Chapter 8
Hinges And Hard Truths
~HAZEL~
October dusk in Oakridge is when the world goes soft at the edges, and apparently, when Alphas decide to haunt my doorstep.
The bakery settles into evening silence as I flip the sign to closed, my body aching in that bone-deep way that says I've earned every dollar today.
The front door locks with a satisfying click, sealing away the chaos of customers and cinnamon rolls and Levi fucking Maddox with his wildflowers that still sit on my counter like evidence of my weakening resolve.
Should throw them out. Should have thrown them out hours ago.
But they're beautiful in their imperfection, and I'm weak for beautiful, imperfect things. Always have been.
It's how I ended up married to Korrin Delacroix, after all—attracted to the beautiful surface before I realized the imperfections ran soul-deep and had teeth.
I head toward the back exit, already planning my evening: hot bath, cheap wine, maybe cry a little while Muffin judges me from her perch.
The usual Tuesday night special.
The back door—my nemesis, my daily reminder that this building is held together by spite and expired warranties—waits for me like it always does.
Broken hinges that catch, stick, threaten to dump me on my ass every time I try to leave.
I've been meaning to fix it for months. Years, maybe…
before I left and was swept away in hopeless romantic dreams of being the best Omega I could be for a pack.
But there's always something more urgent, more expensive, more important than my safety.
Story of my fucking life.
I shoulder it open, prepared for the usual battle, when I see him.
Luca Maddox crouches by my doorframe like a shadow given form and purpose.
He doesn't look up when I freeze in the doorway.
Doesn't acknowledge my presence with anything more than the slightest tilt of his head. Just continues examining my broken hinges with the focused intensity of a surgeon or a serial killer—with Luca, it's hard to tell the difference.
Tools spread around him in neat lines: screwdrivers, pliers, replacement hinges that definitely weren't there this morning. His hands move with economical precision, no wasted motion, no hesitation. Just competence made flesh.
When did he—how long has he—
"Almost fell earlier," he says, voice low and graveled, like he gargled whiskey and bad decisions for breakfast. "Saw you catch yourself."
He was watching.
The realization should creep me out. Should send me running back inside to call the sheriff or at least Reverie to come witness my murder.
Instead, something else unfurls in my chest—something warm and complicated and absolutely unwelcome.
He saw me almost fall. And instead of leaving it, instead of assuming someone else would handle it or that I'd handle it myself like always, he just... showed up. With tools. At dusk. To fix my door.
Korrin's pack never did this.
The thought hits like ice water.
Four Alphas in that pack—Korrin, his brother, his two cousins—and not once in three years of marriage did any of them voluntarily fix something for me.
Oh, they'd help if I begged, if I performed the right amount of omega submission, if I made it clear I couldn't possibly handle it with my delicate female hands.
But this? This quiet competence without being asked? This assumption that I deserved help without having to earn it?
Foreign. Alien. Suspicious as hell.
"I didn't ask you to—"
"Didn't need to." He still doesn't look up, hands working steadily. "Door's been broken for months. Someone should've fixed it before now."
There's something in his tone—not quite condemnation, but close. Like he's personally offended by the existence of my broken door. Like it represents some larger failing of the universe that he needs to correct.
"I've been managing," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. Protection. Barrier. Something between his quiet intensity and my traitorous body that's already cataloguing his presence.
"You shouldn't have to manage," he says simply. "Pass me the Phillips head?"
I could refuse. Could go back inside and leave him to his self-appointed task.
Could maintain the distance that keeps me safe from Alphas who think they know what's best for me.
Instead, I find myself picking up the screwdriver, our fingers brushing as I hand it over.
Fuck.
His skin is warm, callused in different places than Levi's—these are hands that know precision work, careful control. The touch lasts less than a second, but heat spreads from that point of contact like I've been branded.
My pulse kicks up, that stupid omega flutter that says Alpha touching, Alpha near, Alpha Alpha Alpha.
His scent wraps around me in the narrow space between door and frame—molasses gingerbread, dark and rich, mixed with coffee so black it could strip paint.
Underneath it all, that note of bitter chocolate that makes my mouth water and my hindbrain purr.
It's comfort and danger mixed together, a warning wrapped in a promise or maybe the other way around.
Step back. You need to step back.
I don't step back.
Instead, I lean against the doorframe, watching him work in the dying light.
The October sun paints everything gold and rust, turns his dark hair into something that catches and holds light like it's personal.
His movements are hypnotic in their precision—every turn of the screwdriver deliberate, every adjustment measured.
"You don't talk much," I observe.
"You talk enough for both of us."
Excuse me?
"I do not talk too much."
"Didn't say too much. Said enough." He finally looks up, and his storm-gray eyes in the dusk light are almost silver. "You fill the silence like you're afraid of it."
"Maybe I am."
"Why?"
Because silence is when the memories come. When I hear Korrin's voice telling me I'm not enough, too much, never right. When I feel phantom bruises that healed years ago but still ache when it rains.
"Why do you care?" I counter.
He returns to the hinges. "Someone should."
The simplicity of it hits harder than any grand declaration. Someone should care. Someone should fix my door. Someone should notice when I almost fall.
Dangerous thinking. This is how it starts—small kindnesses that feel like salvation until you realize you've traded your freedom for the illusion of safety.
"The new hinge needs to set," he says. "Don't use this door for twenty minutes."
"That's my only back exit."
"Then don't have any emergencies for twenty minutes."
"Oh sure, I'll just pencil that in. 'Seven-thirty to seven-fifty: no disasters allowed.'"
His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but the ghost of one.
"You always this difficult?"
"You always this presumptuous?"
"When it comes to broken things that need fixing? Yes."
Am I a broken thing that needs fixing?
The question must show on my face because his expression shifts, softens fractionally.
"The door," he clarifies. "Just talking about the door."
"Right. The door."
We stand there in the gathering dark, neither moving, neither speaking. The air between us feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. His scent mingles with the evening air—October leaves and distant woodsmoke and that ever-present dark coffee note that makes me want to lean closer.
Don't. Don't you dare.
"Why are you really here?" I ask finally.
He's quiet for long enough that I think he won't answer. Then: "Levi came back smelling like sunshine and vanilla and hope. Rowan's been walking into walls since you came back to town. Figured I should see what the fuss was about."
"And?"
His eyes find mine in the dim light. "You almost fell this afternoon. After Levi left. You caught yourself on the broken door, winced, rubbed your shoulder where it hit. Then you went back inside like nothing happened, served twelve more customers with a smile that didn't reach your eyes."
He saw all that. He was watching that closely.
"Stalking's illegal in this state," I manage.
"So's letting broken doors injure people." He stands slowly, unfolding to his full height, and I'm reminded that the Maddox twins are not small men. "It's fixed. Won't stick anymore."
He starts gathering his tools with the same methodical precision he used to deploy them. Everything in its place, everything with purpose.
"How much do I owe you?" I ask, reaching for my wallet.
"Nothing."
"I don't take charity—"
"Not charity." He pauses, toolbox in hand. "Just... what should've been done already."
The words hang between us, heavy with meaning I don't want to examine. What should've been done already. Fixed. Noticed. Cared for.
Stop. Stop reading into it. He fixed a door, not your entire life.
But my traitorous brain is already comparing—Korrin who'd watch me struggle with groceries while he sat on the couch, his pack brothers who'd laugh when I'd mention needing help, the way they'd turned my requests into jokes about "omega independence" and how I wanted it both ways.
And here's Luca Maddox, fixing my door in the dark without being asked, without expecting payment, without making me feel small for needing it.
"Thank you," I say, the words scraped raw from somewhere deep.
He nods once, economical even in acknowledgment. Starts to walk away, then pauses.
"You're not what I expected," he says to the darkness more than me.
"What did you expect?"
"Someone broken." He turns back slightly, profile carved sharp against the dying light. "You're not broken. You're just... careful. There's a difference."
How does he—
But he's already walking away, disappearing into the October twilight like he was never here at all. Just the fixed door and lingering scent of dark coffee and gingerbread to prove I didn't imagine it.
I stand there, hand pressed to my throat where my pulse hammers against my palm, trying to make sense of what just happened.
Three of them now. Three Alphas circling like I'm something worth protecting. Or hunting. With Alphas, sometimes there's no difference.
Inside, Muffin meows, probably wondering why I'm standing in the doorway like an idiot instead of providing her dinner. The normal world calls—evening routines, safe patterns, the life I've built carefully from the ashes of my marriage.
But something's shifting. I can feel it like weather changing, pressure dropping before a storm.
Rowan with his guilty eyes and gentle oven repair.
Levi with his sunshine smiles and remembered wildflowers.
Luca with his quiet competence and fixed doors.
They're not a pack, I remind myself. Just three Alphas who happen to be friends. Who happen to be interested? Who happen to make me feel—
No. I don't get to feel.
Feeling is what got me into trouble last time.
Feeling is what made me ignore the red flags with Korrin, the way his charm could turn to cruelty in a heartbeat, the way his pack enabled and encouraged his worst impulses.
But.
But…
These three move differently. They don't travel as a unit, don't operate with the pack mentality that made Korrin's group so dangerous. They help without coordinating, each in their own way, like they're not trying to trap me but just... be near me.
Even more dangerous, then.
I test the door. It swings smooth and silent, no catch, no stick, no threat of dumping me on my ass. Such a small thing. Such a huge thing.
My phone buzzes:
Reverie.
REVERIE: Heard Luca Maddox was spotted at your back door. Need bail money or condoms?
ME: Jesus. The Oakridge gossip network works faster than the internet.
ME: Neither. He fixed my door.
REVERIE: That's what they're calling it now?
ME: Literally. Fixed. My. Door.
REVERIE: Uh-huh. And how do you feel about that?
I stare at the question, thumb hovering over the keyboard. How do I feel? Confused. Warm. Terrified. Seen. Wanted. Suspicious. Soft.
ME: Like I might be in trouble.
REVERIE: Good trouble or bad trouble?
I don't know yet.
And I don't. Because this feeling—this warm, spreading feeling that maybe I don't have to do everything alone, maybe someone will notice when I'm struggling, maybe it's okay to accept help—it's the same feeling I had with Korrin in the beginning.
Before the criticism started. Before the isolation. Before I realized that his help came with strings, that every kindness was a debt, that his pack's protection was really possession.
But these three haven't asked for anything.
Rowan fixed my oven and only stole a cookie.
Levi brought flowers and charmed my cat.
Luca repaired my door and disappeared into the night.
No demands. No expectations. No Alpha posturing about how grateful I should be.
Just... help. Freely given.
Maybe that's the trap. Maybe that's how they get you—with kindness that feels real until it's too late to run.
I close the door—smoothly, silently, perfectly—and lean against it.
Outside, October continues its slow descent into winter. Inside, my bakery smells like cinnamon and vanilla and now, faintly, of molasses and dark coffee.
Three scents. Three Alphas. Three chances to make the same mistake.
Or maybe—maybe—three chances to get it right.
"I'm so fucked," I tell Muffin, who responds by knocking Levi's flowers off the counter.
Water spreads across the floor in a puddle that perfectly captures how my life feels right now—messy, unpredictable, and somehow still beautiful in the chaos.
I grab towels, start cleaning up, and try not to think about strong hands and fixed doors and the dangerous possibility that not all Alphas are the same.
Try not to think about falling in love again.
Try not to admit that maybe—just maybe—I already am.
With all three of them.
"Fuck," I say to the empty bakery.
The universe, in the form of Muffin's dismissive meow, seems to agree.
Tomorrow, I'll rebuild my walls. Tomorrow, I'll remember why this is dangerous. Tomorrow, I'll go back to being careful and distant and safe.
But tonight, I stand in my bakery with its fixed door and rescued flowers and phantom touches from three different Alphas, and let myself imagine what it might be like to not be alone.
To be cared for without conditions.
To be worth fixing doors in the dark.
Dangerous thoughts for a Tuesday night.
But then again, everything about these three Alphas is dangerous.
The question is whether I'm brave enough—or stupid enough—to find out which kind of dangerous they really are.