Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mia
By the time Eli leaves my porch, the air in the hallway goes thin and cold.
I lock the back door and lean against the cool wood. My skin still hums from the warmth of the pack house. My hair still smells like their nest. And my fridge, when I open it, is full of solitary ingredients for one.
“Get it together, Mia,” I whisper to the empty kitchen.
I make tea. I don’t drink it.
Instead, I wander into the living room and stare at my laptop bag, but I don’t open it. I spent all afternoon pretending to work while surrounded by them. Now that I actually have the quiet I claimed I needed, my brain refuses to focus.
I slept in their nest.
With Eli.
Every time I close my eyes, I’m back there. The weight of the blankets. The scent of oats and dark chocolate. The feeling of being completely, utterly safe.
I grab a pillow from my couch, and hug it to my chest.
It’s going to be a long weekend.
Sunday
I wake up in the exact center of my mattress. My room is dry, untouched by the plumbing catastrophe downstairs, but the space feels cold. My queen-sized bed feels like a deserted island.
Sunlight streams through the window, way too aggressive and cheerful. I can hear them next door. Faint laughter from the backyard. The dull thud of something heavy being moved.
I should close the window. Instead, I lie there and listen like a creep.
This is pathetic.
I force myself up. I shower. I scrub my skin until it smells like my own scent mixed with vanilla body wash and not like Pack Traynor. It doesn’t help.
I make coffee. I need coffee. I make it the way I always do, but when I take the first sip, it tastes flat. I dump it down the sink.
I try to work. I really do. I set up my laptop at the kitchen table, pull up the article I’m supposed to be editing, and stare at the screen.
Twenty minutes pass. I haven’t read a single word.
My brain keeps replaying Friday. The way Eli found me in the wet grass.
The way Rhys just decided I was staying.
The way the nest felt…safe and warm and right in a way that terrifies me.
I snap the laptop shut, accepting defeat. Cooking feels like a hurdle I can’t clear today, so I order takeout instead. When the driver drops it on my porch, I peek through the curtains to ensure the coast is clear before opening the door.
I eat tikka masala wrapped in a blanket, while standing in the kitchen pretending I’m not listening for sounds from next door. The silence in my house is oppressive. Every creak, every settling sound reminds me that I’m alone.
My omega whines softly, a pitiful sound that makes my belly drop.
“We’re fine,” I whisper to the empty room. But the lie makes the tikka masala taste bitter.
I’m opening the window to let some air in when I hear a knock on my door.
My heart immediately leaps into my throat.
I briefly consider pretending I’ve fled the country, but my car is parked right there in the driveway. I sigh, smooth down my shirt, and pull the door wide open.
Declan is standing on my porch, holding a covered dish.
His grin is immediate and devastating. “Hey, neighbor. Eli made too much lasagna. Thought you might want some.”
“I—” My brain short-circuits. “That’s really nice, but—”
“It’s just lasagna, Mia.” He leans a shoulder against the doorframe, looking entirely harmless. “Not a marriage proposal. Though if you want one of those, I’m sure we could arrange something.”
My face could warm the Arctic.
He laughs. “Kidding. Mostly. Anyway.” He holds out the dish. “Eat. Don’t eat. Your call. But Eli will ask me if I delivered it, and I’d like to be able to say yes.”
When I reach out and take the dish, it’s still warm.
“Thanks,” I manage.
“Anytime.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “You doing okay? After the flood?”
“Yeah. Fine. Just keeping the windows open and stuff.”
“If you need to crash at ours, just say the word.”
“I’m good,” I say quickly. “But thank you.”
He studies me for a second, then nods. “Okay. Well. Enjoy the lasagna. Eli’s a good cook. Don’t let the beta thing fool you; he’s got Italian grandmother energy.”
I huff a laugh despite myself.
Declan grins, waves, and heads back to 126.
I close the door and lean against it, clutching the lasagna. This is a problem. A delicious, warm problem that haunts me for the rest of the weekend.
Monday
New week. Fresh start. I’m going to work, avoid the pack, and get my life back on track.
I make coffee. I sit at my ‘desk’. I open my laptop.
I write three sentences, delete two, and stare at the blinking cursor for fifteen minutes. That’s when my phone buzzes.
Sierra: You’ve been radio silent for days. Are you alive or did the hot neighbors finally kidnap you?
I stare at the message.
The problem is, captivity is starting to sound appealing.
Me: Are you free this week? Need to debrief in person.
Her response is immediate.
Sierra: FINALLY. Tuesday, 2pm, Waterside Coffee. Don’t be late.
I set my phone down and exhale.
Okay.
Tomorrow, I’ll talk to Sierra.
Tomorrow, I’ll figure out what the hell I’m doing.
Today, I’m just going to survive.
I’m about to give up on writing, when another knock rattles my front door. I freeze. If it’s Declan with more food, I’m going to have to admit I’m enjoying the service. But when I creep to the peephole, I’m surprised to see the person standing there.
It’s Tom.
Surprised, I unlock the door and pull it open. “Hi, Tom.”
“Hey, kiddo.” He’s holding Mala’s leash, looking concerned. “Heard you had a bad water leak the other day.”
My eyebrows shoot up and he gives me a good-natured smile. “I use the same plumber. Anyway, you holding up okay?”
“I’m surviving,” I say, leaning against the doorframe. “Just waiting for the landlord to actually fix the damage. Right now it’s just a lot of damp drywall and stress.”
He nods sympathetically. “Rough. Let me know if you need anything. Carol’s already been curious about the plumber’s van, but I told her to mind her own business.”
I smile, genuinely this time. “Thanks, Tom.”
“Actually, that reminds me.” He shifts his hold on the leash. “Quarterly Neighborhood Watch meeting is this Thursday. Seven o’clock at my place. You should come.”
“Oh. I—”
“It’s good to show face,” he interrupts gently. “Especially with the new folks next door stirring everyone up. Might be good to have some allies in the room.” He winks. “Plus, Sarah’s bringing her cobbler.”
“Sold,” I say, because cobbler is worth enduring Carol.
“Good.” He pats the doorframe. “Thursday. Seven. You don’t want to miss it.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I promise. And I mean it.
I close the door, already mentally picking out an outfit that says responsible, engaged neighbor. It’s the perfect end to the afternoon, ruined only slightly when the property manager’s repair guy shows up at five.
He inspects the back hallway, and declares it “good enough for now.” He sets up some industrial sized fans and dehumidifiers to help get rid of the last of the damp and says they’ll need to repaint eventually, but the structure is sound.
At least, that’s good news.
I force myself to make dinner and eat at the kitchen table, chewing in a silence that rings in my ears. I wash the dishes, wipe the counters, and fold the throw blanket just to keep my hands busy. The house is clean. It’s quiet. It’s perfectly normal. And I absolutely hate it.
When I climb into bed that night, fresh sheets and fluffed pillows, I end up staring at the ceiling.
It doesn’t smell like them.
My omega whines.
I pull the blanket over my head and try not to think about how much I miss a nest I only slept in once.