Chapter 68
Willow
By the time I make it back into the rink, the laughter has quieted. Most of the team is packing up, already halfway out the doors, still riding the high of Coach’s announcement.
I keep my head down as I cross to the bench. The charm is still in my hand.
I don’t let go of it until I drop to sit and start working on my laces. My fingers tremble.
Then he’s there.
Graham.
On his feet and by my side like he’d been waiting for the second I needed him. He crouches in front of me, calm and solid, and without a single word, he reaches up and gently wipes the tears from my cheeks with his knuckles.
He doesn’t ask what happened.
Doesn’t ask if I’m okay.
He just sees me.
His thumb lingers under my eye for a second before he tilts my chin up with that quiet authority he always carries. His gaze finds mine—steady, warm, all-knowing.
“Dry your tears, sweetheart,” he says. “We’ve got a big day ahead of us. One that’s going to make you smile and forget all about everything.”
My throat tightens again, but this time it’s from the way he says it; a promise that’s already true..
I blink, a few more tears slipping down even as a shaky laugh escapes my lips. “You’re really going to make me cry harder if you keep being so sweet.”
He smiles then, just the barest tilt of his mouth. “Then I’ll stop talking and help you finish up.”
He drops his eyes to my skates, fingers brushing mine as he takes over the laces I abandoned.
I let him. Let myself lean into his care, into the weight of the bond that wraps around my heart, an anchor instead of a chain. I don’t know what this surprise is.
But right now, with his hands steady on my skates and his presence wrapping around me, I believe him. Maybe it will make me smile. Maybe something good is waiting.
Graham finishes unlacing my skates, helping me out of them, acting as if I’m made of something softer than I am.
I’m not.
But with him, I don’t mind pretending I am.
He doesn’t push me to talk. Just grabs my bag, nods toward the exit, and waits until I’m ready to move.
We don’t go back to my apartment.
He drives in silence, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift. The city slips away behind us, brick, metal, and noise fading into open stretches of road and tall trees leaning in and listening.
A house slowly appears at the end of a long driveway.
Sprawling, clean-lined, modern. Sunlight gleams off the wide windows, the siding warm and soft in the midday glow. There’s a porch swing tucked under the eaves, a deep wraparound porch, and the edges of the property stretch out into open green space and tree cover—quiet, private, safe.
No towering fences. No glass walls to show off. Only a quiet peace.
It’s understated in the way only real effort can be. Someone built it to last.
Not flashy.
But undeniably his. I sit back in my seat, staring at it as he parks.
It’s not a Cinderella moment.
I’ve been around money my whole life, and I honestly don’t care much for the flash of it. I know the difference between generational wealth and earned comfort.
And this is earned.
He turns off the engine, glancing over at me.
“This is yours?” I ask.
He nods once. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t say more than that. Doesn’t explain the years it must’ve taken. The jobs. The grind. The way a boy with no safety net builds something solid from the dirt. But I feel it.
In every inch of this place. It’s not just a house.
It’s proof.
Proof that he survived. Proof that he’s not going anywhere. My heart stumbles.
“This feels big,” I say, fingers tightening around the strap of my purse.
His eyes hold mine. Steady. Unshakable. “It is.”
And when he opens his door and walks around to mine, I realize, this is really forever.
He opens my door, and I stay seated for a beat longer, just staring. Not at the size of it. Not even at the porch swing swaying in the breeze.
But for the way the place feels. As though it’s waiting for me and I’m finally home.
I step out of the car, and the moment the warm air hits me, I catch it—faint, but familiar.
Carson’s scent. And Hunter’s. The front door swings open, and there they are.
Carson casually leans against the porch post, trying not to smile, arms crossed, sunglasses perched on his head. Hunter steps down onto the top stair, his hands shoved in his pockets, eyes locked on me, obviously waiting for me this whole time.
“What is this?” I ask, my voice barely audible as I climb out of the car.
Graham grabs my duffel from the back seat. “Come see.”
They don’t rush me. They don’t push. They just wait, letting me take it in.
The house looks even bigger up close—solid and warm, sunlight dancing through the tall windows, birds chirping in the distance. But it’s the details that start to catch my eye.
A row of roller derby photos clipped across a bulletin board near the front door—some of them from my last game. One of me mid-jump, hair flying, pure focus on my face.
My favorite brand of green tea sitting on the entryway console, unopened, with a little tag stuck to it: Willow’s.
A soft throw blanket in a chaotic pink-orange hue that is a pop of color in their neutral-colored world—folded neatly over the edge of the couch. Small things. Intentional things.
And then Graham nods toward the hallway. “Come with me.”
I follow him deeper into the house, my chest tightening with every step. The space is open but grounded—wood floors, tall ceilings, light everywhere. But it’s the doorway at the very end of the hall that makes something deep in me ache.
He pauses there, hand on the knob, looking back at me. A smile tugs at his lips, and my heart races behind my ribs.
“This is yours,” he says simply. Then pushes the door open.
I step inside and stop breathing.
It’s a nest.
Not a rushed attempt, not a patchwork of blankets and pillows thrown together in a corner.
This is a room.
A full room built around the nest. Sunlight filters through gauzy curtains. Soft textures in every direction—plush rugs, throw pillows, layered bedding in soft creams, pale pinks, and golds. Familiar scents swirl through the air—mine and theirs, comforting and grounding.
There’s a pile of old books next to a velvet armchair, a tray with my favorite snacks already unwrapped, and a tiny fridge in the corner stocked with bottled water and electrolyte drinks. A speaker system sits tucked into a nook, already queued with my favorite playlist.
There’s even a wall-mounted rack with my name painted above it in swirling letters—ready for any clothing I want to hang, already holding a couple of the oversized hoodies I keep stealing from Graham and Carson.
I don’t move.
I can’t.
My throat tightens so fast it hurts, and the sting behind my eyes comes too quickly to fight.
“You made this?” I whisper, barely managing the words.
Graham steps into the room behind me. “We did. But the nest?” He touches the doorframe. “That was me.”
I swallow hard. “You built me a nest.”
He nods. “Every omega deserves a space where they don’t have to apologize for being soft. Or overwhelmed. Or exhausted. Somewhere that’s just…theirs.”
Tears slip down my cheeks before I can stop them.
Not because I’m sad.
Because I’ve never felt this safe.
This wanted.
Carson appears behind Graham, finally breaking the moment with a crooked smile. “So…do we get points for subtlety, or were we too obvious?”
I laugh through the tears, turning to bury my face in Graham’s chest.
Hunter’s voice drifts in from the hallway. “Subtle would’ve been one throw pillow and a scented candle. This is a whole ass sanctuary.”
They’re right.
It is.
And it’s mine.