Chapter 20 Simon
CHAPTER TWENTY
Simon
The ringtone jars me out of sleep.
I fumble for the phone on my nightstand, glasses still off, the blur of digits glowing far too bright for this early. My throat’s dry, my muscles heavy—I only just got in after my shift, and I’d promised myself a few hours of uninterrupted rest.
But when I swipe the screen and see her name, everything inside me jolts awake.
“Wren?” My voice is hoarse, betraying sleep.
There’s a pause, then her soft voice: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s fine.” I sit up, push my glasses on. The room sharpens. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I just… I called Beau and Levi, too. They’re on their way.”
That wakes me more than any alarm ever could. “They are?”
“Yeah. I, um…” A little exhale, like she’s embarrassed. “I need help moving some things. For the pop-up. From my place to Norah’s shop.”
The weight pressing on my chest eases. Not an emergency. Not blood. Not heat. Just… life. Ordinary, mundane life.
I find myself smiling, despite the exhaustion dragging at my body. “Alright,” I tell her. “I’ll be there.”
By the time I pull onto the street, Beau’s car is already parked crookedly at the curb, Levi’s SUV tucked neatly behind.
They’re outside, waiting, and the moment I step out, Wren pushes through the front door carrying a stack of folded tablecloths.
And just like that, I forget I’m tired.
She’s dressed in a soft blue dress that buttons down the front, belted at her waist, the skirt brushing just above her knees.
She’s paired it with white sneakers, practical for hauling boxes, and her hair is loose today, tumbling over her shoulders in a way that looks both deliberate and effortless.
There’s flour smudged faintly on her cheek—a sure sign she’s been baking since dawn—and a brightness in her eyes that pulls me like a tide.
“Morning,” she calls, a little breathless, cheeks pink.
“Morning,” I answer, but it comes out a bit rough.
Beau grins, ever the showman. “You look cute, cupcake.”
Wren rolls her eyes, but the blush deepens. “You’re here to carry things, not to comment on my outfit.”
Levi chuckles, heading for the door. “Tell us what needs moving.”
Inside, it’s controlled chaos. Stacks of pastry boxes, trays of cookies wrapped in cellophane, a few chalkboard signs she’s scrawled with neat, looping handwriting.
The smell alone is enough to make my stomach growl—warm sugar, cinnamon, a hint of coffee.
She explains as we start hauling: “I let the bakery know, and Ryker at the hardware store, and a few of the other shops. I’m hoping people will come. Even if it’s small, it’s better than nothing.”
“It won’t be small,” Beau says, balancing two boxes easily.
She ducks her head, smiling despite herself.
It takes three trips to pack everything into a truck. By the time we unload at Norah’s floral shop, the front counter is buried under baked goods, the air thick with the mingling scent of roses and sugar.
Norah herself flits around arranging vases, her expression warm but watchful—like she’s pleased to see us, but taking mental notes all the same.
The shop is charming in a way that feels almost too perfect for our little town—expansive windows letting in the morning light, shelves stacked with terracotta pots, vines curling down from high planters.
The flowers look brighter against the pastel-painted walls, and as Wren sets out her pastries, the place comes alive.
We get to work. Levi rolls up his sleeves, ties on one of Norah’s spare aprons, and stations himself at the counter.
“I’m free all morning,” he says to Wren. “Put me wherever you need.”
She laughs. “Alright, then. You’re on register duty.”
Beau grabs the chalkboard signs, scribbling menu prices with surprising neatness before setting them outside. “I’ll charm the customers,” he declares.
“You’ll scare the customers,” Levi mutters, earning himself a glare.
I station myself near the back where Norah’s coffee maker is. It’s not as fancy as the one Wren used at the café, but with a bit of adjusting, I manage a decent brew.
Soon, the air is filled with the hiss of steaming milk and the earthy scent of espresso. And by the time the first customers trickle in, everything’s in motion.
Levi mans the till with surprising efficiency, Beau jokes with townsfolk as he hands out samples, and Wren floats between stations—smiling, explaining, refilling trays.
I catch myself watching her more than once, the way she lights up when someone compliments her, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she thinks no one’s looking.
At one point, I overhear Beau and Levi speaking in low voices near the back shelves.
“She’s gonna need more money to fix that café,” Beau mutters.
“Yeah,” Levi agrees. “But you know her. She’d refuse if we offered.”
“Stubborn little thing.”
“Independent,” Levi corrects.
I don’t join in, but I agree. She wouldn’t accept help, not if she thought it came with strings attached. She’d rather break herself trying first.
By ten, the crowd’s steady, people cycling in and out with boxes and cups of coffee. My pager buzzes, reminding me of the hospital. I pull off my apron, wipe my hands, and head for her.
She intercepts me before I can speak, pressing a container into my hands. “For you. Pastries. To take with you.”
“Wren—”
“No arguments.” She fixes me with that determined look I’m beginning to know too well.
I sigh and try to hand her the money instead. “At least let me—”
“Nope.” She shakes her head, curls bouncing.
Fine. I wait until she turns her back, then slip a few bills into the tip jar.
When she faces me again, I lean down, pressing a kiss to her forehead before I can stop myself. The gesture is instinctive, tender. Too tender.
“I’ll see you around,” I murmur.
She blinks up at me, eyes wide, cheeks blooming red. Then she nods. “See you.”
As I leave, I catch sight of two women by the window, watching. One whispers something to the other, both smiling knowingly. Gossip is already brewing.
But for once, I find I don’t care.
Because pact or not, rules or not—walking out of that shop with her scent still clinging to me, I know exactly what I want.
And I can’t help but hope that when she makes her choice, she picks me.
The bell jingles as I step into the daylight, a container of pastries warm in my hands. And for the first time in years, I let myself imagine a life not just filled with work and obligations, but with her.
With us.
A pack.
Whole.
Even if I’m not ready to say it out loud just yet.
The day crawls and races all at once.
By the time the last patient leaves, my temples throb, and I’ve rewritten the same note three times because I can’t keep my eyes focused on the chart.
Hospital days can be like that—hours vanishing into a blur of consultations, stitches, injections, paperwork stacked like bricks waiting to crush me. Some days I thrive on the rhythm. Today, I’m running on fumes.
My shift started with an older beta farmer experiencing chest pains, a toddler with a fever, and a slip on ice that resulted in three cracked ribs.
Each case required something different of me—knowledge, patience, a steady hand. And each one drained a little more from the well I keep carefully filled.
By mid-afternoon, I’m moving on autopilot, peppermint vial tucked discreetly in my pocket. I take a breath here and there, let the cool sharpness cut through the haze, then press forward.
I’m in my office late, coat draped over my chair, when Becca knocks and steps inside. She’s efficient as always, her expression bright despite the hour.
“Long day?” she asks.
I huff a laugh, not bothering to deny it. “Something like that.”
She hesitates, then says, “I was going to mention—the medical conference in Seattle next month. Are you going?”
The word Seattle slams into me like a fist. The city is beautiful. I used to love conferences—catching up with colleagues, sharpening skills, getting out of town.
But Seattle isn’t just a conference city for me. It’s Marissa.
I picture her—sharp smile, sharper ambition. The Omega I once thought I could make a life with. The one who left me standing in the wreckage of everything I thought I knew about bonds.
I set my pen down too hard. “No.”
Becca tilts her head. “You’re sure? It’d be good networking. I can register you.”
“I said no.” My voice is sharper now, and she blinks. I soften it with a sigh. “I’ve got too much here. No time to disappear for a week.”
She studies me a beat, then nods. “Alright. Just thought I’d ask.”
When she’s gone, I slump back in my chair, rubbing my face. Seattle. No, I don’t need that ghost bleeding into my present.
Not when things are already complicated.
By the time I finally leave, the hospital is quieter. The cool air slaps me awake on the walk to my truck. My hands ache around the steering wheel, muscles begging for rest.
But instead of heading straight to my apartment, I sit in the driver’s seat, staring at my phone. My thumb hovers over the screen. A text would be easier. Safer.
I type: How did the pop-up go?
Delete it.
Type again: Still awake?
Delete.
The urge claws deeper, until finally I hit call before I can talk myself out of it.
The line rings once, twice. Then her voice, soft and warm: “Hello?”
Relief floods me, ridiculous in its intensity. “It’s me,” I say, and I hate how raw I sound. “Simon.”
“I know.” There’s a smile in her voice. “Rough day?”
“You could say that.” I lean back in the seat and close my eyes. “Tell me about yours. The pop-up—how many people came?”
She hums, like she’s considering. “Enough. More than I expected. Norah thinks it went well. I sold out of almost everything by noon.”
“That’s good,” I murmur. And I mean it. More than good. I picture her in that blue dress, bustling between trays, light spilling over her hair. “The pastries were perfect. My staff finished the ones you sent before I even had a chance to look at them.”