8. Sterling
STERLING
S unday is supposed to be relaxing. The day I prepare for the week, organize my lesson plans, and pretend like I have my life together like a competent adult.
You know, the whole “I’ve got this” routine.
Plus, I have to put something together for dinner tonight. I invited Daisy over to watch a movie.
I woke up this morning, threw my hair into a messy bun that’s more rumpled than styled, slid into my coziest socks, and wrapped myself up in my ancient, oversized sweatshirt that’s seen better days but feels like a hug from my grandma.
Coffee brewed—strong and dark, because I’m pretty sure it’s the only thing keeping me alive at this point. I lit a few candles and threw open the curtains to let the morning sun pour in, trying to trick myself into believing I’m one of those organized, sunlit people you see in magazines.
I settled down with my favorite chipped mug, my notebook, and the curriculum I’m supposed to be mastering. Because that’s what responsible teachers do, right? They have it all planned out. Perfect. Polished. Ready to mold young minds with precision and care.
The first month of school is supposed to be the most important.
Establishing routines, figuring out personalities, managing classroom dynamics.
It’s like laying the foundation of a house, only instead of bricks and mortar, you’ve got juice spills, scissor skills, and tiny hands that always seem to be sticky.
And this is my first real classroom. My own space. Even as a student teacher, it was always kindergarten that felt like home. That chaotic, messy sweetness. Their endless curiosity. It’s my sweet spot. My happy place.
But now, the first day is looming over me, and I feel like a total fraud. The curriculum in my lap looks like Greek. No—worse than Greek. It looks like an elaborate puzzle I’m somehow supposed to piece together when all I want to do is panic and throw it out the window.
So, I just keep staring at it. And staring at it. Waiting for inspiration to swoop in like some magical fairy godmother and sprinkle brilliance over my brain.
But nothing happens. I’m still just me, clutching my coffee and drowning in imposter syndrome.
I keep staring. And staring. And staring some more.
This should be a calm, peaceful moment before I step into the chaos of wrangling a classroom full of five-year-olds for the first time in Twilight Harbor. Instead…
It’s been five hours, and I’ve written exactly one lesson plan.
I can’t stop thinking about them.
I groan, throwing my pen and notepad onto the floor before plopping back onto my oversized couch. The plush cushions swallow me up, offering comfort I’m too restless to accept. My mind is a hamster wheel, spinning in circles, getting nowhere.
Alphas. Alphas. Alphas. Nope. Just—nope.
It took all of a few hours for me to completely humiliate myself, develop a crush, drown in awkwardness, and then, you know—almost actually drown.
And just when I thought the day couldn’t get any worse, I managed to get rejected before anything even got started by not one, but two of the most drop-dead gorgeous men I’ve ever laid eyes on. Because apparently, the universe likes to drive the knife in and twist.
To make matters worse, I woke up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, my heart pounding like it was trying to claw its way out of my chest. Another panic attack.
The dream hit me like a punch to the gut—unrelenting waves crashing over me, dragging me under, pulling me deeper and deeper until my lungs burned and my vision blurred. Drowning in my dreams felt no less terrifying than almost drowning in real life.
I let out a huge, shuddering sigh, trying to force my brain and body to sync up, to just relax. But my nerves are still stretched thin. Every time I close my eyes, I’m back there—flailing in the icy water, darkness pressing in from all sides.
And when I’m not reliving that nightmare, my mind insists on circling back to JP’s rejection, Cass’s distance, and the undeniable heat that flared between us before they pulled away.
I’m a mess. And I really, really need to get it together.
I let my gaze drift around my small house, looking for something—anything—to distract me.
The kitchen is cozy, which is a really nice way of saying microscopic but functional, and opens up into my equally cozy living room.
I’ve unpacked most of the things I brought with me from Kansas and made the space mine. I found the rental on one of those house apps and rented it sight unseen. But it turned out okay. I really like my little house. A 1930’s bungalow with all the vintage charm I was hoping for.
And yet?—
Today, it just feels off like something is missing. I press my hands to both of my cheeks, exasperated.
One of the worst..or best parts of Omega biology is our need for cozy. Me and cozy have a definite hate-love relationship. I can’t settle if my home doesn’t feel right. It’s like an itch under my skin, a persistent, gnawing sense of discomfort that won’t leave me alone. Great. Just great.
Maybe if I finish unpacking, I’ll feel better. There are still a few boxes I haven’t touched yet—mostly sentimental knickknacks from my old apartment.
I head to my bedroom closet and open the door?—
And I am almost knocked over by the scent that hits me.
Thick. Rich. Delicious.
I’m instantly aroused. Like, full-body, stomach-plummeting, thighs-clenching, slick-soaking-my-underwear aroused.
I groan, standing there like an absolute idiot. Heat pools low in my belly, spreading like molten honey, slow and inescapable.
Oh, come on. Seriously?!
I don’t have to look. I already know what it is. The jacket and sweatshirt. The ones I shoved in there last night after I got home, desperate for distance, for space from the day, from them, from everything.
Their scent is just as strong now as it was then—maybe stronger. Dark and electric, JP and Cass, mixed up and tangled until my brain doesn’t know what to do with itself.
And my Omega is practically purring, rolling over like a needy kitten at the faintest hint of them. Because of course she is. Because of course their scent would worm its way into my head and my hormones and my everything.
God, I hate Alphas. And I really, really hate how much I want them.
I should have washed the clothes. Marched right out to the garage and tossed them in the machine first thing. Scrubbed away every trace of their scent until it was nothing but clean cotton and detergent.
But I didn’t.
Couldn’t, actually.
My Omega wouldn’t let me. The moment I even thought about throwing them in the wash, something primal and possessive flared up inside me, digging in its heels and refusing to budge. Some stubborn little beast wrapped around my chest, snarling at the mere idea of erasing their scent.
It was ridiculous. Irrational. But no matter how hard I tried to force myself, I couldn’t do it. Instead, I’d shoved them in the closet like hiding them was somehow better.
Now, their scent has settled into the fabric of all the clothes in my closet. I groan, pressing my forehead against the doorframe, hating myself.
This has never happened before.
I’ve been on suppressants for so long that I sometimes forget I’m an Omega.
I have never reacted like this to an Alpha before. Not even my old boyfriend made me slick from his scent alone. Apparently, these two are the exceptions to all my rules.
I envy Betas.
Betas don’t have to worry about their bodies betraying them, about their perfume giving them away when an Alpha smells too damn good. Betas can just…exist.
Meanwhile, I’m standing here, wet from nothing more than a goddamn sweatshirt. I bend down and pick up Cass’s sweatshirt and JP’s coat and I press them to my nose, breathing them in like they hold something I desperately need.
A slow, deep inhale. Their scent wraps around me like a living thing, curling around my senses, seeping under my skin until it’s all I can feel.
I shudder.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Guilt flares hot and sharp. I shouldn’t be doing this. I have no right to want them. No right to crave their scent, even though it feels as if it’s the only thing that makes me steady.
But I can’t stop myself.
The thought sneaks in before I can shove it away—what would they smell like in my nest?
Like a lunatic, I turn to where my nest takes up a large portion of the small room.
It consists of a cozy low mattress, several warm knit blankets in rich earthy tones, and a down comforter I ordered as soon as I got to Twilight Harbor.
Mountains of pillows and pretty twinkle lights that wrap around the walls.
Pretty simple by nest standards, but it feels just right to me.
I weave Cass’s sweatshirt and JP’s jacket into the pillows, tucking them close like they belong there. And then, without thinking, I curl up in the middle of it.
The warmth envelops me instantly. Their scents wrap around me, melding with the softness of my own. It feels safe. Protected.
Home.
I press my cheek against the pillow, rolling just enough to sink deeper, feeling something settle inside me. My eyes close, my thoughts easing for the first time since I hit the water.
I fall asleep surrounded by their scents.