s what I was hoping.”
Boone leans forward, elbows braced on the table. “What’s your favorite mural you’ve ever done? I mean, the one that still sticks with you.”
The question twists my insides. I look down at my plate, pushing a piece of roasted carrot around with my fork.
“That’s… hard,” I admit. “A lot of them carry weight. But if I had to choose… maybe the one I did in Memphis, on the side of a community center. It was huge—three stories. A phoenix rising out of flames, wings stretching so wide they wrapped around the corner of the building.”
My lips curve despite myself. “Kids used to sit under it after school, sketching, almost like they were daring the world to tell them they couldn’t rise, too.”
Boone smiles, slow and genuine. “That sounds incredible.”
“It was,” I say softly. “I wish I’d had more time with it.”
“Everyone in town is excited to see yours work here,” Boone says, his tone easy, almost casual, but his eyes lock on mine. “You’ve brought color back to Driftwood Cove. People talk about it all the time.”
I don’t know what to say to that. My throat tightens, because the idea that my work—me—could be worth talking about without derision, without whispers of shame, feels foreign. I glance down, take a sip of beer to cover the way my cheeks heat.
Boone clears his throat. “Anyway. I’ve got cake for dessert, if anyone’s interested.”
Shepard chuckles. “Tempting, but I’ve got an early morning tomorrow. Marjorie will have my head if I don’t finish reorganizing that history section before the board meeting. Tonight was fun, though.”
“Yeah,” Gabe adds, setting his fork down and leaning back. “I’ve got an early shift too, but I’m glad I came.”
His voice is quieter than earlier, but not unfriendly. Just tired, maybe. Or weighed down by something he isn’t saying.
They both stand, the energy of the table shifting as they gather their things. Boone clasps Shepard on the shoulder, nods to Gabe, and just like that, I’m left blinking as the door closes behind them.
Silence fills the house.
I fidget with the edge of my napkin. It’s just me and Boone now. My chest tightens with self-consciousness until the words slip out before I can stop them.
“Is everything okay?”
Boone tilts his head, eyebrows pulling together slightly. “What do you mean?”
I shrug, eyes darting away. “I don’t know. They seemed… I don’t know. Different.”
His hand brushes against my wrist on the table. “They just haven’t had a woman in their company in a while,” he says gently. “It’s new for them. That’s all.”
I search his face, trying to read him. “You’re sure?”
“Positive.” His smile is small but sure. “Now—dessert?”
I laugh lightly, shaking my head. “I’m so full. If I eat one more bite, I’ll explode.”
“Fair,” he says. “Then let me handle cleanup. You relax.”
But that makes my skin prickle—sitting idle while someone else works, like I’m being waited on. I can’t stomach it. “No. Let me help. Please.”
Something in my tone must convince him, because he doesn’t argue further. Instead, we gather plates, carrying them into the kitchen. Warm light spills over everything, and there’s something achingly domestic about standing at the sink beside him, sleeves rolled up, water running.
He washes, I dry. For a few minutes, there’s only the clink of dishes and the low hum of the faucet.
Then—suddenly—cold splashes against my cheek.
I gasp, turning to find Boone grinning, soap suds dripping from his fingers. “What the—”
“Don’t overthink it,” he teases, still smiling. “It was a great night.”
My heart stutters. His words hit deeper than they should, echoing inside me like truth I don’t dare believe. My lips part, but I can’t find anything to say.
So I don’t.
Instead, I lean forward and kiss him.
For a second, he freezes. Then he exhales a low, rough sound—half curse, half prayer. “Fuck.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks, but I can’t stop the smile tugging at my lips. “Sorry—”
“Don’t be,” he cuts in, eyes dark.
I kiss him again, softer this time, testing, tasting. His mouth is warm, certain, and the world narrows to the press of his lips, the steady weight of his hand braced on the counter.
My chest feels like it might split open. Giddy. Breathless.
I don’t remember the last time I felt like this.