1. The Return
The Return
~WILLA~
T he engine coughs its last breath just as I coast into what might generously be called downtown Sweetwater Falls.
Steam hisses from under the hood like an angry snake, and I white-knuckle the steering wheel as my ancient Honda lurches to a stop beside a weathered sign proclaiming:
"Welcome to Sweetwater Falls - Where Every Heart Finds Home ."
The irony isn't lost on me.
My hands are shaking— from exhaustion, from the adrenaline of nursing this dying car for the last fifty miles, from the knowledge that my bank account is gasping for air almost as desperately as this engine.
I sit there for a moment, forehead pressed against the steering wheel, breathing in the acrid smell of overheated metal and my own desperation.
The late afternoon sun beats through the windshield, turning the car into an oven, but I can't seem to make myself move. Moving means facing whatever comes next, and I'm so tired of “next” and world that doesn’t want to work in your favor.
So tired of running, of starting over, of pretending I'm stronger than I feel.
When I finally force myself out of the car, the door creaks in protest— or maybe sympathy.
The October air hits me like a slap, cooler than I expected, carrying the scent of woodsmoke that’s distinctly “small-town vibes” that makes my chest tight with a longing I can't afford.
Main Street stretches before me, all brick storefronts and American flags, pickup trucks angle-parked in front of a diner called Rosie's. It's picturesque in that aggressive way small towns have, like they're trying to prove something to the big cities that forgot them.
Then again, what would I know. I’ve only went to a few small towns in my life time and they weren’t as radiant and established as this…
My legs wobble as I pop the hood, though I know it's pointless. Black smoke billows out, making me cough—a harsh, rattling sound that reminds me my lungs still aren't right, might never be right again.
The joys of longterm smoke inhalation complications.
The engine block looks like it's been through a war and lost.
Just like everything else in my life lately.
I slam the hood down harder than necessary and grab my duffel bag from the backseat.
Everything I own fits in this bag now. The thought should probably depress me more than it does, but there's something almost freeing about traveling light when you're running from the heavy past that doesn’t want to let you go.
The Sweetwater Inn sits at the end of Main Street like a Victorian grandmother, all gingerbread trim and judgment.
My boots echo on the wooden porch, and I can already smell the problem before I see it— the lobby reeks of Alpha.
Not just one or two, but that concentrated territorial marking that says "pack-owned establishment. " My stomach clenches.
Great…let’s see if this is going to go “smoothly”.
The desk clerk looks up as I enter, her smile faltering when she catches my scent.
Omega.
Unmated Omega.
In a town this small, I might as well have "trouble" tattooed on my forehead.
"Good afternoon," she says, her voice pitched carefully neutral. "How can I help you?"
"I need a room." The words come out rougher than intended, my damaged lungs making me sound like I've been smoking for decades instead of just breathing smoke once. "Just for tonight. Maybe a few nights."
Her fingers hover over the keyboard.
"Are you... traveling alone?"
Here it comes.
"Yes."
"I see." She doesn't type anything. "Are you meeting someone here? Family perhaps? Or...?" She lets it hang, the universal small-town code for 'please tell me you have an Alpha waiting for you.'
"No. Just me." I set my bag down, trying to look less threatening, though how threatening can an exhausted Omega with fraying jeans and a shirt that's seen better days really look? "Look, I have cash. I can pay up front."
"It's not about payment." Her smile turns apologetic but firm. "It's hotel policy. We don't rent rooms to unmated Omegas traveling alone. For safety reasons, you understand."
Safety.
Right.
Whose safety, exactly?
"That's discrimination," I argue.
"That's small-town precaution."
A male voice comes from the office behind the desk. The Alpha who emerges is everything I've learned to fear—broad shoulders, possessive stance, the kind of casual authority that comes from never being told no.
"We run a family establishment here. Can't have unmated Omegas drawing the wrong kind of attention."
"I'm not looking for attention." My voice cracks on the last word. "I just need a place to sleep."
"Plenty of nice pack houses in town that take in strays," he says, and the word 'strays' hits like a physical blow. "Or maybe you should've thought about accommodations before coming to a respectable town alone."
The rage that floods me is familiar, almost comforting. It's easier than the fear, easier than the exhaustion.
"I didn't exactly plan for my car to break down here."
"Not our problem." He crosses his arms, biceps flexing in that deliberate way Alphas do when they want to remind you who's bigger. "No room for unmated Omegas. That's final."
I want to argue; to scream about rights and laws and basic human decency.
But I can see it in their faces—that particular blend of self-righteousness and willful ignorance that no amount of logic can penetrate. They've decided what I am based on my designation and lack of mate marks, and nothing I say will change that.
"Fine." I grab my bag, slinging it over my shoulder with more force than necessary. "Thanks for nothing."
The late afternoon sun seems harsher when I stumble back onto the porch, the cheerful Main Street scene now mocking in its normalcy. Other people go about their business—mated pairs, family packs, everyone belonging somewhere while I stand here with a broken car, empty pockets, and nowhere to go.
My phone shows three percent battery. No signal anyway. The car isn't going anywhere without a tow I can't afford. The hotel won't take me. And the sun is already starting its descent toward the mountains that ring this postcard-perfect town.
I've been in bad situations before, but this one— the totality of it, the careful cruelty of being turned away not for lack of money but lack of a mated pack —threatens to break something in me that's been holding on by threads.
The hotel door opens behind me, and I tense, ready for them to tell me to get off their porch too. But it's just another guest, an older Beta woman who gives me a sympathetic look before hurrying past.
Even she can smell it on me— the desperation, the alone-ness, the dangerous combination of Omega and unprotected.
I need a plan.
Need to think.
But all I can do is stand there, watching my broken car leak fluid onto Main Street while the town continues its peaceful existence around me, indifferent to another unmated Omega with nowhere to go.