Chapter 15
Lo
I’m still shaking.
Even with the blanket slung around my shoulders, even with Beck’s scent wrapped around me, even with him holding me in his arms, an immovable wall of calm, I can’t stop my fingers from twitching.
I keep curling them into fists, trying to calm myself down, but all I feel is soot and sweat and the ghost of smoke in my throat.
The fire’s out. That’s what they said. Minimal damage. Probably the word they used.
But it doesn’t feel minimal.
It feels personal.
The house is still there, still standing. But the damage is certainly done.
Black streaks up the side wall, shattered glass on the porch, the screen door half-melted and hanging off its hinges as if it gave up halfway through the escape. A few of the firefighters are rolling up the hoses. Someone’s laughing from the neighbor’s yard.
Probably at me.
It’s all wrong. Too normal, like this didn’t just… happen.
Like I didn’t just wake up choking in a room full of smoke, heart pounding so loud I thought it was the fire itself battering against the closed door of my bedroom.
My mouth tastes like ash. My skin feels tight, stretched too thin over all the places I can’t protect.
Beck hasn’t said anything since the paramedic gave me the all-clear. Not that I need him to or anything. He’s towering over me with that heavy, steady kind of focus he’s always had, as if he’s waiting for me to fall apart and trying to figure out how to catch me before I hit the ground.
I hate it.
And I want it.
And I hate that I want it.
“I’m fine,” I say, not really to him, mostly to myself. It comes out rough and dry and so obviously a lie that even I wince.
Beck shifts a little to place me back down onto my feet. He doesn’t shift much, just enough that I can feel the gravity of his attention tilt toward me even more as I regain my balance on unsteady legs. He doesn’t move closer, though. He knows better. Instead, he takes a couple of steps backward.
Like that helps or something.
“You’re not,” he says eventually.
God, I want to scream. I want to grab something and throw it just to feel the weight leave my hands. But mostly, I want to curl into him and pretend that this didn’t happen, that I’m not back in this cursed town, that someone didn’t just try to burn me out of it.
Instead, I swallow hard and square my shoulders under the stupid scratchy blanket, trying to act like I’m fine. Like I’m unbothered. Like I wasn’t two seconds away from dying in the same house I used to dream about escaping.
“I don’t need your help,” I say, sharp and defensive.
Too sharp.
I know it the second the words leave my mouth, but I can’t stop them. Not now. Not with everything scraping raw under my skin.
Beck doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.
“Didn’t say you did.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Then why are you still here?”
He doesn’t answer. Not right away. And I hate that, too. Because I know exactly what he’s doing. Letting me get the poison out. Letting me burn myself down next.
“Because someone just lit a match in your house,” he says eventually. “And I’m not leaving you alone with that.”
There’s a beat of silence so heavy that I could choke on it.
I turn away and face the house, digging my fingers deeper into the blanket. My nails scrape against my palms as the heady scent of his sweat wafts up from the damp collar against my throat.
I want to nuzzle against it.
What I don’t want to do is cry.
Not in front of him, and not in front of anyone.
I already look pathetic enough, barefoot in the dead grass, smelling of smoke and panic, my voice shaking every time I try to pretend I’ve got it all under control.
But something tightens in my chest when he says alone. Because the truth is… I’ve been alone for so long I almost forgot what it felt like to have someone show up.
And now that he has, it’s messing with all my carefully placed defenses.
I hate that he still knows how to stand there and not say the thing I need him to say until I’m the one that breaks first.
God.
I don’t cry. I don’t break. I don’t let anyone see the cracked pieces.
But something inside me tilts. Just enough.
And of course, because the universe can’t help itself, that’s when Mason mentions the doctor.
“Smoke exposure. And that crash not even a week ago? You need to get checked out. Properly this time.”
I want to argue. I really, really do. But Beck’s already turning toward me, brows drawn, jaw tense in that way that says he agrees, even if he’s not about to say it out loud.
I sigh. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s just get it over with.”
Turns out “getting it over with” means I get to sit on the world’s coldest exam table in a gown that smells of bleach and disappointment, under lights that make every bruise I’ve been ignoring look way worse than I thought.
Dr. Quinn enters as he always does, calm, crisp, and ten steps ahead of everyone else.
He looks me over with a critical eye. Doesn’t flinch at the soot stains on my arms or the way I’m still wrapped up tight like I’m bracing for impact.
“How’s your breathing?” he asks. “Any dizziness? Chest tightness?”
“Just tired,” I mutter. “Didn’t sleep great. You know. Fire and all.”
He doesn’t smile.
“Having headaches?” he asks, not looking up from his chart.
I nod, reluctantly. “Off and on. Since the crash.”
His eyes flick to mine. “You should’ve come in sooner. Headaches aren’t good for Omegas. You know that.”
Yeah. Probably. But that would’ve meant admitting I needed help. And I wasn’t in the mood to have another record added to my file in this town.
He runs through the rest of it: blood pressure, oxygen levels, temperature, listening to my lungs. Pokes at the bruise on my hip from where I hit the doorframe escaping the fire.
“You’re lucky,” he says finally, scribbling something on his pad. “Your body’s holding up. But you’re running on empty.”
I shrug. “Aren’t we all?”
That gets a look. One of those quiet, disappointed dad looks. The kind that makes you feel like you just failed a test you didn’t know you were taking.
Then he sets his clipboard aside and sits across from me, suddenly less doctor, more… something else.
“You’ve been through a lot, Lo,” he says. “The crash, now this… and you’ve just come back after everything that happened before. That’s a lot for anyone.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, trying to smirk, “not my first town-wide public disaster.”
“Which is exactly why I’m asking,” he says. “How are you really feeling?”
I freeze.
There it is. The trapdoor.
The question that opens everything up if I answer it honestly.
So I don’t.
I shrug again. “Tired. A little crispy. Nothing a hot shower won’t fix.”
He doesn’t push, not exactly. But he doesn’t let it go, either.
“Lo. Sometimes the body recovers faster than the rest of us. Sometimes what we carry isn’t just physical. That’s especially true for Omegas.”
I laugh, short and flat. “I’m not here for therapy, Doc.”
“No,” he agrees. “But you might need it.”
That lands hard. I look away.
Because the truth is? He’s not wrong. My body might be walking around as if nothing happened, but my brain’s still back in that house, choking on smoke, wondering if I made a mistake coming back.
And deeper than that, there’s this awful, creeping thought that maybe someone wanted me gone. That maybe this town still hates me enough to light a match and watch me burn.
But I can’t say that. Not out loud. Not yet.
“Thanks for the checkup,” I say instead, hopping off the table too fast. “Let me know if I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying,” he says gently. “You’re just not alright.”
I pause at the door.
God, why does everyone keep saying that like it’s something I don’t already know?
I shove open the clinic door with more force than necessary, the jingle of the bell overhead cutting sharp through the quiet. My boots hit the sidewalk hard.
The blanket’s gone, ditched somewhere back in the exam room. All I’ve got now is the chill in the air and the pressure of everything I didn’t say pressing tight against my ribs. My skin’s too constrictive, like it’s trying to hold everything inside.
The sharp tang of smoke still clings to me, mixing with the distinct, sweet scent of my own emotions. Burnt sugar, rotting peaches, and something darker beneath it all that smells like fear in the making.
I hate how my scent betrays me. I try to breathe deep, but it’s shallow, like I can’t catch my breath fully.
And I know it’s not just the smoke anymore, it’s everything I’ve been holding back.
Every fear, every cracked piece of me that’s threatening to spill out.
The overwhelming weight of my past, of my parents, of the fire.
It’s all too much.
I feel my scent changing and shifting with every thought that threatens to break through my defenses. It’s an Omega thing. My emotions are too loud and too messy sometimes. And right now, I’m a walking storm, holding back the rains about to pour out of me.
I make it halfway down the front steps before I hear it.
“Lo?”
I stop. Just for a second. Long enough to close my eyes and pray it’s just some weird auditory hallucination brought on by too much adrenaline and not enough sleep.
It’s not.
I turn, and there he is.
Toby Winslow.
Another high school alum staring at me like I’m a puzzle he never managed to finish.
There’s a question burning behind his eyes that doesn’t quite hide how long he’s held onto something.
Some mix of hope, bitterness, and that old obsessive crush that never quite faded, just simmered quietly, waiting for a reason to bubble up.
Same wiry frame. Same windblown hair, like he lost a fight with a leaf blower. Tool belt slung low around his hips like he’s auditioning for a small-town thirst trap calendar that no one asked for. And that look, tight worry with something sharper under it.
It reads less “are you okay?” and more “why are you even here again?”
Great.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. Not warm. Not cold. Just… beige. “Didn’t know you were still working this side of town.”
He steps closer, fidgeting with the worn leather strap of his belt like it might give him something to hold onto.
“Yeah, well. Ford’s got me doing some repairs up on Harrow Lane.” He pauses, squints at me. “Heard about the fire.”
I nod slowly, trying not to flinch at the sound of Ford’s name. But it hits like a wire snapping inside my chest, and suddenly I’m too warm and too aware of the air against my skin; of the memory pressing down.
I can still feel Ford, his hands, his mouth, the way he said my name like it meant something. The way it filled me, as if my body had been carved out for him. I bite the inside of my cheek. Hard. Try to shove it all back down where it belongs.
“You alright?” Toby adds, like an afterthought. Or maybe like a test.
I swallow. “Peachy.”
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even twitch.
Just studies me like I’m a half-burned blueprint and he’s trying to find the flaw in the design.
“Seriously, Lo. That place looked rough.” His voice is too even. “You sure you don’t need someone to come by? Check the damage? I could look at the wiring. Maybe board up the window, just until you’re settled.”
I blink at him. He sounds… concerned. Genuinely. Which would be fine if he weren’t also looking at me like I’m a stray dog that might bite if he gets too close.
Or maybe like he wants to take me home and feed me with the hope I’ll imprint.
“I’ll think about it,” I say finally. Code for “no thanks, but I’m too tired to argue.”
He nods. Slowly. Hesitant. Like he knows what I really meant and wants to pretend he doesn’t.
“Right,” he says, shifting his weight back onto one heel. “Just… let me know. It’s not charity. I’d do it for anyone.”
“Yeah, I know.” I smile, thin and dry. “I appreciate it.”
But he doesn’t move. Not really. He nods, but his eyes stay fixed on mine, too direct for comfort.
“Okay, well,” he mutters as he lingers too long for comfort. “Just let me know. Sooner rather than later.”
Something tightens in my throat. The way he says it, like a warning. Or a reminder that he’s waiting for me. Always has been.
My emotions are raw, fraying at the edges, and every word Toby speaks feels like a reminder of everything I’m trying to outrun.
It’s Omega instinct, the part of me that craves connection even when I want to push it all away.
My chest tightens. I try to swallow past the lump in my throat, but the ache doesn’t go away.
Does he know about Ford?
Does the whole damn town?
God.
I really do need to get out of here.
But where would I go? What now? Honeysuckle Grove isn’t the only wreckage I’m tiptoeing through, and I’m not exactly eager to run headfirst into the next disaster waiting outside its borders.
“You staying long?” Toby asks suddenly, like he’s just been waiting for the silence to crack open.
I blink. “Does it matter?”
His jaw twitches. “Maybe.”
He says it like I owe him something. But I don’t owe anyone in this town anything.
“I’ve got stuff to sort out,” I say carefully. “Not really planning the rest of my life from the porch.”
“You never did,” he mutters, not quite under his breath.
I raise a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugs, eyes skating past me. “Just… nothing. You were always looking for a way out, that’s all.”
And there it is.
That old wound. The one he never let scab over. The part of him that never forgave me for leaving. Or maybe for not picking him over Beck.
I shake my head softly to pull myself out of the recesses of my mind. “Look, Toby… now’s not really the time for this.”
“I’m just saying,” he says quickly, palms up. “You don’t have to keep pretending you don’t need help. Not with everything going on. Not after the accident. And now the fire? That’s a lot, Lo.”
Yeah.
Tell me something I don’t know.
But the worst part? The way he says it almost sounds like he cares. Like he means it. And that makes me want to scream more than anything else.
“I said I’ll think about it,” I repeat, sharper now.
He lifts both hands, backing off like he’s afraid I’ll bare teeth.
“Alright. Just… I’m around.”
Then he finally walks off.
And I finally breathe.
But it’s shallow, and it tastes like ash.