Chapter 57
Carson
I knock once, then push her bedroom door open without waiting for an answer.
We don’t live here—none of us do—but after the last few nights we had? After the way she clung to us, let us touch every inch of her, let us see her in a way I don’t think anyone else ever has? Yeah, I’m not tiptoeing around anymore.
The door creaks softly, and there she is.
Perched at the window, knees drawn up beneath my T-shirt, her face half-lit by the morning sun. She’s not even pretending not to stare.
My gaze follows hers, tracking across the street. It’s early, but he’s already there. The beta. Finn. He’s seated at the window of his apartment, he could be a damn statue—motionless except for the slow movements of his hand as he sketches. No shirt. Still. Focused.
And Willow’s not blinking.
“Well,” I say, leaning against the doorframe with a grin. “Looks like someone’s got a view this morning.”
She startles slightly but doesn’t look away. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”
“I knocked.” I stroll in casually. “You didn’t answer. Figured you were doing something scandalous.”
She finally looks at me. There’s no guilt in her eyes—just a flicker of awareness. Caught, but not sorry.
I cross to her side and glance out the window again. “Is it weird that I kind of respect how unashamed he is about the whole lurking-across-the-street thing? Guy’s committed.”
Willow snorts. “He’s not lurking. He lives there.”
“Convenient,” I murmur. “You think he picked the place for the natural light or the direct line of sight into your bedroom?”
She doesn’t answer that. I don’t expect her to.
Instead, she hugs her knees tighter, her gaze drifting back to the window.
“Wanna talk about it?” I ask, keeping my tone light, teasing. “Or should I just make a sarcastic comment and pretend I didn’t just walk in on you mooning over your personal stalker?”
She hesitates—just for a second—then nods. “Yeah. Let’s talk.”
I blink, caught off guard by the seriousness in her voice. “Really?”
“Yeah,” she says again, softer this time. “But not here.”
I gesture toward the hall with a mock flourish. “After you, peaches.”
The kitchen’s warm with the scent of strong coffee and toast, and something a little sweet lingering in the air—Graham’s touch, obviously.
He and Hunter had just left not long ago.
Graham muttered something about needing to “find proper nesting materials,” as though the world might end if Willow didn’t have the perfect blanket or plush to curl around.
The man was tense, focused—probably to keep himself from storming across the street and tearing Finn apart.
Hunter had followed a few minutes later, mumbling about a quick security check-in for a client. He’d promised to be back before lunch, but I knew him—he wouldn’t stay gone longer than he had to, not with the way Willow had looked last night. Not with the softness in her scent this morning.
Now it was just me and her.
And something told me we needed this moment, just the two of us.
I slide two mugs onto the island, then grab the plate of toast I’d buttered and stacked like some kind of breakfast peace offering.
Willow settles across from me, one knee tucked up into the chair, the edge of the robe she pulled on brushing the floor. Her hair’s still messy from sleep, cheeks flushed prettily.
I push a mug toward her and say, “Okay. Talk.”
She lifts it, takes a sip, and sighs. “You’re going to make me start?”
“Well, you were the one caught longingly gazing across the street like a tragic omega Juliet.”
She glares at me, but it’s weak. There’s the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
I raise both hands. “Fine. I’ll start.”
She waits.
I clear my throat, tearing a piece of toast in half. “I don’t hate him.”
That gets a blink.
“I mean, I want to hate him. He’s pushy. Obsessed. And he doesn’t have a clue how to take his foot off the gas. But…” I trail off, thinking about the way Finn looked at her on the sidewalk. Not with ownership. Not even hunger. Just—pure, aching need.
“But you don’t,” she says softly.
“No. Because I see it too.” My gaze meets hers. “The way he looks at you.”
Her breath catches. Her fingers tighten around the mug.
“He watches you as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear,” I say. “Like the second you stop being real, he’ll crumble. And I don’t think it’s just a game to him. Not like we thought.”
I see the surprise flicker through her expression before she tucks it away.
“I didn’t say I trust him,” I add quickly. “And neither do they. But I think you do.”
Her eyes lift. “I’m not sure what I trust.”
“Fair. But you want to.”
She nods, slowly, and that’s the part that’s the most dangerous.
I lean forward, elbows on the table. “Here’s the thing, peaches. We’re not trying to put a leash on you. Okay, well, Graham might be—but he’d do it with a silk ribbon and then ask if you were warm enough while he lectured you about danger.”
She lets out a quiet laugh, and I grin, but then I sober, watching her carefully.
“And it’s not just Finn.”
She stills.
“You don’t say his name. But I see the way you look at Landon too.”
She blinks, a sharp inhale barely masked by her next sip of coffee.
“Doesn’t matter if we’re at practice or walking past him on the street—you feel him. Still. I can see it.”
She sets the mug down, not looking at me.
“And now I know,” I say, voice lower, softer. “He wasn’t just some ex. He was your scent match.”
Her shoulders tense, waiting for me to judge her for it.
I don’t.
“That changes things,” I admit. “Because I thought he just broke your heart. I didn’t realize he was written into your bones.”
She lifts her gaze slowly, eyes cautious, uncertain.
“But here’s what it doesn’t change,” I say. “You’re not alone in this. Not with him. Not with Finn. Not with anything. We’re not going anywhere.”
Her throat works attempting to swallow a thousand things at once. Doubts. Regrets. Hope she doesn’t know how to express.
“If you want to figure it out—with either of them—we’re not going to stop you,” I say. “We’d just rather help you do it safely than watch you tear yourself apart trying to pretend you don’t still feel something.”
The silence stretches, but it’s not heavy.
It’s thick with possibility.
She finally exhales, slow and shaky. “You guys are supposed to make this easier.”
I raise a brow. “Since when have I ever made your life easier?”
That earns a snort, and something flickers in her eyes again. Lighter. Not quite peace, but close.
“You really don’t hate either of them?” she asks.
“No. But I’ll still punch Finn if he hurts you.”
She nods, quiet for a beat. “And Landon?”
I hesitate. Then shrug.
“He messed up. Big time. But I don’t think he’s the same guy who let you go.”
Her eyes meet mine, raw and open.
“And I don’t think you’re the same girl who would let him break you again. If you want to figure out what’s going on between you and Finn and Landon…” I pause, carefully choosing my words. “Then we’d rather help you do that safely than watch you run headfirst into it with no support.”
She blinks.
“I mean, preferably with clothes on next time,” I tease. “But hey, who am I to judge?”
Her laugh cracks through the tension in her shoulders, and I swear it’s the best damn sound in the world.
She takes a sip of coffee, then says, “You know…that was sort of brilliant.”
I raise a brow. “Me? Always.”
“No,” she says, smirking now. “The plan. Letting me be around Finn so you could keep me safe. You knew I’d find a way. And if you weren’t close… You couldn’t stop it.”
I lift my mug. “We’re not just pretty faces.”
A quiet beat passes between us. Her stare lingers, warmer now.
“Thank you,” she says finally.
“For breakfast?” I grin. “I’m an expert at toast.”
She laughs, and it is the best sound in the world. “For everything.”
And fuck me if that doesn’t hit me square in the heart.
I nod, swallowing around the lump in my throat. “Anytime, peaches.”
She watches me over the rim of her mug, those blue eyes doing things to my insides I don’t want to name. I should stay on my side of the island. I should be good.
I’m not.
I round the island slowly. Her breath catches, and I swear I see her chest rise just a little faster. Her mug lowers, resting against the counter, and when I step into her space, she tilts her chin up—inviting.
Daring.
I brush her hair over her shoulder and lean down, just enough to hover. Close enough that I feel the warmth of her breath against my mouth.
“You always taste sweeter after breakfast,” I murmur.
She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks flush, and when I finally kiss her, she melts.
Soft at first. Just a press of lips. Then again—hungrier this time, her hand curling in the fabric of my shirt, her body leaning into mine to chase my lips. I grip her hips, tugging her from the chair, anchoring her to the counter, and swallowing the sound she makes when I deepen the kiss.
She sighs into my mouth, all heat and peaches and that soft little hum she gives when she’s just on the edge of wanting.
I could get lost in that sound.
Her hand slips beneath my shirt, fingers skimming over my stomach, and I groan, catching her wrist and pulling back just enough to look her in the eye.
“We have time, right?” she breathes.
And I almost say yes.
Almost.
But then her phone buzzes on the counter behind her, screen lighting up with a reminder.
“Practice,” I mutter, forehead pressed to hers, my pulse still pounding. “Isn’t that at ten?”
She groans, head falling back against my arm. “Why do I play a sport that requires so much cardio?”
I laugh, nipping at her jaw before stepping back. “You like a challenge.”
“You’re the challenge,” she mutters, grabbing her phone and finishing the last of her coffee.
“Damn right I am,” I say, smirking as I toss her a wink and head toward the sink.
She watches me go with longing shining in her eyes. She’s not ready to stop either, and something about that look promises that next time we won’t.