Chapter 25
JESS
Three even taps knock on my door, then silence.
Gotta be Rowan. Nobody else would knock like they’re measuring the damn doorframe.
I drag a hand through my hair, still half-asleep. “Yeah?”
The handle turns, and he steps in, tray balanced in one hand. “I made breakfast.”
Not words I expected from him. I sit up fast, blanket pulled to my chest. “You cooked?”
“Technically, yes.” He moves closer, the scent of coffee and warm batter following him. “Result may vary.”
He sets the tray down on my lap. Pancakes are stacked crooked, one a little charred at the edge, a mug of coffee that smells like heaven, and a folded napkin because, of course, he’d think of that.
“They’re not as round as Eli’s,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “but they’re edible.”
“They look perfect.” They don’t, but that’s not the point. It’s him standing here in sweats and a faded T-shirt, hair damp from a shower, trying.
He catches me watching. “Eat before it gets cold.”
“Yes, sir.” I cut a bite, still smiling when he snorts and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like smartass.
The first bite’s too buttery, a little dense, but I swear it tastes better than anything in my life. “Okay, architect. You can design pancakes.”
“Don’t start,” he warns, but the corner of his mouth lifts. “They’re structurally unstable.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to stay and supervise.”
He sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle the tray. When he reaches for one of the pancakes, his fingers brush mine—barely—and heat shoots straight up my arm. I know he feels it too because his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move away.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say quietly.
“I wanted to.”
That hits somewhere low. I take another bite just to have something to do. “You trying to spoil me?”
He leans in a fraction, voice dropping. “Trying to make sure you eat before I get distracted.”
I almost choke on coffee. “Rowan.”
“What?” he asks, but there’s amusement through it now.
I shove at his shoulder, making the tray wobble between us—too much air, too much heat.
He’s close enough that I can see the crescent scar tucked along his jaw, a pale mark that doesn’t fit the rest of him. Precise man, imperfect line.
My pulse stumbles. For a second, neither of us breathes.
Then I hear my own voice break the spell—
“Thanks for the breakfast,” I blurt, before I say something stupid like claim me, fuck me, bite me.
Because as much as I want this, wanting him feels like standing on glass…beautiful, but one wrong move and it all shatters.
If I let this happen, it stops being maybe. It becomes real.
And real has never stuck around for me. Not after Sabrina vanished. Not when Mom chose wine over her remaining daughter. Not when Dad buried himself at the office—or wherever the hell he actually goes—because looking at me reminded him of what he lost.
What if Rowan looks at me after and sees every flaw I’ve been hiding? What if he realizes I’m not worth the effort?
I swallow the thought, the fear, the want. All of it.
“Seriously,” I manage, forcing a smile that feels like it might crack my face. “Best pancakes ever.”
The lie tastes worse than any burnt pancake could.
He nods, and when I finish the last of the food and coffee, he takes the tray, leaving me alone.
I almost run after him—almost gamble everything on a maybe.
But the fear wins. It always does.
I press my palms against my eyes until colors burst behind them. This is what I do—find something good and burn it before it can burn me.
Sabrina used to laugh and call it my escape-hatch reflex. “Jess, not everyone’s going to disappear.”
But she did. And then everyone else followed.
What if they don’t want me, just an Omega who fits the slot in their pack dynamics? Any Omega would do. I’m just the one who happened to show up.
I spend the day in my room, unable to face any of them. Every time I hear footsteps in the hall, my body locks up. The knock doesn’t come.
Maybe they’re relieved I’m staying away. Maybe this morning confirmed what they suspected—I’m too much work for what I bring to the table.
When they tell me through my door that they’re going into town, I say I have a headache.
Cassian’s voice comes back muffled: “Need anything?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just need to sleep.”
The silence after feels like judgment. Or maybe that’s just the voice in my head of my mother after her third drink: Of course you’re alone. Who’d want to deal with you?”
Hours later, there’s a shuffle of something under my door.
I stare at it for a full minute before I can make myself move.
It’s a worn, used bookstore tote—the kind that’s been loved into softness—and several manga books from the series we watched at the movie theatre. Each one signed on the inside cover in three different handwritings.
Tell me what you think of the ending on Book 1 —Rowan
Figured you’d like this as much as you binged on popcorn during the movie —Cassian
The next volumes aren’t out yet, so you have to stick around. —Eli (with a tiny heart next to his name)
My throat burns. My eyes sting.
They went into town and thought of me. Not just one of them—all three. They could’ve given me space. Could’ve taken the hint that I’m pulling away and let me go.
Instead, they slid pieces of themselves under my door.
I push, and people let me go. That’s how it’s always gone. It’s cleaner that way. Hurts less when they inevitably leave.
But they’re not leaving.
I crawl under the blanket, clutching the books to my chest like they might evaporate if I don’t hold tight enough. My hands shake as I open the first volume.
I’m terrified.
Not of them leaving anymore. Of what happens if they stay.