12. Kaia
Chapter Twelve
Kaia
Finn doesn’t leave. Not right away, not after he finishes his drink, not even after the subsequent line dies down and the café slips into its quieter mid-morning lull, where the air feels slower and the sunlight stretches across the floor.
He just stays. I keep thinking he’ll leave, that he'll take his bright, chaotic energy with him the same way Lachlan took his steady calm, leaving behind a shift for me to process alone.
But Finn doesn’t move. He drifts from the counter to a table, from the table back to the counter, leaning, watching, talking to Maria like they know each other, which apparently they do.
Of course they do. Small town. Everyone knows everyone.
I focus on the next order, on the next movement, on anything that doesn’t involve the way Finn's presence feels like sunlight in the room—warm and impossible to ignore.
He's tall and lean in a way that suggests constant motion—built like someone who can't sit still for more than five seconds.
His hair is golden blonde, catching the light like honey, falling in waves past his shoulders in a way that looks deliberately effortless.
His skin is honey-toned from spending so much time outdoors, and he's wearing linen shorts paired with a loose linen button-down shirt left partly unbuttoned, revealing the warm expanse of his chest. A colorful tattoo winds down his bicep—something intricate and vibrant that matches the chaotic energy radiating off him.
His movements are fluid, expressive, like he's dancing even while standing still.
"Okay, so I have a question," Finn says, appearing back at the counter like he'd never left.
I blink, mid-wipe of the counter. "...Okay?"
He leans forward on his elbows, resting his chin in his hand like this is the most serious conversation of his life. "Do you actually enjoy cleaning this much, or is this like…a coping mechanism?"
I stare at him. "I…what?"
He gestures vaguely at the counter. "You've wiped that same spot five times. I'm starting to feel bad for it."
I look down and realize I have. My mouth twitches. "I'm working." I’m surprised by the lack of bite to the words.
Finn gasps softly. "Wow, and here I thought you were just deeply passionate about sanitation."
That…that does it. A laugh slips out before I can stop it. Soft, quick, but real. I freeze, and clamp my mouth shut.
Finn's face lights up. "There it is!"
My cheeks warm. "I didn't…"
He waves me off. "No, no. No take-backs! That was great. Ten out of ten. Would definitely provoke again."
I shake my head, but can't stop the smile pulling at my mouth.
This is different. There's no tension in my chest, no careful monitoring of every word I say, no instinct screaming at me to brace or prepare or analyze. He’s not an Alpha.
Not overwhelming, not something to manage.
He's just…Finn. Bright, loud, and completely, unapologetically himself.
And somehow, that makes it easier for me to be something other than what I've always been expected to be.
My entire life has been a performance. Serious.
Controlled. Dignified. Never silly, never playful, never caught off guard.
My father's eyes were always on me, measuring, assessing, waiting for me to slip up so he could correct me.
My mother watched too, but differently—like she was afraid of what might happen if I ever let myself just be.
So I learned to monitor every word, every gesture, every expression.
To stay "on." To be useful. To be worthy.
But Finn doesn't want that version of me. He's not looking for the polished, perfect Alpha-in-training. He's teasing me about wiping the counter, making me laugh, and when I do, he doesn't flinch or correct me. He celebrates it. He wants more of it.
And I'm realizing, in this moment, that laughing without performance, smiling without calculation, being teased and actually enjoying it instead of analyzing what it means—these things are allowed. They're not weaknesses. They're not failures. They're just…allowed.
"Have you already had coffee today?" I raise an eyebrow as I reach for a stack of cups.
Finn grins. "No. I'm always like this, gorgeous. It's one of my many charming qualities." I huff out another quiet laugh. There it is again—easier this time, less surprising.
Maria glances over from where she's restocking something near the back and flicks her gaze between the two of us. She shakes her head slightly and goes back to what she's doing.
By the time the last customer leaves, my shoulders ache, my feet throb, and my brain feels like it's been running in three different directions at once all day. "Lock the door," Maria calls, and I nod, moving automatically. I turn the sign to CLOSED and flip the lock.
When I turn back, Finn is behind the counter. I stop. "Um…what are you doing?"
"Helping!" He grabs a towel.
"You're not helping."
"I am absolutely helping," he insists and immediately knocks over a stack of lids. They scatter across the floor, and I stare at them. Finn looks at the lids, then back at me. "Okay…minor setback."
I press my lips together, but fail. A laugh bubbles up again. "You're making it worse!"
"That's debatable," Finn replies, crouching down to gather the lids. "I think I'm adding character."
"That's not how that works."
"It's exactly how that works." He stands and places the stack back on the counter, crooked. I reach over and fix it automatically.
"There."
Finn watches me for a second and smiles warmly. "You like things in order," he says. It doesn't feel like judgment. Just an observation.
I still slightly. "Yeah, I do."
Finn nods, like it makes sense. "Cool. I like making things slightly worse before they get better."
"I don't think that's a skill."
"It is if you commit to it."
I shake my head but smile. Actually, truly smile. Not the polite, practiced version I've used my entire life. Not the one that comes with expectations and meaning and consequences. Just mine.
We work side by side for a few minutes, if what Finn does can be called working. He dries things that don't need drying. He puts things in the wrong place and talks the entire time.
But somehow, I don't mind. I don't feel the need to correct him, and I don't feel like I have to control the situation.
I don't feel like I have to be the version of myself that's been trained to handle everything perfectly.
I just move, laugh, and exist. For a few minutes, I'm not the girl who ran away.
I'm not the Alpha-turned-Omega who ruined everything.
I'm not the daughter who wasn't enough. I'm just Kaia. And it feels good.
Finn bumps into me lightly as he reaches for something behind me. His energy is just too big for the small space. "Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all.
"You're terrible at this."
"I'm incredible at this," he corrects. "You're just not appreciating my technique."
"What technique?"
"Chaos."
I laugh again, full this time, uncontained, and the sound of it startles me more than before. Something deep inside me unwinds, just a little. It's been so long since I've heard myself laugh like this. Lose control like this.
Finn pauses and watches me. Then he grins. "Yeah," he says quietly. "That's a good sound."
My breath catches, and I look away, reaching for the next thing to clean just to have something to do. Because if I don't, I might have to look at what this is—what all this is. Lachlan's steady calm, Jonas's quiet understanding, and Finn's bright, effortless chaos.
Three completely different presences, and somehow, I feel safe with all of them. I swallow hard, focusing on the simple task of rinsing silverware. Because thinking about them too much would ruin it. And for once, I don't want to ruin something that feels this good.