Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Wren
What the hell?
The voice cuts through my haze, sharp and horrified.
I blink, my eyes burning from dryness, from crying, from nothing at all. I look up, and the world comes back in jarring pieces.
The bathroom tile. The sticky towel bunched under my hips. My vibrator—long dead—still beside me. My hand is between my thighs. The broken gasping rhythm I haven’t been able to stop. Tears were still leaking out of the corners of my eyes.
And then—Rob. Standing in the doorway. Mouth parted. Shock and disgust written across every line of his face.
He doesn’t speak again.
I whisper, “Help me.”
My voice is hoarse. I don’t even sound human.
He steps in carefully, crouches, and grabs the bottle on the sink. He shakes it. Empty. He exhales sharply and looks at me like I’m a problem he doesn’t know how to solve.
“I’ll take you to the hospital,” he says, already moving to grab a blanket off the bed.
I nod, or try to. But I can’t lift my arms. I’m so stiff. Like everything inside me has been wrung out and tied in knots. The slick between my thighs is cold now. My pulse is thready and weak.
He wraps the blanket around me and lifts me—gently, but without looking directly at my face.
Everything blurs from there.
The hospital is white noise. A nurse with firm hands. An IV needle. The cool press of something against my forehead. Beeping machines. Murmured questions.
I can’t form the answers. I feel myself float. Then drop. Then float again.
And then—nothing.
I wake up slowly, as if climbing up from the bottom of a lake.
The light is softer now. Dimmer. Somewhere past dawn. The blanket smells like antiseptic. I can feel the IV still taped to my hand.
Rob is there. Slumped in the chair beside my bed, scrolling through his phone.
He glances up. “Hey.”
I close my eyes again. “How long…?”
“About fifteen hours. They gave you a sedative.”
I try to sit up, but my limbs feel like sandbags.
He shifts forward, hesitating. “I called your mom and told her you’d been admitted. She asked that you call her back as soon as you woke up.”
My stomach knots. “You shouldn’t have told her. You know I don’t like worrying her.”
He lifts his hands. “I was just trying to do the right thing.”
“Yeah, but you know how stressed she gets. You shouldn’t have called her.”
He runs a hand through his hair, a clear sign that he’s getting agitated. “She’s your emergency contact, for fuck’s sake.”
“Still. God, Rob!” I close my eyes again. I don’t want to argue with him. I don’t want to talk to her. I don’t want to talk to anyone. But if I don’t call her now, she’ll keep stressing. “Please pass me my phone.”
Rob hands it to me, and I dial the number. It only rings once.
“Oh, baby.” My mother’s voice is too soft, too careful. “Are you okay? We were so worried. Rob told us you were sedated?”
“Yeah, but it was just a slight heat spiral. I’m okay now, Mom.”
“You know, when my suppressant schedule got thrown off during that hurricane trip, I nearly ended up in the ER. I get it… but are you sure you are okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“You don’t sound fine.”
“I’m tired.”
She sighs. “Well, your father wants to say something. Hold on.”
Of course he does.
“Wren,” his gruff voice says.
“Hi, Dad.”
“You’re twenty-four. You should have this handled.”
The shame spikes. Instant. Familiar. “I’m sorry.”
He snorts. “Anyway. We found some of your grandmother’s cookbooks while cleaning the café. Thought we’d mail them over.”
I sit up straighter. “You were cleaning the café?”
“Oh. Didn’t your mother tell you? We’re finally letting go of it. Too much upkeep. Some buyers want to turn it into a boutique gym. Real polished concept.”
The blood drains from my face.
“You’re selling The Fox and Fern?”
“Well, yes. We figured it was time. The roof’s a mess, and we’re planning to take that retirement cruise—”
“No. Please, don’t sell it. Just wait. I’ll come home. I can fix it. Maybe… maybe I’ll run it.”
Silence on the line. Then, from my mother: “What about your job?”
I hesitate. There’s no way I’m explaining the Everhart debacle. “I was fired.”
“Typical,” my father mutters.
I squeeze the bridge of my nose, trying to stay calm.
“Maybe,” my mother says, brightening, “you could do something with the café. With your design background. Make the most of the space.”
My throat tightens. “Yeah. Maybe.”
The call ends soon after. When I set the phone down, I feel Rob watching me.
I glance up. “I can’t believe you called them.”
He rubs his jaw. “I didn’t know what else to do. I came back to apologize, and then I found you like… that.”
“Like what?”
“Like…” He gestures vaguely. “Desperate.”
The word stings.
“I wasn’t trying to make a scene,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says, but his voice is brittle. “I just… I’m a Beta, Wren. I’ve never dated an Omega, not like you. I didn’t know it could get like that. Honestly, it scared the hell out of me.”
I nod slowly.
“And maybe…” He swallows. “Maybe we should take a break. Figure ourselves out. You’ve been different for a while. I think we’ve both felt it.”
I say nothing.
Two days later, I pack my things.
I leave the keys on the counter. Take Pancake in his carrier. Swallow my suppressants with coffee in a to-go mug. I don’t say goodbye.
I just drive.
The air changes the moment I leave the interstate. Oregon smells different—damp earth and pine needles. I roll down the window.
Pancake grumbles from the seat beside me, then quiets when he catches a whiff of something green.
By the time I turn off the winding county road and cross the old wooden bridge into Fox Hollow, my heart is pounding.
Not from fear. From recognition.
The town hasn’t changed much. The old gas station still has hand-painted signage. The streetlights glow a little too orange at dusk.
I drive slowly through downtown, past the bakery, the smokehouse, the crooked rows of cottages with sagging porches and flowerbeds.
And then I see it.
The Fox and Fern Café.
My grandmother’s place.
The lace curtains are still in the windows. The sign is faded but still intact. The paint is peeling. The mailbox leans slightly left.
I pull up and park across the street, hands clenched on the steering wheel. Pancake stretches in his carrier and yawns.
I stare out the windshield, taking in the bones of the café.
And all I can feel is wreckage.
Wreckage under my sweater. Behind my ribs. In the hollow ache between my thighs. I’m a mess in designer denim and old mascara, showing up like a ghost in my own life.
But I’m here.
And this—this café—is the only place that ever really felt like home.
The key turns after a bit of resistance. It smells like rust, and for a second, I think I’ve broken it, but then the old wooden door groans open and I’m inside.
The Fox and Fern Café hasn’t changed.
Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
Dust clings to the shelves and counter like a second skin. The old display case still sits beneath the front window, streaked with age.
The chalkboard menu is half-erased, the ghost of my grandmother’s writing still visible—“Tuesday: Peach Cobbler Muffins” scrawled in faded pink chalk.
My chest tightens.
I remember being six, perched on the counter, swinging my legs while Grandma made cinnamon buns, her hands always coated in flour. “Happy music makes sweet icing,” she used to say.
I blink hard. I’m not here to cry.
The bell above the door jingles again, and I jump.
“Wren?”
I turn, and there she is.
My mother.
Her unruly copper-red hair is somewhat tamed into a crooked bun, curls escaping in every direction like it’s been trying to run from her all morning. Moss-green eyes land on me, slightly squinted with surprise.
She’s still wearing her gardening apron—smudged, a little stained, probably from potting soil or the tomato vines in the back porch greenhouse.
“I saw Lori from the post office,” she says, stepping inside. “She mentioned she saw your car. And you know how that goes.” She waves a hand like it explains everything.
“Fox Hollow’s own broadcast network,” I murmur.
She grins, but it falters as she takes me in. “You look… tired.”
I don’t answer that.
Her gaze softens. “We were just talking about you. The Harvest Festival committee met earlier this week. Flyers went up in the square.” She gestures vaguely. “Pack Built Construction’s sponsoring the setup this year. You remember them, right? Willa’s son runs it now.”
“Isn’t the festival in October?”
She shrugs. “Only three months away. And you know how serious people get about the pie contest.”
I look around the café again. “This place looks almost the same.”
“Of course,” she says. “We haven’t touched it since. Come on, let’s go home for now. There’s still tea, and I made scones this morning.”
The word “home” tastes strange.
I follow her out anyway.
The house hasn’t changed either.
It’s still pale blue with white trim and an overgrown garden of sunflowers reaching too high for the season. The porch swing creaks when I climb the steps.
Inside, everything hits at once.
Photos line the walls—some of me as a child, some of my parents smiling with hollow eyes, pretending things were better than they were.
I spot Grandma and me at the Harvest Festival when I was ten. She’s got flour on her cheeks, and I’m holding a first-place ribbon like it’s sacred.
My father is in the kitchen, wearing the same cardigan he always wears when he’s irritated. He glances up from his crossword.
Pancake trots in behind me, tail flicking.
My dad clears his throat. “You brought the cat?”
“He lives with me,” I say flatly.
“You know I’m allergic.”
Pancake meows with the enthusiasm of someone who knows exactly what kind of man my father is.
“I can put him in my bedroom,” I say, kneeling to pick my cat up.
This could also be an excuse for me to take a break for a couple of minutes. I’m exhausted after hours of driving.
My mother’s voice is too bright. “Oh, honey! We converted your bedroom into the sewing room, remember?”
Right. The sewing room. Where she does crafts she never finishes.
That means I have no place to sleep tonight.
“Oh! I forgot,” I whisper. “If it’s okay, I think I need to freshen up. Is the motel by the bookstore still open? I should get myself a room.”
I’m already backing toward the door.
“You could stay above the café,” she offers. “It hasn’t been used in a while, but the space is still there.”
I nod. My grandmother’s house. “That sounds better.”
She watches me for a long beat, then steps forward and hugs me. It’s brief and loose, more habit than warmth.
“Welcome home, sweetheart.”
I don’t say anything.
All I can think is that Grandma should be here.
They leave three days later.
Still excited about the cruise. Still talking over me. My dad tries to hide his relief. My mom leaves a list of numbers for emergencies and asks if I’ll be okay. I lie and say yes.
I haven’t heard from Rob. Not a call. Not a text. Nothing. I try not to care, throwing myself into the kitchen instead.
It’s worse than I thought.
The grease trap is clogged. The mixer is busted. There are mouse droppings in the corner of the pantry, and the fridge hums like it’s choking on its last breath.
But I’m here.
So, I scrub.
I clear the counters, wash everything twice, and chase Pancake off the prep tables.
“Get down,” I snap when he leaps onto the metal counter. “That’s not for you.”
He ignores me, grooming his paw with elegant disdain.
I attempt to make a batch of Grandma’s muffins—apple-cinnamon, the way she used to make them. The recipe’s in her old tin box, tucked behind flour-stained index cards.
The first attempt is a disaster.
The batter’s too thick. I forgot to preheat the oven. Pancake yowls and knocks a canister of sugar off the shelf in protest.
“Great,” I mutter, sweeping it up. “You’re a menace.”
When I try the second time, I decide to make coffee alongside it.
That’s when things go south.
The ancient espresso machine makes a grinding noise. I should stop. I know I should stop.
But I don’t.
I flip the switch again and smell something burning.
The back of the machine lets out a hiss. Then a pop.
Then smoke.
“Shit—shit—no, no, no.” I scramble to unplug it, but the outlet sparks.
The back wall near the breaker starts to glow.
“Pancake!” I scream.
The fire alarm wails.
Smoke fills the room like cotton stuffing, thick and choking. I grab a nearby towel and throw it at the small flame, but it does nothing.
The fire extinguisher—where the hell is it?
I rip open the old cabinet near the door and grab it, nearly dropping it in panic. I don’t even know if it still works, but I yank the pin and aim.
The chemical blast is loud. White foam coats the wall. My ears ring from the alarm. Pancake darts out the open door, tail puffed.
I fall onto my knees, coughing.
The muffins are ruined. My sweater’s soaked with sweat. And the café smells like burned coffee and bitter humiliation.
I sit there, foam everywhere, blinking through the haze.
This was a mistake.
Maybe I’m too broken to fix anything.
Maybe the café is just as wrecked as I am.