Chapter 13
Coffee, Tears, And Chaos
~ROSEMARIE~
My heart is skipping wildly in my chest as I look up at this firefighter with his stunning hazel-green eyes.
I'm trying not to hold my breath—trying and failing miserably—as I watch him bring the mug to his lips. The latte art I spent so much careful effort on is about to be destroyed by the first sip, and somehow that feels secondary to the anticipation coiling tight in my stomach.
What if he hates it? What if I got the ratios wrong? What if the caramelization was too dark or the cardamom too strong or—
His scent is blanketing me, overwhelming in the best possible way.
Woodsmoke and pine needles and that sweet honey-maple undertone that makes me want to lean closer and breathe deeper.
His chest is lightly pressing against my back—I hadn't realized how close we were standing until this moment, his warmth seeping through the thin cotton of Tank's borrowed t-shirt like a wall of protection.
I should step away. I should put some distance between us, some professional boundary between the omega who made the coffee and the Alpha who's about to judge it. But I can't seem to make my feet move. Can't seem to convince my body that personal space is a concept worth respecting.
What is it with these men and their presence? Their ability to fill a room just by existing in it? To make the air feel thicker, heavier, charged with something electric?
He reminds me of the Alpha from the gym—the one who helped me when I was spiraling into that dark mental place, who noticed something was wrong before I even realized it myself. The one with the patchouli and vanilla and the kind green eyes that saw too much.
Different scent, different energy, but the same underlying quality. The same sense that here is an Alpha who pays attention. Who notices the small things. Who would never let someone struggle alone if he could help it.
The last three encounters with Alphas have been.
.. intriguing, to say the least. Tank at the mixer.
This firefighter, Elias, in the kitchen.
And before that, the Alpha at the gym. Three men who've made me feel something I haven't felt in longer than I can remember: safe.
Seen. Like maybe the world isn't entirely populated by people who want to use me or own me or trade me like property.
And now it turns out this firefighter knows Tank? Knows him well enough to walk into his house unannounced and tease him about never bringing anyone home?
What are the odds? What kind of cosmic game is fate playing right now?
Elias takes a sip.
I hold my breath.
He says nothing.
Oh no. Oh no, that's not good. Silence is never good. Silence means he's trying to figure out how to tell me it's terrible without hurting my feelings. Silence means I failed. Silence means—
He takes another sip.
Then another.
He's drinking slowly, deliberately, like he's trying to catch every single note in the creation.
The caramelized honey sweetness. The earthiness of the espresso.
The way the cardamom adds that subtle exotic warmth that most people miss entirely.
His eyes close as he swallows, and I watch his throat work, watch the way his expression shifts through something I can't quite identify.
Why isn't he saying anything? Is it that bad? Did I mess up the proportions? The cardamom can be overpowering if you're not careful, and maybe I was too confident, maybe I should have—
Nervousness floods through me, sudden and unexpected.
I'm usually confident with my creations.
I've spent years perfecting my craft, learning the science and the art, understanding how flavors interact and complement each other.
Competitions. Training programs. Hours spent practicing pours until my wrist ached and my eyes blurred. I know I'm good at this.
But having him quiet for this long, having him just... drinking without a single word of feedback... it's making me second-guess everything.
Maybe the honey burned too much. Maybe the oat milk wasn't frothed to the right consistency. Maybe the latte art was showing off when he just wanted a good cup of coffee.
He hates it. He definitely hates it. Why else would he be so quiet?
"Um..." I start, and my voice comes out stuttered, uncertain. So different from the confident challenge I threw at him just moments ago. "If it's not to your liking, I can make another one—"
His look makes me pause.
Because his eyes—those stunning hazel-green eyes that shift colors in the morning light—are glimmering. Shining with something wet and unmistakable.
Are those... tears?
"Oh my God!" I spin to face him fully, panic rising in my chest. "Are you crying? W-W-W-Why are you crying?!"
I've never seen an Alpha get teary-eyed.
Never. In my entire life, through all the Alphas I've known—my father, my brothers, my ex-pack, the countless men who've crossed my path—not a single one has ever shown this kind of vulnerability.
They're trained from birth to suppress it, to bury emotion beneath layers of machismo and dominance.
Crying is weakness. Crying is unacceptable.
Crying is something omegas do, not Alphas.
And yet this man—this firefighter chief with his easy smile and his warm scent and his ridiculous coffee order—is getting emotional. Over coffee. Over something I made.
He laughs at my panic—a wet sound, thick with emotion—and a single tear escapes down his cheek. He looks away quickly, swiping at it with the back of his hand like he's embarrassed to be caught showing feeling.
"Sorry," he says quietly, and there's no trace of the playful flirtation from before. Just raw honesty. "It's just... the only person who's ever been able to make a cup like this was my grandma."
Oh.
The word lands in my chest like a weight. Like a gift I wasn't expecting and don't know how to hold.
His grandmother. I just made something that reminded him of his grandmother. That's why he's crying—not because the coffee is bad, but because it's good. Because it brought back memories of someone he loved. Someone he lost.
He takes a breath, steadying himself, and when he looks back at me, his eyes are still shining but his smile is warm.
Genuine. The kind of smile that transforms his entire face into something softer, younger, more vulnerable than the charming firefighter who walked into this kitchen twenty minutes ago.
"She actually passed away," he continues, and his voice cracks slightly on the words. "A year ago yesterday."
A year ago yesterday. That's why he was visiting Tank this morning—not just because he couldn't reach him, but because he needed his pack. Needed to be around people who understood. Who remembered.
"I've been trying to act like it doesn't bother me," he admits, staring down at the mug in his hands like it holds answers instead of coffee.
"Like the anniversary isn't a big deal. But this.
.." He gestures vaguely, encompassing the drink, the kitchen, me.
"This brought back such amazing memories.
The way she'd make this exact order every Sunday morning.
The way the whole house would smell like cardamom and honey.
The way she'd sit at the kitchen table and tell me stories about when she was young. "
I feel something tight in my chest. Something that aches in sympathy for this man I barely know, who's sharing something so personal with me over a cup of coffee I made on a whim.
He sets the mug down carefully on the counter, like it's something precious, and meets my eyes again.
"She's the one who encouraged me to do what I'm passionate about," he says, and there's pride in his voice now.
Warmth. The kind of love that doesn't fade even when the person is gone.
"I'm pretty talented, actually. Could have been a well-known engineer—I had offers from firms that would have set me up for life.
The kind of offers that would have made my parents proud, made the family name mean something in circles that care about that stuff. "
He shrugs, and there's no regret in the gesture. Just acceptance. Peace.
"But I like being a firefighter. The thrill of putting my life on the line to save someone else's. It's satisfying in the oddest way. Knowing that at the end of a shift, you've actually done something. Made a difference. Been useful to someone who needed you in their worst moment."
He pauses, and the playful glint returns to his eyes—a defense mechanism, maybe, or just his natural tendency toward lightness.
"Similar to going to war, I guess," he adds with a wink, "but I don't fit the quota in the scary department. Not like Tank, obviously."
A low grumble comes from somewhere behind us.
"Now why am I being called scary in my own house?"
The voice is deep, familiar, and entirely too close. I spin around—and promptly feel all the blood in my body rush to my face.
Tank is standing in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame with the kind of casual grace that should be illegal this early in the morning.
He's shirtless. Completely shirtless. Just a pair of black boxer briefs slung low on his hips, leaving approximately ninety percent of his ridiculous body on full display.
And that body... oh God, that body...
He's all muscle—the kind that comes from years of disciplined training, not vanity workouts at a fancy gym.
His shoulders are impossibly broad, his chest carved with definition that makes my mouth go dry.
The tattoos I explored so thoroughly last night are on full display: intricate designs that wrap around his arms and climb across his pectorals, sacred symbols and geometric patterns that tell stories I haven't had time to learn yet.
But it's not the muscles or the ink that makes me want to melt into the floor and disappear forever.
I did a number on the poor man.