Chapter 3
Maple Wishes & Hardcover Hearts
~GRAYSON~
The words blur on the page in front of me, not because my eyes are tired, but because I've read the same paragraph three times and still can't focus.
I'm standing in the romance section of The Book Nook, tucked into the corner by the window where the afternoon light filters through in golden bands.
The book in my hands is a debut novel—some author I've never heard of who managed to get their story out into the world.
The prose is good. Not perfect, but honest. Raw in the way first novels tend to be, like the author bled onto the page and hoped someone would understand.
I understand it more than I want to admit.
Is this even worth pursuing? This dream of writing? Of putting words down and hoping they mean something to someone other than yourself?
The question sits heavy in my chest, familiar and uncomfortable.
I close the book carefully, running my thumb over the embossed title on the cover. Someone believed in this story enough to publish it. Someone read these words and thought they mattered.
Maybe someday someone will believe in mine too.
I slide the book back onto the shelf, positioning it so the spine is perfectly aligned with the others.
The bookshop smells like old paper and something sweet—cinnamon, maybe peppermint—mixing with the leather of worn bindings and the faint vanilla from candles someone's been burning despite what I'm guessing are strict no-open-flame policies.
It's a good smell. Comforting. The kind of place that makes you want to stay awhile.
I'm grateful for the break, honestly.
The ranch has been chaos this past week—getting the horses settled up north where the weather won't be as brutal when the real cold hits.
December in Oakridge Hollow can be beautiful, but it can also be merciless.
The horses are safer in the northern pastures, closer to the sheltered barns, protected from the worst of the winter winds.
It's good work. Necessary work. The kind of thing that keeps my hands busy and my mind occupied.
But it doesn't stop the heaviness that settles in my chest this time of year.
Seasonal depression.
That's what the therapist I saw exactly once called it.
Like giving it a name would make it easier to handle.
Winter is always hard for me. Not because of the work—there's actually less of it compared to summer, when the ranch demands everything from sunup to sundown.
No, it's the season itself. The way the days get shorter and the darkness lingers.
The way the cold seeps into your bones no matter how many layers you wear.
The reality of witnessing everyone around you seeming to light up with holiday cheer while you're just trying to make it through another day without feeling like you're drowning.
I try to ignore it. Push it down.
To focus on the positive things—the snow that makes everything look clean and new, the quiet peace of winter mornings, the way the ranch looks like a Christmas card when frost covers everything.
But ignoring it doesn't make it go away.
And you can't talk about it. Not when Nash is dealing with his own demons and Theo barely sleeps through the night without waking up from nightmares.
Nash. My pack brother, my best friend, the man who's spent the last two years burying himself in engine grease and motorcycle parts like he can rebuild what he lost. He's in his garage right now, probably, lost in the rhythm of fixing cars while his mind drifts back to who he used to be.
Riding bikes down summer roads with the wind in his face and freedom in his veins.
Living the life that being part of a motorcycle club gave him—the brotherhood, the purpose, the feeling of belonging to something bigger than yourself.
Until it all burst.
The club fell apart and Nash walked away with scars that don't show on the surface.
He doesn't talk about it much. Just works on bikes he'll never ride and cars that belong to other people, fixing things because it's the only way he knows how to feel useful anymore.
I can't add my melancholy to his burden. He's carrying enough already.
And then there's Theo.
Ex-military, the best friend anyone could ask for, and someone who deals with his own set of nightmares that have nothing to do with the season and everything to do with the things he saw overseas.
The things he had to do.
The things that still chase him in the dark.
No one cares about veterans unless you're old and disabled.
That's the truth no one wants to say out loud.
Theo looks fine—strong, capable, the kind of Alpha who can handle anything you throw at him.
So everyone assumes he has a promising future, that he can do whatever he wishes, that the world is wide open for him.
They don't know what he deals with.
Aren’t present to see him at 3 AM when the nightmares hit, and he's doing push-ups in the dark just to ground himself back in reality.
They don't notice how he flinches at loud noises or how he always positions himself with his back to the wall.
And the holidays? The holidays are worse.
Everyone returns to their families—warm houses full of people who love them, traditions passed down through generations, the comfort of knowing you belong somewhere.
Theo has none of that.
His parents are gone. No siblings.
No extended family that gives a damn.
Just us—me and Nash—and we're barely holding ourselves together most days.
So no, I can't burden them with this. We all have our issues.
We're a pack of broken pieces trying to fit together into something that looks whole from the outside.
I sigh, running my hand through my hair, and reach for another book on the shelf. Maybe losing myself in someone else's story will help. Or—
"—It's sweet, it's spicy, there's a scene with mistletoe that made me need to take a cold shower, and the found family vibes are immaculate."
The voice cuts through my thoughts, bright and enthusiastic and so full of life it almost hurts to hear.
I pause, my hand still on the book spine, and listen.
"Oh, I love all your questions! Yes, I have some amazing sapphic omegaverse recs—I'll do a whole video on those because they deserve their own spotlight."
Someone's doing a live stream. In a bookshop. That's... actually kind of endearing.
I find myself drifting toward the sound, curious despite myself. The voice is feminine, warm, with this infectious energy that makes you want to smile even when you're not sure why. I move quietly through the stacks, trying to catch a glimpse without being obvious about it.
"But here's the thing that really gets me excited. These stories? They're inspiring. They remind me that Omegas can be the heroes of their own stories. We can have dreams and ambitions and messy, complicated feelings. We can fall in love on our own terms. We can—"
The voice cuts off abruptly, and I hear someone—an older woman—speaking quietly. Something about a shift being done and sugar cookies in the break room.
There's a squeal. An actual, genuine squeal of delight that makes me smile despite the heaviness I've been carrying all day.
Whoever she is, she really loves sugar cookies.
I peek around the corner of the bookshelf just in time to see a flash of movement—honey-gold hair with bright orange tips, a swirl of fabric as someone turns. Then she's gone, disappeared deeper into the shop, and I'm left standing there feeling oddly disappointed that I didn't get a better look.
But her voice carries, drifting through the stacks as she talks to what must be her coworkers.
"Okay, but real talk? This series is incredible. Like, genuinely life-changing. The author just gets it, you know?"
A pause, then: "I sense a 'but' coming."
"BUT—why isn't there an Omega version? Like, I don't know, The Omega Nest Cafe!"
The Omega Nest Cafe? That's... actually not a bad title.
I lean against the bookshelf, pretending to browse while I listen.
I shouldn't eavesdrop—it's rude, an invasion of privacy—but there's something about her voice that keeps me rooted to the spot.
"It would be perfect! The tagline could be—'Healing Hearts, One Cup at a Time.'"
Oh, that's good. That's really good.
"Thank you! C'mon, it would be a bestseller!
Think about it—cozy, small-town romance with an Omega who just wants to be in love.
Real love. Not the bullcrap we see on TV where Omegas are just there to look pretty and be claimed.
I want the slow burn, the groveling, the tension, the sexual epicness! "
She's passionate about this.
You can hear it in every word—this isn't just idle daydreaming. She's thought about it, built it in her mind, given it shape and substance.
There's more—something about an Omega who's had fallout after fallout with packs, who thinks love is hopeless until she meets an Alpha at the cafe. A classic meet-cute involving spilled coffee and apologies and hands touching in that electric way that changes everything.
Another voice cuts in, teasing: "Is Reverie going on one of her plotting sprees again?"
Reverie. Her name is Reverie.
I test the name silently, liking the way it feels.
It suits her—that voice full of dreams and possibility.
"But mark my words, I'm gonna find someone to write this idea, and it'll be amazing. Better than the Bakedverse series everyone is going gaga for!"
Laughter follows, warm and affectionate. Her coworkers clearly adore her. Then they're encouraging her to get her sugar cookies before they're gone, and her footsteps fade away toward what must be the staff room.
I should move. Should go back to browsing, mind my own business. But I stay there, listening as her coworkers continue talking.
"She has so much energy," one of them says—a woman, older, with the kind of voice that's seen a lot of life. "Must be nice to be young."
"Thanks to her lives, the store's been getting international readers traveling down to our town," a man adds. "It's amazing for business. Miss Bea is thrilled."