Chapter 4 #2
"Are you analyzing me?"
"I'm observing you. It's what I do." I moved closer, slowly, giving her space to retreat. "I see you, Michelle. Really see you. I have been for six months, through emails and work calls. And now in person, I see you even more clearly."
"What do you see?" The question came out almost defensive.
"I see someone brilliant and driven who's terrified of needing anyone. Someone who built walls so high she forgot what it felt like to let people in. Someone who's been running for so long she doesn't remember what it's like to stand still."
Michelle's scent spiked, not with fear, but with something more complicated.
"That's not—" She stopped. "Okay, that's accurate. But it's not a problem."
"I didn't say it was a problem. I said that I see you." I held her gaze. "And I've been half in love with you since the third email you sent me, where you made a terrible pun about lighting rigs and I laughed for five minutes straight."
Her eyes went wide. "That was six months ago."
"I know."
"You've been... all this time?"
"I didn't realize it until Pike Place Market. But looking back? Yeah. All this time." I smiled slightly. "You called our crew 'pack' in your emails. Multiple times. Like you knew, subconsciously, what we were building."
"I meant team pack. Like, team."
"I know what you meant. But words matter. You were calling us pack months before we ever met."
Michelle looked shaken. "I need more coffee. There's a shop near here. The good kind, with the local roaster."
"Leading me away from emotional conversations with caffeine?"
"It's a solid strategy."
I followed her across the square to a small coffee shop with warm lighting and the smell of fresh-roasted beans. The owner greeted Michelle by name, asked about her mom, commented on her being in town.
This was her world. Everyone knew her here, had watched her grow up, still saw her as part of the community even though she'd built her life in Seattle.
We ordered, Michelle got a peppermint mocha without asking, proving the barista knew her order by heart, and settled into a corner booth.
"This place is perfect for filming," I said, eyeing the lighting and the cozy atmosphere.
"You're always working."
"Says the woman who's probably mentally drafting emails right now."
Michelle's lips quirked. "Busted. I'm three emails deep in my head."
"See? We're both hopeless workaholics. We match."
"That's not romantic."
"Isn't it? I think it's perfect. We understand each other. We don't expect the other person to change their fundamental nature."
She was quiet, stirring her coffee.
"Tell me about the emails," she finally said. "What made you think we were... whatever we were building?"
"You made me laugh," I said simply. "I'd send you technical specs about equipment, and you'd respond with efficiency and precision and then sneak in some completely unexpected humor. You treated me like a person, not just a vendor. You asked about my day. You remembered details."
"That's just good professional relationship management."
"No, it's not. It's caring." I leaned forward. "Michelle, you fought for Lucas like he was family from day one. You negotiated sponsorships with the fury of a protective omega defending her pack. You celebrated his successes and problem-solved his challenges like they were your own."
"Because I'm good at my job."
"Because you care. Because somewhere, subconsciously, you already recognized us as pack. You just didn't have the scent recognition to confirm it."
She looked at me with something that might have been fear or might have been hope.
"What if you're wrong?" she whispered. "What if this is just biology and proximity and scent compatibility, but not actually... us?"
"Then we'll figure that out. But Michelle? I don't think I'm wrong." I reached across the table, not touching her but close. "I've been observing people through a lens for years. I know what real connection looks like. This is real."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because I know you. I know you respond to emails at two AM because you can't sleep when you're worried about a client.
I know you make terrible puns when you're stressed.
I know you fight harder for other people than you do for yourself.
I know you're brilliant and driven and so scared of depending on anyone that you've built your entire life around not needing people. "
"You said that already. This morning."
"Because it's true. And because I need you to understand that we see it. All of it. And we're not asking you to change it. We're asking you to let us in anyway."
Michelle's eyes were bright, her scent sweet and warm despite the coffee shop's competing smells.
"I don't know how," she admitted quietly.
"Then we figure it out together. Slowly. With boundaries. At your pace."
"You make it sound simple."
"It's not simple. But it's possible."
We sat in comfortable silence, drinking coffee, and I let myself enjoy this moment. Just being with her, no pressure, no expectations. Building trust through small shared experiences.
"There's a hiking trail," Michelle said finally. "Up on the ridge. Best view of the valley. Good for filming."
"Show me?"
"It's a twenty-minute hike."
"I have time. Do you?"
She looked at me, considering. Then softly she said, "Yeah. I have time."
The trail was beautiful, winding through forest, the ground dusted with recent snow, evergreens towering above us. Michelle led the way with the confidence of someone who'd hiked this path a hundred times.
I filmed as we walked, the light through trees, the way her breath plumed in the cold air, the small-town valley spread below as we climbed.
But mostly, I watched her.
She was different here. Looser. The professional mask kept slipping, revealing glimpses of the woman underneath. The one who'd made me laugh in emails. The one who fought for her clients like family.
Our omega.
"You're staring again," she said without turning around.
"I'm observing. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"One is creepy. The other is appreciative cinematography."
She laughed, genuine and unexpected, and the sound made my alpha purr.
We reached the viewpoint, and Michelle had been right. The vista was perfect. Cedar Falls spread below, the valley stretching toward distant mountains, everything dusted with snow and catching the morning light.
"It's beautiful," I said, filming.
"I used to come up here when I needed to think. After Dad died. When I was deciding to start my business. Whenever life got overwhelming."
"Do you come here often now?"
"Not as much as I should. I'm always working."
"Maybe that's the problem."
She looked at me. "What is?"
"You're always working. Always running. Never stopping to just... be."
"Being is overrated. Being means feeling things I'd rather not feel."
"Like what?"
"Like grief. Like loss. Like fear." She looked back at the valley. "Like wanting something I'm terrified of having."
My heart clenched. "Us?"
"Yeah. Us." She wrapped her arms around herself. "I'm scared, Ro. I'm scared of losing control. I'm scared of depending on you and then losing you. I'm scared that if I let myself have this, I'll forget who I am outside of pack."
"My grandmother was an omega," I said quietly. "Bonded to my grandfather, raised three kids, but she was also an artist. Painted every day. Sold her work in galleries. She had her own life, her own identity, completely separate from her pack role."
"How did she balance it?"
"She didn't. Not always. Sometimes pack came first. Sometimes her art came first. Sometimes she had to choose, and sometimes she chose her art.
" I moved closer to Michelle. "But my grandfather never asked her to be anything other than herself.
He supported her shows, watched the kids when she needed studio time, bragged about her to everyone.
Because he loved who she was, not who he wanted her to be. "
"That's what I'm afraid of. That being pack omega means becoming someone I'm not."
"We don't want you to become someone else. We want you. The workaholic. The perfectionist. The woman who stress-bakes at three AM. The manager who fights for her clients like they're family. All of it."
Michelle turned to face me fully. "You keep saying that. But how can you know? You barely know me."
"I know you well enough to be sure." I risked moving closer. "Yes, we keep saying the same things, but that’s just because that’s all we know so far. We have time to learn the rest. All the time you need."
She looked up at me, and we were close now, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, close enough that her peppermint-pine scent was everywhere, close enough that my alpha was screaming to close the final distance.
"What if this doesn't work?" she whispered.
"What if it does?"
"That's not an answer."
"Sure it is. You're so focused on all the ways this could fail that you're not seeing all the ways it could succeed."
"I'm a planner. I need to prepare for worst-case scenarios."
"And I'm an artist. I need you to see the possibility."
We stood there, close enough to touch but not touching, while the morning light painted the valley gold below us.
"I don't know how to do this," Michelle said finally. "How to be professional and personal at the same time. How to let you in without losing myself. How to trust this."
"Then let me show you. One day at a time. One moment at a time. No pressure. No expectations. Just... possibility."
"Possibility," she repeated softly.
"Yeah. The possibility that this could be everything we've been building toward. That pack could be the thing that makes you stronger, not weaker. That letting people in could be freedom, not a cage."
Her scent shifted—less sharp, more sweet again in a way that made me think she might just let me show her.
"You're very good with words," she said.
"I'm better with images. But for you, I'll use all the words you need."
She smiled, small but genuine. "We should head back. Mom's probably planning some elaborate scheme to throw us together."
"Too late. We're already together. On a mountain. Alone. Pretty sure this qualifies."
"This is professional location scouting."
"If you say so."
We started back down the trail, and this time when Michelle stumbled slightly on an icy patch, I was there to steady her. My hands on her waist, pulling her back against my chest to keep her from falling.
For a moment, we were frozen, her back to my front, my arms around her waist, both of our scents mingling in the cold air.
"Careful," I murmured against her ear. "Ice is dangerous."
"I'm fine," she said, but she didn't pull away immediately.
"I know. But I'm going to catch you anyway. That's what pack does."
She turned in my arms, looking up at me, and we were so close. Close enough that I could see her pulse jumping in her throat. Close enough that one movement would close the distance entirely.
"Ro," she breathed.
"I know. Boundaries. Professional." But I didn't step back. "Tell me to let go, and I will."
She should have. Should have reinforced the walls, maintained the distance, protected herself.
Instead, she stayed right where she was.
"We should get back," she finally said.
"Probably."
"But not yet."
"Not yet," I agreed.
We stood there for another moment, not quite crossing the line but dancing right up to it, before Michelle finally, reluctantly, pulled away.
"Thank you," she said. "For catching me."
"Always."
We hiked back in charged silence, and when we reached her car, Michelle paused with her hand on the door handle.
"Ro? What you said about your grandmother. About choosing her art sometimes. Did that hurt your grandfather? When she chose her work over pack?"
"Sometimes. But he understood. Because loving someone means accepting all of them, not just the parts that make you comfortable."
"And if I need to choose my business? If the professional side has to come first?"
"Then we accept that. And we wait. However long it takes."
"You keep saying that."
"Because I mean it. We mean it. You're worth waiting for, Michelle. However long, whatever it takes. We're not going anywhere."
Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. "How can you be so sure?"
"Because six months ago, I read an email from you about lighting equipment, and you made a terrible pun that made me laugh.
And every email after that, I looked forward to your messages a little more.
Waited for your name in my inbox a little more eagerly.
Reread your words a little more carefully.
I was falling for you before I ever met you, Michelle.
Meeting you just confirmed what I already knew. "
"Which is?"
"You're my omega. Our omega. And that doesn't go away just because it's complicated."
Michelle got in the car without responding, and I followed. The drive back was quiet, but it wasn't uncomfortable. More like we were both processing, thinking, feeling.
When we pulled into the farmhouse driveway, Michelle turned to me before I could open the door.
"Thank you," she said. "For showing me that possibility."
"Anytime."
"Ro? I'm still scared. This doesn't mean I'm not scared."
"Being brave doesn't mean not being scared. It means being scared and doing it anyway."
She smiled and it reached her eyes, crinkling the corners. "Maya said something similar. About bravery being doing things even when you're terrified."
"Your sister's smart."
"She's sixteen and thinks she knows everything."
"So... smart teenager. Got it."
Michelle laughed, and I counted it as a victory.
We headed inside to find Lucas and Dex at the kitchen table with Janet, apparently discussing content strategy. Josh was showing Dex something on his phone. Maya was making notes on a pad of paper.
"There you are!" Janet said brightly. "How was location scouting?"
"Productive," I said, meeting Michelle's eyes across the kitchen. "Very productive."
Michelle's cheeks flushed slightly, but she was smiling.
"Good. Because I was thinking, you boys should help with the Christmas decorations. Michelle always helps Bill with the lights on the Douglas fir. Perfect opportunity for some bonding."
"Mom," Michelle warned.
"What? I'm not meddling. I'm facilitating."
"That's literally the same thing."
But I could see Michelle wasn't actually upset. More resigned to her mother's schemes.
And honestly? If Janet wanted to throw us together, I wasn't going to complain.
Because this morning, on that mountain, Michelle had let me catch her.
And she hadn't run away.
That was progress.
Small steps. Building trust. Showing her through actions that we meant what we said.
I looked at my pack, Lucas already moving to help Michelle with something, Dex engaging with her family, all of us settling into her home like we belonged here.
Maybe we did belong here.
Maybe this was exactly where we were supposed to be.