Chapter 39
THIRTY-NINE
LANI
The house smells like lavender and old paper and the faint, comforting trace of furniture polish that I suspect my grandmother has used for decades.
It should feel safe. It does feel safe. But…that’s the problem.
The moment I close the door behind me and lean my back against it, I expect relief to settle in. I expect distance to bring clarity. I expect anger to hold steady, sharp and righteous and protective.
Instead, something inside me begins to unravel.
The silence is too complete. Too clean. There’s no undercurrent of smoke or salt threading through the air, no subtle layering of warmth beneath it. No shifting energy in the walls. Just stillness.
My chest tightens.
I tell myself it’s humiliation. Betrayal. But I think it’s something else entirely….something I don’t want to examine too closely. Not when everything feels so raw.
I replay the terrace in sharp fragments – Finn’s face when he realised I was the girl from the beach party, Kai’s silence when I called him out, Koa’s flinch when I said I trusted him. I cling to the anger because it’s easier than the hollow ache spreading slowly beneath it.
But the ache grows.
It doesn’t feel emotional at first. It feels physical.
A restless pull beneath my ribs, low and insistent.
My skin prickles like I’ve stepped out into cold air without a coat.
I move through the house without purpose – touching the back of chairs, straightening nothing, opening windows I don’t need open – trying to outrun the sensation building under my skin.
It doesn’t work.
By mid-afternoon the hum has sharpened into something closer to an ache.
Not heat – which means something completely different to me now than it did last week.
Not the sharp, flaring spark Kai ignites.
Not the grounding steadiness Sol brings.
Not the quiet alignment I felt in Koa’s kiss.
Not the deep, balanced calm that settled when Finn touched my arm that morning.
All of it.
My body isn’t reaching for one. It’s reaching for all of them.
The realisation lands slowly and devastates me more than the bet did.
This isn’t just semi-bond recoil or rejection from Sol. It’s attachment to all of them tearing at the seams.
I sink onto the sofa and press my fingers to my temples, breathing shallowly as another wave rolls through me – restlessness, awareness, an almost nauseating emptiness where something warm had begun to build.
My phone buzzes once on the coffee table.
A message from my boss.
Don’t come back in yet. I’ve covered your shifts. Tips are being set aside for you.
I stare at the screen. That’s not normal. I didn’t ask for that. I didn’t tell him anything. Which means someone is keeping him in the loop.
Why is everyone in this place so nice?
My throat tightens.
An hour later the doorbell rings.
The sound makes my pulse spike violently. For half a second I consider ignoring it. Then instinct pushes me upright.
When I open the door, no one is there.
Just a box. Brown paper. Carefully taped. No note.
My hands tremble slightly as I carry it inside and set it on the dining table. The tape is neat. Deliberate. Not rushed.
I open it slowly.
Inside, each item is folded with care. Not stuffed. Not chaotic. Intentional.
The first thing I lift is a flannel shirt.
Koa. Sea salt and warm sand greet me first – sunlit and familiar – followed by the soft linger of campfire smoke.
Beneath it, rich and unmistakable, is his unique tonka bean scent that I love.
Smooth. Grounding. Indulgent in a way that settles low in my lungs.
The ache in my chest eases fractionally.
I swallow hard.
Next is a hoodie. Kai. The same sunlit salt and smoke base, but brighter. Livelier. And underneath it that unmistakable deep chocolatey seductiveness teasing the air with something that’s impossible to ignore.
My pulse quickens. Not painfully. Just alive.
Beneath that lies a simple grey t-shirt. Finn. Ocean rain. Cool and clean, like standing on a shoreline just after a storm. Smoked green tea – light, earthy, refined. And beneath it burnt caramel warmth that wraps around the sharper notes without overpowering them.
My throat tightens.
The balance in it hits differently. It doesn’t spark. It doesn’t anchor. It steadies.
At the bottom of the box is a dark button-down.
Sol. Smoked oud, deep and primal, threads immediately through my senses.
Salted driftwood, rugged and storm-worn.
And beneath it, almost hidden but undeniably there, toasted marshmallow warmth – soft against the darker edges. Danger wrapped in comfort.
Together they smell like summer and my favourite things about it.
My knees weaken.
I lower myself into the chair and press the fabric to my face without thinking.
The effect is immediate. Not dramatic. But measurable. The restless ache dulls. The prickle under my skin eases. My breathing steadies in slow increments. It isn’t complete. But it’s enough to confirm what I didn’t want to admit.
This isn’t just heartbreak.
It’s biological separation layered over emotional rupture.
Another buzz from my phone. A delivery notification. Food already paid for.
I didn’t order anything. But by the time I open the door again, the bag is waiting on the step. Warm. Familiar. My usual order.
Someone has also watered the plants in the front garden. The soil is dark and damp, the leaves upright and cared for.
They aren’t pushing. They aren’t showing up, unwelcome. They aren’t demanding forgiveness. They’re…tending.
My chest aches again, but differently now.
I sit on the floor with the box around me, each piece of clothing within reach, and press my palm flat against Sol’s shirt first. The grounding warmth seeps into me slowly. Then Koa’s flannel, rich and steady. Kai’s hoodie, bright and restless. Finn’s t-shirt, cool and balanced
It isn’t one that soothes me.
It’s the layering.
And that is what breaks me.
Tears come silently this time, not dramatic, not loud. Just quiet overflow.
I wasn’t just reacting. I was choosing. And my body chose with me. It chose for me.
But the betrayal still burns. The humiliation still stings.
And beneath it all is something far more frightening: I didn’t just start bonding to Sol. I started attaching to all of them.
And walking away didn’t sever it. It made it hurt.
I don’t consciously decide to move.
It happens in small, practical adjustments.
The house is too still. The sofa is too exposed. The space around me is too wide and empty. I tell myself I’m just trying to get comfortable. That I need something softer than the wooden chair beneath me.
I gather the clothes without thinking.
Sol’s shirt first – darker, heavier – I spread it along the inside corner of the sofa where the cushions meet, pressing it flat with my palms. The smoked oud and driftwood cling to the air, anchoring the space in something solid.
Koa’s flannel comes next, folded open and layered over it, the scent of warm sand and chocolate deepening the base beneath the sharper edges.
Kai’s hoodie is thicker. I bunch it slightly at the back, tucking it into the corner like a barrier, the tonka sweetness weaving through the smoke.
Finn’s t-shirt I keep closest.
I don’t question that either.
I drape it over my knees, then adjust it, pulling it higher, until the ocean rain and green tea wrap close to my chest.
The movements are automatic. Small. Methodical.
I shift the cushions tighter around me. I draw the throw blanket from the back of the sofa and layer it over the clothes, pressing the scents inward so they don’t disperse too quickly into the room.
Only when I pause do I realise what I’ve done.
The sofa corner has transformed into something enclosed. Warmer. Intentional.
A hollow of scent and fabric and layered presence.
A nest.
The word hits me with a slow, dawning flush of awareness.
I didn’t mean to. I didn’t think about it. I just needed the ache to stop.
My cheeks burn faintly, even though no one is here to see it. The instinct is undeniable now. Not abstract. Not theoretical.
My body is trying to protect itself.
I shift again, tucking Sol’s sleeve closer to my shoulder, adjusting Koa’s flannel beneath my hip, curling slightly into the shape I’ve made. The layered scents fold around me – smoke and salt and chocolate, tonka sweetness and burnt caramel warmth, the deep comfort beneath Sol’s darker notes.
It’s overwhelming for a second.
Then it settles.
The restless hum under my skin dulls to something bearable. The hollow ache in my chest eases just enough that breathing stops feeling like effort. My pulse slows, not because the hurt is gone, but because my body has found something it recognises as safety.
I press my face into Finn’s shirt without thinking, inhaling deeply. The balance in it steadies me in a way that makes my throat tighten again.
“You’re idiots,” I whisper into the fabric, though there’s no real venom in it now. “All of you.”
And me most of all.
Because I didn’t just get caught in a bet.
I let myself feel.
The exhaustion hits suddenly, like a wave rolling in after the tide has already gone out. My body has been running on adrenaline and humiliation and biological confusion for days. Now, wrapped in the layered scents of the men who broke me, it finally decides it can stop fighting.
My fingers curl into the flannel beneath me.
My breathing deepens.
The nest tightens around my senses, holding in warmth and smoke and salt until the house no longer feels empty.
I don’t mean to fall asleep.
I just close my eyes for a moment.
And the next thing I know, the ache has softened into something distant, the fabric warm under my cheek, the layered scents still thick in the air as sleep finally takes me without resistance.
For the first time since I walked away, I am not braced.
I am held.
Even if it’s a poor imitation of the arms I really want around me.