Chapter 26 From Zero To Six #3
"I know it has only been a few days since Raphael arrived and this whole pack dynamic shifted into gear.
But I can already see the difference in myself, Mae.
I feel more focused. More grounded. The compulsion to mingle with the guys on the team just to fill the silence, to participate in gossip and talk stupid shit and perform camaraderie I do not actually feel, has quieted. I do not need the noise anymore."
He smiles, but it carries a shade of melancholy.
"Which is weird. And a bit isolating. Because the habits you build to survive loneliness do not evaporate overnight just because the loneliness starts to lift. They linger like phantom limbs, reaching for distractions that are no longer necessary."
"Really?" I tilt my head, studying him with the attentiveness he deserves. "Why did you not come talk to me? Or hang out with me and Etienne? You know the door is always open. Literally. I still have not figured out the lock on my side."
He looks away. The tips of his ears flush pink.
"Because I feel embarrassed," he mutters.
"Why?"
The word is gentle. An invitation, not a demand.
"Because I was mean to Etienne too." His voice drops, the confession escaping in fragments that he has to force through the resistance of his own shame.
"When we were younger. I approved of Rafe's bullying.
His side comments about Etienne being too quiet, too soft, too passive for an Alpha.
I laughed when I should have intervened.
I stayed when I should have left. And now I am living with a man I helped torment, sleeping under the same roof, eating at the same table, and the cognitive dissonance of that is suffocating. "
His hands squeeze my waist once, reflexive, grounding himself.
"I felt like this was my punishment for being an ass, you know?
That the discomfort I feel around Etienne, the guilt that flares every time he is kind to me despite everything, is the universe's way of holding me accountable.
So I took some tutoring gigs. Picked up shifts.
Anything to stay busy and distract myself from sitting with the full weight of who I used to be. "
He lifts his gaze to mine.
"But I do want to get close to you, Mae. Not simply because of attraction, though I would be lying if I pretended that is not a factor, and it is incredibly hard to concentrate on emotional vulnerability when you are wearing my jersey with nothing underneath."
"Underwear!" I interject. "I am wearing underwear! I made this very clear!"
"The underwear disclaimer does not diminish the visual impact, MaeBell."
I smirk, and his expression softens with a fondness that makes my stomach flip.
"This pack arrangement is serious for you," he continues, his tone settling into sincerity.
"You are on a deadline. Valentine's Day is not some romantic concept for you, it is a finish line, and if you do not cross it with a pack intact, the consequences are real.
I understand that. And I want to participate.
I want to support the process, contribute to what we are building, be present in a way I have never been present for anyone. "
He pauses, choosing his next words with visible care.
"But I also want to see if this can be legitimate.
Not just an arrangement of convenience or a contractual obligation we maintain until the deadline passes and we evaluate our options.
I want to know if the feelings I am developing are real and reciprocated and sustainable beyond February fourteenth.
" A nervous laugh escapes him. "Which is weird, I know.
I do not have a blueprint for this. I have never navigated emotional territory without a playbook or a coach drawing Xs and Os on a whiteboard. "
His eyes search mine.
"But you are genuinely the first Omega I can tolerate."
I raise my eyebrows.
"Tolerate," I repeat flatly. "What a sweep-me-off-my-feet proclamation. Alert the romance novelists. Callahan Whitmore can tolerate me. I am swooning."
"You know what I mean." His blush deepens, spreading from his ears across his cheekbones.
"You are not perky. You are not fake. You do not pitch your voice three octaves higher around Alphas or flutter your eyelashes like you are trying to generate a small breeze or strategize about which compliments will extract the most financial benefit.
You are just... you. Blunt and weird and stubborn and real, and it is refreshing in a way that makes me want to take care of you. "
His voice drops to a murmur.
"To spoil you. To help you reach your goals.
That is a first for me. Admitting out loud that another person's happiness has become tied to my own sense of purpose.
" He exhales, the breath shaky with the effort of sustained vulnerability.
"But yeah. I want us to enjoy the next few weeks exploring ourselves and each other.
Figuring out who we are individually and who we could be collectively.
Without the pressure of performing for anyone or pretending we have it all figured out. "
I study him.
This blond, amber-eyed, glasses-wearing Alpha kneeling before me in a wrinkled button-down with his tie discarded on the coffee table, confessing that he wants to take care of an Omega he spent years enabling the torment of.
The irony is not lost on me. The complication is not lost on me.
The risk of trusting someone whose track record includes silent endorsement of cruelty directed at my face, my body, my intelligence, my worth.
But people are not static creatures. They are not the worst things they have done, frozen in the amber of their poorest choices. People grow. People examine the wreckage their behavior created and decide, with whatever courage they can muster, to build differently.
Cal is building differently. Clumsily, awkwardly, without the instruction manual he wishes existed, but building nonetheless.
"Oh," I say, letting a grin spread across my face with deliberate slowness. "So Callahan is admitting he likes me?"
His blush intensifies to a shade I did not know human skin could produce.
"Ugh." He drops his forehead against my knee, the contact warm through the jersey fabric. "Do not make me beg, Mabeline. I just poured my guts out on this floor and you are turning it into a bit."
"It is a very entertaining bit."
"You are insufferable."
"And yet you just said you want to take care of me, so it seems like that is a you problem."
He groans against my knee, and the vibration of it makes me laugh, bright and genuine, the sound filling the apartment with a warmth that the heating system has been failing to provide.
I lean forward.
Tilt his chin up with my fingers until his amber eyes meet mine from below, the glasses slightly askew from pressing his face into my leg, the vulnerability in his expression so unguarded it makes my chest constrict.
And I kiss the tip of his nose.
Soft. Brief. The kind of gesture that a romance novelist would call tender and a cynic would call calculated, but is really just the most honest response I can offer a man who kneeled on a cold floor to tell me he is trying.
"I forgave you long ago, Cal," I say quietly.
"Before I walked onto this campus. Before the living arrangement.
Before any of this. I forgave you because holding onto resentment toward a boy who was thirteen and desperate to belong would have poisoned me more than it would have punished you.
And carrying that poison into my twenties would have made me a smaller person than I want to be. "
His eyes widen.
"But if it makes you feel like you are getting a fresh start," I continue, holding his gaze.
"Then I will say it to you properly. I forgive you, Callahan Whitmore.
For the silence and the complicity and every moment you stood beside someone who made my childhood harder than it needed to be.
I forgive you. And I would like the version of you sitting in front of me right now to stick around for a while. "
His throat works. His amber eyes glisten behind the dark frames, and for a suspended moment I think he might actually cry, which would make me cry, which would turn this entire living room into an emotional disaster zone that neither of us is equipped to manage.
"Thank you," he says. Simple. Unadorned. Loaded with the weight of a man who did not know how badly he needed those words until they were given.
The front door opens.
Etienne and Raphael walk in on a draft of cold air and mixed scents.
Cedar and pine from Etienne, vanilla ice cream and dark sandalwood from Raphael, the combined fragrance hitting my Omega senses with a richness that feels like stepping into a bakery located inside a forest. Their hockey bags are slung over their shoulders, their hair damp from post-practice showers, their expressions carrying the particular satisfaction of athletes who have pushed their bodies to the limit and survived.
Etienne tilts his head, his dark eyes surveying the scene. Cal kneeling before me on the floor. My hand still resting beneath Cal's chin. The jersey riding high on my thighs. The general tableau of emotional intimacy interrupted.
Raphael smirks.
He drops his hockey bag against the wall with a deliberate thud, leans his shoulder against the doorframe, crosses his arms, and delivers his assessment with the casual precision of a man whose French accent makes every observation sound like a verdict.
"If we are interrupting the proposal, we can come back."
"Fuck off," Cal says without turning around.
Raphael laughs, the sound low and warm and vibrating through the apartment with an ease that tells me he has already become comfortable in this space, in this dynamic, in the particular rhythm of people who bicker because they care.