Chapter 23 Days Off And Confessions
Days Off And Confessions
~HAZEL~
Having a day off is like being handed a foreign object and being told it's valuable but not given instructions on what to do with it.
The tea Levi insisted I drink last night—some herbal blend that smelled like lawn clippings and tasted like disappointment—actually worked. I slept like the dead, or at least like someone who doesn't have anxiety-induced insomnia and a tendency to dream about burnt croissants.
Now what?
I stare at my ceiling, counting the cracks I've been meaning to fix for two years, trying to remember what normal people do with free time. Read? Exercise? Have hobbies that don't involve butter and flour?
The smell of something burning motivates me out of bed.
Please don't let Levi be cooking. Please don't let Levi be cooking. Please—
I rush out of my bedroom to find Levi in my kitchen, spatula in hand, looking far too proud of himself while smoke wisps from a pan.
"Should I find the fire extinguisher?" I ask, already moving toward it.
He laughs, that sunshine sound that makes mornings bearable.
"I'm not actually cooking! I ordered breakfast. Just warming it up."
The exact moment he says this, a piece of bacon in the pan literally catches fire.
"LEVI!"
"It's fine! It's supposed to do that!"
"BACON IS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ON FIRE!"
I lunge for the pan, turning off the heat and moving it to a cold burner while Levi stands there looking betrayed by the concept of heat transfer.
"I followed the instructions," he protests. "The delivery guy said 'just warm it up.'"
"Warm, not incinerate!"
"There's a fine line."
"There's really not!"
I save what's salvageable—most of it, thankfully, since apparently even Levi can't destroy food that was professionally cooked first. We end up with slightly crispy bacon, eggs that are miraculously intact, and pancakes that somehow survived the Levi Experience.
"Why did you order breakfast?" I ask, settling at my tiny table with a plate that actually looks edible.
"You're taking a day off." He says it like it's momentous, which I guess it is. "Wanted to make it special."
"By almost burning down my apartment?"
"By trying to give you a morning where you don't have to cook." His expression goes soft, those green-gold eyes warm. "When's the last time someone else made you breakfast?"
When's the last time—
I have to think about it. Really think. And the answer makes my chest tight.
"I don't actually remember."
"Even in the city? With..." He doesn't say Korrin's name, but it hangs between us anyway.
I laugh, but it's bitter. "I worked like a slave in Korrin's pack."
Levi's fork pauses halfway to his mouth.
"I was always doing something," I continue, focusing on cutting my pancakes into perfectly even pieces. "Rain or shine, sick or healthy, I had to make sure they were fed, their clothes were washed…even though they never wore what I washed and they'd throw out my food anyway."
The silence is sudden and complete.
"They'd what?" Levi's voice has gone very quiet.
"Throw out my food." I keep my eyes on my plate. "I'd cook breakfast, lunch, dinner when I knew they were home. It always went straight to the trash."
"For how long?"
"Three years."
"Three. Years." He sets down his fork with careful precision. "You cooked for them for three years and they threw it away?"
"Every time." I try to smile, make it lighter. "I kept doing it because, well, stopping would make me a bad, rebellious omega, right? That's what I was taught."
"Taught by who?"
"My parents." The words taste like ash. "Really controlling, always said my purpose was to please my Alphas no matter what. So I assumed it was just...testing. You know, a few months of proving myself. But months became years and—"
My voice cracks slightly.
I clear my throat, force brightness.
"That's why the bakery makes me so happy. People actually eat what I make. They enjoy it, taste the love I put in. After years of cooking into the void, having someone buy a cookie and smile? It's everything."
I stand, gathering plates. "Baking lets me escape the noise. I don't have to perform, don't have to be the skinniest or prettiest. I just get lost in recipes and flavors, and people who love food will enjoy it every time. No judgment, just—"
Arms wrap around me from behind, warm and solid and smelling of honey butter and barely contained rage.
I turn my head, and Levi's right there, eyes open and boring into mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. He kisses me—not sweet, not gentle, but firm and claiming and full of something that feels like a promise.
When he pulls back, his voice is rough. "Having an omega like you make a single thing is a privilege. I'm sorry you were in a toxic hellhole that didn't value your worth, but you'll never—never—experience that with us."
Don't cry. Don't you dare cry over breakfast and basic human decency.
But my eyes are burning, and the relief of telling someone, of having them be properly angry on my behalf instead of telling me I should have tried harder—it's overwhelming.
He presses a kiss to my temple, gentle now, the same spot Luca claimed yesterday.
"Let's go to that town," he says. "The shop you mentioned. Like a mini date."
"You were listening to my rambling?"
"Always listen to your rambling. It's adorable rambling."
I bite my lip.
"How would we get there? Rowan has the truck for those training recertifications."
Levi's grin turns wicked.
"I have an idea."
That's never good.
"Absolutely not."
"Come on!"
"Levi, that's not a vehicle, that's a death trap with aspirations."
We're standing in front of what Levi generously calls a "classic ride" but what I would call "tetanus waiting to happen." It's a motorcycle that probably looked impressive in 1975 but now looks like it's held together by rust and misplaced optimism.
"She's perfectly safe!" He pats the seat, and something rattles ominously.
"She's perfectly terrifying."
"Where's your sense of adventure?"
"I left it with my will to live."
"Drama queen."
"Death trap enthusiast."
"It's only twenty minutes!"
"Twenty minutes of certain death!"
He pulls out two helmets, one decidedly more beaten than the other. He hands me the nice one, naturally.
"I promise to go slow," he says, those eyes doing the thing where they go all soft and earnest. "I'd never put you in danger."
Damn him and his sincerity.
"Fine," I mutter. "But if I die, I'm haunting you."
"Deal."
Getting on the bike requires a level of coordination I don't possess. I try to swing my leg over gracefully, miss entirely, and end up sort of falling onto it sideways while Levi pretends not to laugh.
"Smooth," he says.
"Shut up and drive." His chuckle confirms he loves our bickering.
He starts the engine, which sounds like a bear with bronchitis, and I immediately wrap my arms around his waist in a death grip.
"You have to let me breathe," he says over his shoulder.
"Breathing is optional. Not dying is mandatory."
But once we're moving, something shifts.
The October air is crisp and bright, the trees a blur of gold and rust. Levi is warm and solid in front of me, and the bike, despite looking like it survived an apocalypse, runs smooth.
"Not so bad, right?" he calls back.
"It's acceptable!" I shout into the wind.
"You love it!"
"I tolerate it!"
"Same thing!"
He's not wrong.
The town—Riverside, which is optimistic since there's no river—is bigger than Oakridge but still small enough that everyone knows everyone's business. The shop I've been stalking on TikTok is called "Vintage Honey," which sounds like either a clothing store or a very specific fetish.
It's packed.
"Sweepstakes day," I explain as we remove our helmets. My hair immediately does that thing where it's somehow both flat and sticking up, making me look like I've been electrocuted.
"Cute," Levi says, attempting to fix it.
"Disaster," I correct.
"Cute disaster."
The shop is everything TikTok promised—racks of vintage-inspired dresses, modern pieces with retro flair, and an entire wall of accessories that makes my credit card whimper.
"Welcome to Vintage Honey!" A Beta sales associate appears, all bright smile and commission dreams. "First time?"
"Yes, and—"
"She needs everything," Levi interrupts.
"I need maybe one thing."
"Everything," he insists, then to the sales associate: "She's been working non-stop for weeks. First day off. We're celebrating."
"Oh, how wonderful! Let me grab you a changing room and—is this your Alpha?"
We both freeze.
"I—he's—we're—"
"Yes," Levi says simply. "One of them."
The sales associate's eyes go wide. "One of—oh! You're the bakery omega! From the TikTok!"
The TikTok. There's a TikTok. Should I be surprised there's a TikTok?
"I don't have TikTok," I protest weakly.
"But you're on it! The whole three Alphas thing? The renovation? The cookies that made that food blogger cry?"
"She cried?"
"Happy tears! Here, let me show you—"
She pulls out her phone, and there I am, in a video someone took at the farmer's market.
The caption reads "Small Town Omega Living the Dream" with approximately seventeen fire emojis.
"I'm going to die," I mutter.
"You're going to try on clothes," Levi corrects, already pulling things off racks with surprising expertise. "This green would be perfect with your eyes."
"Since when do you know about colors matching eyes?"
"Since I started paying attention to yours."
Smooth bastard.
What follows is two hours of Levi enthusiastically playing stylist while I try on everything from sundresses — impractical for October— to cozy sweaters (practical but boring) to a velvet dress that costs more than my monthly grocery budget but makes me look like a 1950s movie star.
"That one," Levi says immediately when I emerge in the velvet dress. It's burgundy, fitted through the bodice, full skirt that swirls when I turn.
"It's too expensive."
"It's too perfect."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
"They are when you look like that."