Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Levi
The little brass bell above Miss Thea’s door jingles when I step inside, the familiar smell of dried herbs and polished wood hitting me right away. The shop is warm, lit by the soft, golden glow of lamps, and shelves are stacked high with jars, bundles, and little bottles of tinctures.
“Levi Maddox,” Miss Thea says from behind the counter, peering at me over her glasses. She’s wearing one of her long skirts, the kind that brushes the floor, and a shawl with embroidered roses. “It’s been too long.”
“Evening, Miss Thea.” I grin, tugging off my cap and shaking off the chill. “Ma asked me to pick up her tea. You know the list.”
Her eyes twinkle. “She always does. And I always keep them ready, because I know you’ll be late picking them up.”
I chuckle, leaning on the counter while she disappears into the back. The shelves are filled with dried lavender, peppermint bundles, and sage sticks tied in neat twine.
She returns with a small paper bag, neatly folded at the top, and hands it over.
“Chamomile for her sleep, ginger for her digestion, peppermint because she says it makes her house smell fresh. And—” She reaches into her apron pocket, pulls out a tiny packet.
“This is for you. Boneset tea. For your long shifts. Keeps the body from locking up.”
“Thank you.” I take it, surprised. “How much do I owe you?”
She waves me off. “You keep saving lives, Levi. That’s payment enough.”
I know better than to argue with Miss Thea, so I nod, tuck the bag under my arm, and head back out into the evening air.
The Maddox house sits on the edge of town, white clapboard with a wraparound porch and shutters, which my father painted hunter green years ago. The lights are already on when I pull up, the smell of roasted chicken and rosemary spilling out the open kitchen windows.
Inside, the warmth hits me immediately. My mother is at the stove, apron tied tight, gray streaks in her dark hair catching the light.
My father is setting the table, his movements slow but steady, the limp in his right leg noticeable from the years he spent in construction before retirement.
“Levi!” my mom exclaims, turning with a wooden spoon in her hand. “Look at you. Too skinny. Are you eating?”
I roll my eyes, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “Hi, Ma.”
She swats me lightly with the spoon, then fusses with my hair like I’m still sixteen.
“Busy,” I answer her unspoken question as I hand her the bag from Miss Thea. “Long shifts. That’s all.”
“Sure, son,” my dad mutters from the table, his voice dry as sandpaper.
My mother shoots him a look. “Hush now, Thomas. Let the boy breathe.”
I grin at my dad. He’s wiry, his beard gone mostly white, but his blue eyes are still sharp with humor. “Hi, Dad.”
“Wash your hands before you sit,” Ma orders, pointing at the sink.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Dinner consists of roasted chicken, potatoes with butter and parsley, and green beans tossed with garlic. The kind of meal you can’t get in a takeout box, no matter how good the diner is.
“How’s the paramedic work treating you?” Dad asks once we’re settled, his hands steady as he carves the chicken.
I shrug. “Busy. We’ve had more calls this season than usual. A couple of fires, more traffic accidents than I’d like. And you?” I nod at him, meaning retirement.
He grunts. “I miss the work. Not the early mornings. Or the bad knees.”
Mom pats his hand. “We’re doing fine. We’ve been seeing more of Tessa, though. She called us last week.”
“I miss her,” I admit. “Haven’t had a chance to visit in months.”
“She misses you too.” Mom’s voice softens. “We should all plan to go see her. I don’t like the idea of her alone in that big university.”
“She’s not alone, Mom. She seems to be making friends, or at least that’s what she told me.”
“We should still visit more,” my mother counters.
I smile, guilt twisting in my chest. She’s right. I should go.
My phone chimes just then, the vibration rattling against the table. I glance down.
It takes me half a second to register the name at the top of the screen: Wren. She’s texting the group chat.
The first text from her since everything.
Hi. I know this is last-minute, but I was wondering if you could help me with a pop-up at Norah’s flower shop, in two days.
My stomach flips.
Beau replies almost instantly: You got it, sweetheart. Just tell me what time.
Simon follows: Of course. Happy to help. Just let us know what you need.
I stare at the screen a second longer, pulse loud in my ears, before I type: I’ll be there. Looking forward to it.
Almost immediately, Simon sends another message on our private group chat: Can we all meet for drinks tonight? Need to talk.
I don’t reply yet, sliding my phone face down on the table.
“What’s that smile for?” Mom asks, eyeing me like a hawk.
“Nothing,” I say too quickly.
Dad snorts. “Rumors say otherwise.”
My fork stills mid-air. “Rumors?”
Mom and Dad exchange a look.
“You haven’t heard?” she asks carefully.
“Heard what?”
“That people are saying you’re seeing that new Omega. The one who opened the café.”
My chest tightens. “Wren?”
Dad shrugs. “Small town. Word gets around. People connect dots.”
Mom leans in, curious. “Is it true?”
I scrub a hand over my jaw. “It’s complicated.”
“That sounds like a yes,” Dad mutters.
“Dad.”
He smirks, but his eyes are warm. “You’re at an age where complicated just means you don’t want to admit you’re in deep.”
I laugh. “I’m thirty-four, not fifty. I’ve got time.”
“You were wild as a kid,” he reminds me. “Always running, always chasing. Thought you’d never settle. But your mother and I—we met in high school. Decided on each other and never looked back.”
Mom smiles, the lines around her eyes deepening. “Love doesn’t wait for the perfect age, Levi. It just happens.”
I shake my head, chuckling. “Not everyone’s wired like that.”
“Maybe not.” Dad shrugs, spearing a potato. “But don’t be so sure it can’t happen to you.”
I don’t answer because the image of Wren’s green eyes won’t leave my head. The memory of her hair tangled in my fingers, her voice breaking on my name. She hasn’t texted once in a week, and now—now she asks us for help.
I make a show of taking a bite of my food. “Dinner’s good, Ma.”
She smiles knowingly but lets me change the subject.
After we eat, I help clear the table, washing dishes while my parents bicker about whether the faucet’s dripping more than usual.
My phone buzzes on the counter. Simon again, pressing about drinks.
I text back: Yeah. I’ll come by after I’m done here.
Because whatever this thing is with Wren—rumors, pop-ups, pack chats—it’s not going away. And I need to face it with them, together.
I dry the last plate, listening to my mom hum in the living room, my dad muttering about a leaky pipe. The house feels warm, steady, safe.
If I ever settle down, will it be with Wren? Will it be just as great?
When I push the door open, the low hum of voices hits me, the scent of charred ribs and hickory smoke threading through. I spot them immediately.
Beau’s in his usual jeans and a worn Henley, hair shoved back like he barely bothered, his stance loose but his focus sharp on the board. Simon’s beside him, sleeves rolled up, glasses catching the light, jaw tight like even a casual game requires surgical precision.
Beau lets his dart fly. It lands a good three inches off the bullseye. He curses, grabs his beer, and turns just as he notices me.
“Well, look who finally decided to show,” he drawls, grin tugging his mouth.
Simon glances at me over his shoulder, pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and nods. “Evening.”
“Evening,” I return, lifting the paper bag in my hand. “Brought something.”
Beau eyes it suspiciously. “What’s that?”
“My mother insisted I don’t come empty-handed.” I drop into the chair nearest their little table. “Her lemon bars. And apple turnovers. Said the two of you look like you need feeding.”
Beau brightens instantly. “God bless your mother.” He snatches the bag, tearing it open like he hasn’t eaten in days.
Simon gives me a look that’s part gratitude, part long-suffering patience, before quietly helping himself to a turnover. “Tell her thank you.”
“I’ll let her know.” I take the empty stool, signaling the waitress for a whiskey. “She’ll be pleased.”
We linger at the dartboard a little longer. I play a round, land closer to the bullseye than Beau ever managed, and he curses me for it. Simon, of course, nails the center on his first throw and then pretends it was nothing.
Eventually, we migrate to one of the booths, red leather cracked in places, wood table scarred with initials carved by kids who thought they’d last forever.
Beers line the table; Beau’s already halfway through his second. Simon’s nursing a whiskey neat, and I take a long pull from mine, the burn steadying me.
Beau’s the one to break the silence, tapping his phone against the table. “So. The pop-up.”
“Yeah.” I glance at him. “What exactly does she mean by a booth?”
He shrugs. “Could be a booth to set up food. Could be like… a booth-booth. A table. Hell if I know.”
Simon sighs, precise even in frustration. “We should just ask her. Calling would clarify.”
“You call her, then,” Beau shoots back, smirking. “You’re the one she asked for at the clinic.”
My brows rise. “Clinic?”
Simon’s jaw ticks. He sets his glass down. “She came in. Had some scrapes. Asked for me specifically.”
Beau whistles low.
“Don’t start.” Simon leans back against the booth. “She needed a check-up. I did my job.”
The silence stretches just long enough that Beau can’t help himself. He smirks wider. “So… did you?”
Simon exhales sharply, staring at the ceiling like he’s counting backward from ten. “Yes. I made her come.”
The table goes quiet.
My chest tightens, heat curling in my gut, but I force my voice even. “You what?”
His gaze flicks to mine, steady, unflinching. “She was in pain. Overstimulated. She asked. I… helped.”
Beau laughs, low and rough. “You lucky bastard.”
“She wasn’t lucky,” Simon snaps. “She was desperate. Don’t twist it.”
I take another swallow of whiskey, the burn grounding me. The memory of her text tonight—her finally reaching out—feels heavier now. More complicated.
“Fine,” Beau concedes, lifting his hands. “Just saying, I had my own tree moment.”
My head jerks toward him. “Tree?”
He grins like the devil himself. “Cat got stuck. Guess who went up after it?”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Full sundress, sandals, halfway up the damn branches. I had to coax her down like a skittish kitten.” He chuckles into his beer. “She apologized the whole ride back.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Unbelievable.”
But inside, the image sears into me—Wren in a sundress, clinging to a tree. Beau’s hand steadying her. Simon’s hands steadying her in a clinic room.
All the ways she keeps finding herself in our orbit, no matter how we try to pull back.
Simon clears his throat. “Which brings us here.” He looks between us, sharp as always. “We need to decide what this is. For us. For her.”
Beau sobers, leaning forward, forearms braced on the table. “She texted us. First time since…” He trails off, eyes flicking between mine and Simon’s. “That has to mean something.”
“Or it just means she needs help,” I point out.
“Levi.” Simon’s voice is steady, no nonsense. “We can’t keep pretending this isn’t happening. We shared a heat. That doesn’t just disappear.”
I look down at my glass, swirl the amber liquid. He’s right. We’ve been circling the truth for days, avoiding it like saying it out loud would make it too real.
Finally, Beau says it. “We’re a pack. Always have been. And whether we admit it or not, we’ve started pulling her into it.”
Silence falls.
The truth hangs heavy, undeniable.
Simon adjusts his glasses. “Then we agree. If she chooses one of us—just one—we respect that. No jealousy. No fracture.”
“Right,” I echo, though my chest burns at the thought.
Beau exhales, softer this time. “But if she… wanted all of us?”
The table goes quiet again.
Simon’s jaw works, but he doesn’t dismiss it. Doesn’t laugh. “Then we’d have to decide what that means. How that would work.”
I lean back, running a hand over my jaw. The idea shouldn’t settle so easily. It should feel foreign. But it doesn’t. It feels like something that’s been there all along, just waiting to be named.
Finally, I nod. “Either way. Whatever she chooses—one of us, all of us, none of us—we respect it. That’s the pact.”
“Pact,” Beau agrees, clinking his glass against mine.
Simon doesn’t move right away, then finally lifts his own and clinks it too. “Pact.”
We drink, the weight of it sitting in my chest.
For years, we’ve run together, fought together, bled together. But this—this feels different.
For the first time, the pack isn’t just us. It could be her.
And maybe, just maybe, that thought terrifies me more than it thrills me.
The darts keep flying in the background, laughter bubbling up at other tables, the waitress dropping off another round. From the outside, it looks like any other night: three men, a booth, a few drinks.
But inside, something shifts. Quiet. Heavy. Binding.
The kind of thing you don’t walk away from.
The kind of thing that feels like the start of something you can’t stop, even if you tried.