Chapter 25
Lincoln
My bedroom looks like a damn tornado ripped through it.
Two shirts are draped over the dresser, one is half-folded on the bed, another is on the floor because I stepped on it and got annoyed, and I’m standing in front of the mirror with my arms crossed as though I’m about to interrogate my own reflection.
My hair is a mess. My jaw’s too scruffy. My palms are sweating, and I haven’t even left the house yet.
I’m thirty years old. I wire entire buildings for a living. I crawl into crawlspaces filled with live circuits and fire hazards and God-knows-what. I don’t get nervous.
Except apparently tonight.
Because tonight I’m going on a date. With her.
I button the charcoal shirt halfway, tilt my head to check the fit, then unbutton the damn thing again because suddenly it feels too formal. Too stiff. Too much.
“This is stupid,” I mutter. “It’s just dinner.”
“Then why are you sweating like a virgin at prom?” Milton’s voice cuts through my spiral.
He’s lounging on my bed with his feet kicked up, scrolling on his phone like a man who has absolutely no respect for the anxiety of others. He glances over the top of the screen with a shit-eating grin.
“You’ve changed outfits three times,” he adds. “I counted.”
I glare. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m not trying to help,” he reminds me, stretching like a cat. “I’m here strictly for entertainment.”
“You need new hobbies.”
“No,” he says, “I need popcorn.”
I flip him off and pull on the navy shirt instead. It’s softer, fits better across the shoulders, and is much less formal. My hair refuses to cooperate, so I run my fingers through it, and hope for the best. The mirror reflects a man trying to look calm, but the twitch near my eye gives me away.
Milton whistles. “Where are you taking her again?”
“Riverside Grill,” I say. “Quiet. Good food. Neutral ground.”
He nods, impressed. “Romantic, but not ‘I’m proposing in the parking lot.’ Strong first-date energy.”
Before I can congratulate myself, Korbin strides in chewing on an energy bar. He takes one look at my outfit and snorts. “Are you seriously losing your mind over a date?”
I shrug. “You say it like you didn’t beat a guy half to death over her.”
He stiffens instantly. “That was different.”
“Was it?” I cock an eyebrow.
Milton looks up. “Wait—are you still thinking about that?”
Korbin grumbles something under his breath and shoves the rest of the bar into his mouth. “I just didn’t like the way that asshole was talking to her.”
I smirk. “Or maybe you just like her.”
He glares like I just kicked his dog. “Shut the fuck up, Lincoln.”
Milton raises his brows. “You’re awfully defensive for someone who allegedly doesn’t care.”
“I don’t,” Korbin snaps, crossing his arms so hard it looks painful. “She’s a Lennox. End of story.”
But he doesn’t leave the room. He stands there watching me pull on my jacket like he’s waiting to judge my life choices. Hell, maybe he is. But something tells me his stare has more to do with his life choices than my own.
I grab my keys off the counter. “You two need to stop acting like I’m walking into a bear trap. She’s an omega, not a landmine.”
“You sure?” Milton asks. “Because kinda the same thing.”
Korbin grunts. “You’re both idiots.”
I pause at the door. “You don’t get it. She’s… different.”
The room goes quiet.
Milton studies me with something softer than his usual sarcasm. Korbin’s jaw tenses, like he’s deciding whether to punch a wall or just swallow whatever it is he’s feeling.
He settles on glaring instead. “That’s what they all say,” he mutters. “Right before it blows up in your face.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “Well, I’ll risk it.”
I start to leave, but Milton calls out, “Hey—Lincoln.”
I turn.
“Don’t rush her.”
His voice isn’t joking this time. It’s slow. Protective.
“I won’t,” I say quietly.
Korbin shifts beside him, arms still crossed but less… rigid.
“You sure you know what you’re doing?”
“No.” I smile. “But I know what I want.”
I’m halfway out the door when Milton snickers. “Hey, lover boy—if you kiss her goodnight, don’t forget to breathe through your nose.”
I flip him off again, because that seems to be my coping mechanism tonight, and head to my truck. I slide into the driver’s seat and shut the door. The silence hits me harder than expected. I sit there, hands on the wheel, letting my pulse settle.
She said yes.
She said yes.
I scroll back through her message again like a damn teenager:
Bayleigh: Yes.
Every time I read it, warm pressure blooms at the center of my chest. Not anxiety. Not lust.
Hope.
Something I haven’t felt in a long goddamn time.