Chapter 9 #2
"I see it," I admit quietly. "The genuine interest. The... care. But—"
"But?"
"You were Korrin's best friend." The words taste bitter. "His pack, his people. How can I—my heart might not be ready for pack dynamics. For diving into whatever this is that's brewing."
He nods slowly, understanding in his eyes. "We're not a pack."
"You move like one."
"We move like friends who've known each other too long. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes." He straightens, and I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "A pack means hierarchy. Alpha dominance. Omega submission. We don't want that."
"What do you want?"
"To know you. The real you, not the version you show the town. Not the performer who smiles through exhaustion. You."
Dangerous. This is dangerous territory.
"Can we get to know you first?" he asks. "Before calling anything official? Before the town starts planning weddings and Dottie writes more fanfiction?"
"Dottie doesn't write—"
"Her granddaughter transcribes. Same thing."
I can't help but laugh. "We're past the age of courting, Rowan. This isn't the 1800s."
"True." He moves closer, and his cedar smoke scent wraps around me like a warm blanket. "But it doesn't hurt to court a woman you desperately wish to make yours."
Desperately. Yours.
The words hit like physical things, embedding themselves under my ribs where my heart is doing its best to escape through my chest cavity.
"That's... that's a lot," I manage.
"Too much?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Probably."
He studies me for a moment, then nods.
"Then we'll go slow. Glacial if necessary."
"Glacial might be too fast."
"Continental drift?"
"Better."
He smiles—a real one, not his usual careful smirk—and it transforms his entire face. Makes him look younger, softer, like the man he might have been if life hadn't carved hard edges into him.
"I'll take the usual," he says, shifting back to customer mode. "And a box for the station. The guys have been complaining I don't bring enough back."
I start assembling his order, grateful for the familiar routine. Six cinnamon rolls, four bear claws, a dozen mixed cookies. My hands move automatically while my brain processes everything that just happened.
"And one of those," he says, pointing to the sandwich display.
"Which one?"
"The turkey club with cranberry aioli."
I pause. "That's my favorite."
"I know."
"How do you—"
"Levi mentioned it when he stopped by the station after his delivery. Said you mentioned during the lunch rush that you hadn't eaten yet and were craving one, but they were all sold."
Levi told him. They talked about me. About what I wanted.
I wrap the sandwich carefully, trying not to let my hands shake. "It's yours."
"No," he says, pushing it back toward me. "It's yours. Take a break. Eat lunch. You've been working since four AM."
"How do you know when I—"
"I can see your kitchen lights from the station, Hazel. They go on at four every morning, seven days a week. When do you rest?"
When do I rest? When it's safe. Which is never.
"I rest when I'm dead," I say lightly.
"That's not funny."
"It's a little funny."
"Hazel."
The way he says my name—serious, concerned, caring—makes something crack inside me. Some wall I've been maintaining through sheer will and spite.
"I'll eat the sandwich," I concede.
"Good." He pays for his order, leaves his usual excessive tip that I've stopped fighting him about. "And think about what I said?"
"The courting thing?"
"The getting to know you thing."
"Same thing."
"Not quite." He heads for the door, pauses with his hand on the handle. "You're worth knowing, Hazel. Even the parts you think you need to hide."
Then he's gone, leaving me standing in my bakery with a sandwich I didn't pay for and feelings I don't know what to do with.
I sink onto the stool Reverie vacated, unwrap the sandwich with shaking fingers. The first bite is perfect—turkey and cranberry and crisp lettuce, exactly what I'd been craving. Exactly what I'd mentioned in passing to Levi, who'd remembered and told Rowan, who'd made sure I got it.
Such a small thing. Such a huge thing.
My phone buzzes: Reverie.
Did you kiss? Please tell me you kissed.
We didn't kiss. He bought me a sandwich.
...that's somehow more romantic?
I know. I'm in trouble.
Good trouble?
I look at the sandwich, think about fixed doors and rescued flowers, and three Alphas who move around each other like planets, each with their own gravity but somehow not colliding.
Think about being wanted. Being chosen. Being worth the effort of courting, even if it's old-fashioned and ridiculous and probably doomed.
Maybe.
FINALLY. Was starting to think you'd forgotten how to feel feelings.
I haven't forgotten. That's the problem.
Because I remember everything. The good and the bad. The way it feels to be cherished and the way it feels to be crushed. The intoxicating rush of being chosen by an Alpha and the devastating reality when that choice becomes a cage.
But.
But.
These three are different. They move independently, think separately, and care uniquely. They don't hunt as a pack—they court as individuals who happen to be friends.
Rowan, with his careful distance and stolen cookies. Levi with his sunshine smiles and cat treats. Luca, with his silent competence and fixed doors.
Three chances to get it wrong.
Or three chances to finally get it right.
I finish my sandwich, surprised to find I'm actually hungry. Have been hungry for a while, maybe, and just got used to the ache.
When do you rest?
Maybe it's time to find out.
Time to stop running from the possibility of being wanted.
Do I dare say…Reverie's right.
What's the worst that could happen?
I already know the answer.
Already survived it once.
The question is whether I'm brave enough to risk it happening again.
Or brave enough to risk it not happening at all.
Muffin meows from her perch, and I swear she's judging me.
"I know," I tell her. "I'm probably going to regret this."
She slow-blinks at me—cat language for "I love you" or possibly "you're an idiot, but you're my idiot."
With cats, like with Alphas, sometimes it's hard to tell the difference.
But maybe that's okay.
Maybe not knowing is part of the adventure.
God help me, I'm actually considering this.
The afternoon light slants through my windows, painting everything gold, and for the first time in years, I let myself imagine what it might be like to be courted.
To be wanted.
To be chosen not because I'm convenient or controllable, but because I'm worth the effort of getting to know.
Desperately wish to make yours.
The words echo in my chest, dangerous and warming, and I think maybe—just maybe—I desperately wish to be made theirs too.
All three of theirs.
Fuck, I'm definitely going to regret this.
But I'm going to do it anyway.