Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Emily
Cold settles into my bones as I close the cottage door behind me. November has set over Pinecrest, dragging rain and rot and the promise of months without real light in its wake.
My shoulders ache from raking leaves as I drop my gloves on the entry bench and toe off boots heavy with mud and soaked leaves. Outside, the yard lies stripped and raw, garden beds cut back to dark soil, branches piled and waiting.
Everything I could prepare, I have.
Rubbing my numb hands together to bring back some warmth, I stride into the kitchen for a cup of tea. There, I find Leif hunched at the kitchen table, still bundled in his navy-blue coat and cream-colored scarf, a gray sweater peeking from underneath.
I haven’t seen him all week. He had bailed on our Wednesday woodwork to get ready for a presentation, and now he’s here without announcement, with papers spread across the wooden table, his open laptop casting a blue glow that cuts through the golden light of the kitchen.
His fingers tap an anxious rhythm on the edge of the table, nails clicking on the wood in bursts of three.
“I picked up two substitute days next week,” he announces without looking up, as if continuing a conversation we’ve been having all along. “The history teacher has a family emergency, and the science department needs coverage for a conference.”
I turn on the kettle as I take in the scene. The kitchen lights illuminate the chaos of his workspace while the windows frame the encroaching darkness outside, where rain now pelts the glass in irregular patterns.
“Carson emailed about the board presentation.” Leif continues scrolling through the document on his screen.
“He wants me to add a section on community integration metrics, whatever that means. And the parent committee chair called about next month’s agenda.
Apparently, I’m supposed to lead the discussion on curriculum alignment. ”
My nostrils flare, catching the familiar scent of his Omega pheromones, but beneath the sweet-cedar, sour stress and exhaustion cling to him like a second skin.
“The documentation for Quinn’s quarterly review is due Friday,” he adds, flipping through a stack of papers with color-coded tabs.
“I’ve got most of it done, but out of nowhere, Carson demanded I have Sprinkles’s training verification notarized, which means finding time to visit the courthouse, and—”
“Shit.” The curse slips from my lips as a burnt smell registers to my nose.
I cross to the stove in three quick strides, grabbing a pot holder to lift the lid off the Dutch oven. Steam billows upward, carrying the acrid scent of burned vegetables.
“Sorry, I saw you were busy in the backyard and thought I’d get things started.” Leif rubs his temples. “But I got caught up in emails and forgot.”
The burner clicks as I turn the dial off. The veggies aren’t salvageable, but that’s not the problem. Right now, my attention is fixed on Leif, still wearing his outdoor clothes in my warm kitchen, surrounded by papers that multiply every time he visits.
“When did you get here?” I ask, wiping my hands on a dish towel.
Leif checks the time in surprise. “Around four, I think? Blake picked Quinn up for an ice cream date, and Carson wanted to discuss some committee assignments after school, but I managed to get away with a phone call instead of an in-person meeting.”
Four o’clock. It’s now past seven. Three hours he’s sat at my kitchen table, still wrapped in his coat and scarf as if he might need to flee at any moment.
I cross back to the table and stand beside his chair.
Without asking permission, I reach over and close his laptop with a soft click.
His fingers freeze mid-tap, hovering in the air where the keyboard used to be.
Next, I gather the scattered papers, aligning their edges into a neat stack before sliding them out of his reach.
“What on Earth…” he says in confused protest.
His body tenses, poised between reaching out to reclaim his work and waiting to see what I’ll do next.
“You’ve done enough tonight,” I tell him, gentle but firm. My hand finds his shoulder, the muscles rigid beneath layers of fabric. “The work will still be there tomorrow.”
His throat works as he swallows, focus shifting to the laptop before returning to me. “But the deadline—”
“Is not tonight.” I squeeze his shoulder, applying pressure until the rock-hard knots release from his muscles. “Right now, you need food. And to take off this coat before you overheat.”
The golden light from the hanging fixture above us catches in his mauve hair, highlighting streaks of palest pink among the deeper tones. He appears both younger and older than his years, vulnerable in his exhaustion.
“I can reheat last night’s soup,” I offer, moving toward the refrigerator. “Or we can order in. Either way, you’re done working for tonight.”
His hands fall to his lap, fingers curling into loose fists before relaxing on his thighs. “I should at least answer the parent committee’s email.”
I shake my head, pulling a container from the refrigerator. “Tomorrow.”
“What if Carson—”
“Tomorrow,” I repeat, placing the container on the counter with more force than necessary. The plastic thuds onto the wooden surface, punctuating my statement.
Leif blinks, then begins to unwind his scarf. The cream-colored wool slips from around his neck and pools on the table. Next comes his coat.
“You’re right.” He drapes the coat over the back of his chair. “I’ve been at it since morning. I just... There’s so much to keep track of.”
The soup warms on the stove as I find bowls and spoons. When I turn back, he’s hunched forward with elbows braced on the table, hands covering his head. The sweater he wore under his coat hangs loose on his frame. He’s lost weight over the last two months.
“Dinner first,” I say, placing a hand on the nape of his neck, the heat of his skin warming my palm. “Then rest. Everything else can wait.”
His shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath before he straightens. “Thanks for stopping me. I think I needed it more than I knew.”
Leif’s cedar scent spikes, a burst of pheromones calling to my Alpha instincts to protect, comfort, and claim. His scent stabilizes a moment later, but the reaction remains, settling deep as I ladle soup into waiting bowls.
“No more work talk tonight,” I tell him, setting a bowl in front of him. “Eat, breathe, and remember that a world exists outside of Pinecrest Academy.”
His fingers curl around the spoon, knuckles white with tension before relaxing. “I’ll try.”
We eat in silence, Leif swaying in his seat as he slow-blinks.
When he finishes, I stand and offer my hand. His fingers slip into mine, cool and dry despite the kitchen’s warmth, and I guide him toward the living room.
The living room welcomes us with a deeper warmth than the kitchen’s heat. Here, the fireplace crackles with fresh-split cedar, casting dancing shadows across the walls and filling the air with sweet resin.
A black streak zooms from beneath the coffee table, and Mixie weaves figure-eights between our legs, her sleek fur brushing our calves.
Her purr vibrates through the floorboards, rising from her small body.
Leif pauses mid-step, hand tightening in mine as he waits for the cat to finish her greeting ritual.
Mixie stretches up on her hind feet, front paws reaching toward his knee, demanding attention that would require him to bend or sit.
I settle onto the couch, the cushions yielding beneath my weight, and pat the space beside me.
The crocheted throw blanket I made last winter drapes over the armrest, its blue and green pattern catching the firelight.
Leif stands frozen between the archway and the coffee table, Mixie now winding around his ankles with increased determination.
“Sit.” I pat the cushion again. “You’ve been burning the candle at both ends.”
His fingers twitch at his sides, attention pulled toward the kitchen where his papers and laptop wait. Tension gathers in him as duty wars with exhaustion, responsibility battling need.
Then his shoulders drop a fraction, and he steps forward. The couch dips as he lowers himself beside me, his hands settling in his lap, fingers laced together and his posture rigid, as if he’s forgotten how to relax.
He focuses on the flames. “The fire’s nice.”
I don’t push for conversation, don’t demand explanations for the tension radiating from him in waves that my Alpha senses detect through the crushed clover of my own pheromones. Instead, I reach for the remote to switch on the stereo, and soft piano music fills the air.
The clock on the mantel ticks through five minutes, then ten.
Leif’s body relaxes little by little, the rigid line of his spine yielding to gravity as he sinks deeper into the cushions.
His fingers unlock from each other, palms resting on his thighs.
With each measured breath, the cedar notes of his scent strengthen, pushing back the sour edge of stress.
Jared’s footsteps sound from down the hall, heavier than his usual tread to warn us of his approach. He pauses in the doorway, taking everything in with a quick sweep of sea-glass eyes. Without comment, he crosses to the sideboard and pours amber liquid into two tumblers.
“You look like you might need this,” he says, placing the drinks on the coffee table before retreating to the armchair in the corner. The leather creaks as he settles in, picking up a book from the side table and opening to a marked page.
Leif reaches for one of the glasses, condensation beading on his fingertips. The whiskey catches the firelight as he takes a small sip, throat working as he swallows. A sigh escapes him, soft with appreciation.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, the word directed at both of us.