Chapter 65
Willow
I wake to the sound of a knock and the low murmur of voices.
The nest is warm, the blankets tangled around me in a way that says one of the guys must’ve tucked me into my bed again after I passed out. I stretch slowly, the soreness in my muscles a sweet reminder of the night before. Of bonds and pleasure. Of everything shifting.
I sit up, still wrapped in the scent of them.
Another knock echoes faintly through the apartment, followed by the creak of the front door and the low hum of Graham’s voice. The sound of cardboard being set down. Something heavy. Multiple somethings.
Curious now, I tug on one of Carson’s oversized T-shirts and pad barefoot down the hall.
They’re in the kitchen when I reach the doorway.
Carson leans against the island, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, his weight settled into one hip.
Graham’s planted with hands braced on his hips, shoulders rigid, jaw locked tight.
Hunter turns a folded card over in his hands, the crease between his brows deepening with every pass of his thumb.
I follow their stares—then stop cold.
Pink covers every surface.
Vases. Boxes. Carnations, dozens, maybe hundreds of them, spill across the island and onto the counter, as if someone tried to bury the entire apartment in flowers. The scent hits me next: sweet, powdery, familiar in a way that makes my stomach twist.
My breath catches.
Landon.
I don’t need a card to know. He’s the only person who’s ever bought me pink carnations.
There’s a box, black and sleek, nestled among the flowers. I reach for it and open the lid.
Inside is a pair of custom roller derby gloves—sleek, reinforced, stitched at the wrist in bold pink thread.
Jinx.
My lips part. I recognize the brand. Top-tier. These would’ve had to be ordered weeks ago. Maybe longer. Which means he ordered these even before he told me he would prove it.
He already was. God, I’ve been so blind.
“He, uh…really went for it,” Carson says behind me.
Graham mutters something under his breath about overcompensation, but I barely hear it. My fingers trail over the gloves, light and hesitant.
I glance over at Carson. His brow is raised, but his tone is casual. “He did say he would prove he wanted to be with you, didn’t he?”
I nod once. “I didn’t think he would actually do anything.”
But he has.
Landon has been proving it from the moment he came back. Quietly. Steadily. And now, boldly.
This isn’t just effort. This is him remembering me. The version of me he barely had time to know—but clearly did anyway.
“Well,” he says with a little shrug, “guess this is him trying.”
Hunter sets the card down and gestures toward the table. “That’s not all. It looks like your stalker didn’t want to be left out.”
I follow his gaze—and my stomach flips.
It’s a sketch.
Black and white. Precise and intimate. Me and Finn. Sitting close, knees touching. His hand on my cheek. His camera resting in my lap. I’m smiling.
It’s not a memory. Not a moment we ever had. But it’s something he wants. I know it is.
There’s no note. Just a single initial in the bottom corner.
F.
No one says anything. They don’t have to. Because even though I’m standing in the middle of my kitchen, surrounded by men who’ve already claimed me…I still have two unfinished connections waiting for me outside these walls.
I look up slowly.
Carson leans against the counter now, his arms crossed, but his posture isn’t closed off. If anything, it’s protective.
Hunter’s eyes lock on mine, dark and steady, his chest rising slow, controlled. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver—just holds my gaze, patience carved into every breath.
Graham’s jaw works, teeth grinding once before his arms drop stiff at his sides. He doesn’t move, but when our eyes meet, the restraint fractures—protection burns there, fierce and unspoken.
I open my mouth. I don’t even know what I’m going to say, maybe something to ease the tension in the room, to reassure them that none of this means I’m walking away, but before I can speak, he does.
“Whatever you decide,” Graham says, “we’re not going anywhere.”
My breath hitches. Because that’s everything.
Carson shifts beside me, his fingers brushing mine on the countertop in a silent agreement. Hunter moves closer too, steady and grounding. If I’m honest, a part of me is curious.
About Finn. About his obsession. His intensity. His art. The way he sees me.
But then there’s Landon.
And in the swirl of everything, chaos, loyalty, love, I feel it clearly now: he’s not just showing up.
He’s seeing me.
And maybe I want to see him too.
The memory of the last time he got me flowers is unbidden, but takes over all the same.
Bright pink carnations, their soft, frilly petals a shade or two lighter than my hair. They’re wrapped in brown paper, simple but thoughtful, and the sight of them steals the air from my lungs.
“They made me think of you,” Landon says, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips.
I blink at him, momentarily stunned. This big, gruff alpha—who I was convinced only knew how to brood and push people away—is standing here on Chad’s porch, holding flowers as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The edges of my lips curl upward, almost involuntarily. “Carnations,” I murmur, reaching out to take them. My fingers brush his, and I feel a little jolt, like static electricity.
He watches me with those intense eyes of his as I lift the bouquet to my face, inhaling its soft, spicy fragrance.
“These are my favorite flowers,” I admit, my voice quieter now. “They last so much longer than roses.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, his voice warm like honey dripping into tea.
My stomach flips, and I can’t stop the grin that spreads across my face.
My hand drifts to my hair as I breathe in the scent again, unable to tear my gaze from his.
There’s something about the way he’s looking at me—soft but focused, like I’m the only thing he sees—that makes my chest feel both light and heavy at the same time.
I think I’m in love.
I shake myself out of the memory. I fell hard and fast for him. Granted, looking back, it was partly my fault. Pursuing someone who’s not ready for something serious…never a good idea.
And maybe that’s why it hurt so much when it ended—because I wanted so badly for it to last. Even now, surrounded by the scent of pink carnations, my heart stutters at the memory of his voice calling me his.
I glance back at the counter.
The flowers are beautiful. Thoughtful. Maybe even a little desperate.
But they’re him.
Landon never did anything small. He didn’t ease in.
He crashed through my life, a storm come to life—messy, loud, consuming.
And then he did something stupid. Or maybe I did.
I still don’t know where to draw that line.
Maybe if I stormed across that bar that night and confronted him, it would have ended differently.
All I know is, it changed me.
And looking back at it now, I can see why he panicked. That week was consuming and came in like a wrecking ball. Kissing another girl, right in front of me, wanting me to see, wasn’t just stupid and cruel. It was a scream: I’m not ready.
I touch one of the blossoms, the soft petal catching on the pad of my finger. I thought I was over him. I wanted to be over him. But the flutter in my chest says I’m not there. And I’m not sure I want to be now.
I press my lips together, fighting the lump building in my throat, and look up.
They’re all watching me.
“I love you three,” I say, my voice soft but steady. “With my whole soul. When you became my bodyguards that day, I thought my dad was overreacting…”
“Thank God for that,” Carson says, grinning.
A smile tugs at my lips. “I still think he was, for the record. But I’m so happy you’re in my life—that I found you the way I did, that you’ve shown me what love should look like. It’s not a whirlwind week with a scent match and some bad choices made in the heat of the moment.”
I pause, breath hitching. “Although…that is a version of love. And it’s what makes this so hard.”
Hunter swallows, the corner of his mouth tilting up into something that’s not quite a smile.
“Maybe it doesn’t need to be hard. At first, I thought the situation with Landon was the same as the one that broke my mom, but…
the way he watches you—that says it’s not the same.
And mistakes, even really bad ones, can be made and overcome.
Maybe…that version of love is needed too. ”
I blink, surprised by the gentleness in his tone, by the grace he’s offering when he has every right not to.
Carson reaches out, brushing a knuckle down my arm. “As long as we’re still in the picture, you can keep collecting love stories like tattoos.”
I snort, warmth blooming in my chest. “That sounds messy.”
Graham finally speaks, his voice quiet but firm. “We don’t mind a little mess. We’ll be there either way.”
I look between them—these three alphas who should have walked away a hundred times by now, but didn’t. Who opened their arms and said, We’ll figure it out together. And somehow, I believe them.
I take a breath. “Okay. Then I guess I’ll keep figuring it out.”
Hunter leans forward, pressing a kiss to my temple. “We’ll be right here.”
“Cheering you on,” Carson adds.
“And making breakfast,” Graham mutters, turning back to the stove and pretending his emotions haven’t just been flayed open and stitched back together again.
The tension shifts, lighter now. Not gone, but manageable.
And when I glance at the flowers again, it doesn’t feel like choosing between lives anymore.
It feels like walking forward into one I’m building for myself, with space for the past and the future.