33. Kaia
Chapter Thirty-Three
Kaia
Iwalk upstairs confident. At least, I start confident.
By the time I hit the third step, my bravery has started to slip.
By the time I reach the top, it's gone. The hallway stretches out before me, long and twisting.
Quieter, heavier—like the house is holding its breath, waiting to see if I'll actually go through with this.
My feet slow as I reach the door, my hand hovering just above the handle.
What if I make it worse? What if he doesn't want me there? What if I'm intruding on something private, something I don't have the right to be part of yet?
My throat tightens. I take a breath. Then slowly open the door. Lachlan’s head whips up from where he's sitting in the chair beside the bed. His expression is calm, but there's something watchful in his eyes. Protective.
I don't say anything at first. I just make a small come here motion with my hand. He stands and walks toward me, and I step back just enough so I can pull the door mostly closed behind him, leaving just a crack of light from the hallway.
"Hey," I whisper. "I made you a breakfast sandwich.
Go eat it while it's hot." His brows lift slightly, something soft flickering across his face.
"I'll stay with Jonas," I add quickly, before he can argue.
"I just...I need to see he's okay. The Omega in me is freaking out.
" The words come out more honest than I intended. More vulnerable.
The crease between Lachlan's brow smooths. "He's okay, Kaia," he says gently. "I promise." A beat. "But I'll let you have some time with him. He's just asleep."
I nod, my throat tight. "Thank you." He reaches out, his hand brushing lightly against my arm. Grounding. Reassuring. Then he's gone, and I'm alone in the hallway. I slip back into the room slowly. It's almost completely dark inside.
Curtains drawn tight against the morning light. No hint of the ocean just outside. No sound except the faint hum of the air conditioning and the sound of breathing. Just him.
Jonas is curled slightly on his side, his breathing slow but uneven. Not quite peaceful, not quite restless—somewhere in between.
I stop for a second. Just looking at him. Because he looks different. Not physically different, exactly, but...less in control. Less composed. Less like the steady, intuitive Beta who always seems to know what everyone needs before they even know it themselves. More human. More vulnerable.
My heartbeat flutters.
I move to the edge of the bed carefully, leaving plenty of space between us when I sit down. I don't touch him—not yet. I just want to be here. To see him breathing. To know he's okay.
Then he stirs. Slightly. His brow furrows, and a quiet sound slips from him.
Not quite pain, but discomfort. Something he's trying to push through even in sleep.
My chest squeezes—hard. Without thinking, I reach out, then pause.
What if that makes it worse? What if touch is too much right now? What if…no.
I shake my head to stop my reeling head and just act.
I let my fingers rest lightly against his hand.
Barely there. Soft. Careful. No pressure.
No holding. Just present. He stills, and his breathing shifts.
Not fully awake, but aware. I swallow. "It's okay," I whisper.
"You're okay." My voice is soft. Steady.
Even though my heart is racing. I stay. Minutes pass—maybe more, but I don't move. Don't pull away.
Then his eyes open. Slow, unfocused at first. Then they find me. Confusion flickers. Recognition follows. Then something softer—something that makes my chest ache. "Kaia?" he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep and exhaustion.
"Hi," I say quietly.
He blinks again, like he's trying to understand why I'm here. Why I'm sitting beside him in the dark instead of downstairs with the others. "You don't have to..." he starts, his voice trailing off.
I shake my head immediately. "I want to." The words come out stronger than I expect. More certain.
He goes still. Then relaxes. Just slightly. His fingers shift under mine. Not gripping, just acknowledging I’m here.
"You okay?" I ask softly.
He huffs a weak breath. "Yeah."
I smile faintly. "Good. I was worried about you."
His face relaxes, almost melting beneath my words, like that simple admission hit him harder than I realized it would. He studies me for a second, his gaze searching my face in the dim light. "Come lie by me," he murmurs.
My heart stutters. "I don't want to intrude."
"You're not," he says. "You're making me feel better." A beat. "Unless you don't want to. I know this is a lot. I don't want to freak you out."
I move. Carefully. Lying beside him on top of the blankets. Still giving him space. Still cautious.
"Baby," he murmurs softly, "you can touch me. I'm not hurt physically."
"I don't want to mess up."
"You can never mess up by showing up."
This hits me harder than it should. Because no one has ever told me that before—that my presence alone is enough.
That I don't have to do anything to matter.
Growing up, my worth was measured in performance: the right designation, the right control, the right utility.
I was valued for what I could accomplish, not for simply existing.
My father's words still echo in my mind, defining me by what I could produce, what I could contribute.
But Jonas is saying something entirely different.
He's saying that just by being here, by showing up, I've already done enough.
The realization cracks something open inside me—something I've kept locked away for so long I almost forgot it was there.
I'm terrified to believe it. Terrified that if I do, I'll have to rebuild everything I thought I knew about myself.
He takes my hand gently and places it against his stomach, over his shirt. "If you really like me," he adds quietly, "you'll trace patterns on me."
I smile despite everything. "Is that a requirement?"
"Absolutely."
I start tracing small shapes over his shirt. Circles. Stars. Mindless. Soft. "How are you feeling?" I ask again after a while.
He closes his eyes, letting his head sink back into the pillow, a small smile forming. "Better," he says. "Not great, but...better now that you're here."
Warmth blooms deep inside me. "Does this happen a lot?" I ask.
He shrugs slightly. "Sometimes."
I frown. "That's not an answer."
He exhales. "It's manageable. I've had it for a while."
There it is. The deflection. The minimizing. "That sounds like something you say so people don't worry about you," I say quietly.
He blinks. Then turns his head slightly toward me. "You don't need to worry."
"I know," I say. A beat. "But I want to." He goes still again, like those words mean more than I realize. I shift slightly, pulling the blanket up just a little more over him. Tucking it in. Small. Careful. My fingers brush near his temple, and I hesitate. "Is this okay?"
"More than okay."
I brush a few strands of brown hair back from his forehead. Light. Barely there. He exhales slowly, like he's been holding that breath for a while, then closes his eyes again. A minute passes. Maybe two. "You don't have to stay," he murmurs. Softer now. Not pushing. Just offering.
I don't move. "I know," I say. "I want to."
The door opens quietly and I glance over. Lachlan.
Jonas doesn't even open his eyes. "Go away, asshole," he mutters. There's no heat in it, which makes me smile.
Lachlan leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "I stay with you while you puke," he says dryly. "But I'm the asshole, and she gets the sleepy, good version of you?"
Jonas groans. "Technically, Adrian was with me when I puked."
I sit up slightly. "I can let you be, Jonas."
"No," he says. "The good version of me would tell you to go enjoy your day." A beat. "But I really want to be selfish."
My heart stutters.
"Stay with me."
Lachlan pushes off the wall. "How about you come downstairs and try to eat something?"
Jonas groans again. "I hate you."
"Yeah, yeah," Lachlan mutters. "Kaia made me an amazing breakfast sandwich." A beat. "Eggs. Cheese. Bacon."
Jonas's eyes crack open and he slowly lifts his middle finger.
I gasp. "Lachlan!"
He shrugs. "See, you didn't puke. You're fine. You need food. And water."
"I can make you plain toast," I say quickly. "And get you Gatorade."
"Thank you. At least someone cares."
Lachlan scoffs. "You're lucky you're sick."
Jonas turns to me with exaggerated sadness. "See what I deal with?"
I smile softly. "I'll take care of you."
Lachlan groans, but he's smiling.
Then Jonas pauses. "Wait...where's Finn?"
Lachlan answers easily. "He's downstairs."
Jonas tenses slightly. "I don't want him to see me like this."
"He's okay," Lachlan says. "And so are you. You're doing better. Let's get you downstairs." He reaches to help him up and Jonas winces.
"I'm not milking it," he mutters. "I actually can't."
"Okay," Lachlan says, falling back into seriousness. No push. No pressure.
"I'll go get you toast and Gatorade," I say.
Jonas relaxes back into the pillow. "Thank you, babe."
I smile. "Of course." I head downstairs quickly. And stop at the foot of the stairs. The living room opens up before me, and there—on the oversized sectional couch facing the ocean view—Finn is curled into Adrian's chest. Adrian's hand moves slowly along his back. Tracing shapes. Grounding.
"I'm right here," Adrian murmurs softly. "He's okay."
I walk over slowly, almost melting into the floor at the sight of them.
"He's okay," I repeat Adrian’s words for more Finn’s sake than mine. "He's talking. And flirting."
Adrian glances at Finn. "See?"
I look at Finn. "I'm making him toast and grabbing Gatorade. You can come up with me if you want." A beat. "No pressure."
Finn shakes his head slightly, pressing closer into Adrian.
Adrian nods at me before wrapping himself tighter around Finn. "It's okay. You don't have to."
I nod. "Okay." I move into the kitchen. Make toast. Light, no butter or jam, nothing that will upset his stomach. Grab a blue Gatorade from the fridge. And head back upstairs.
Because now I know exactly where I'm supposed to be. Not because someone told me. Not because I'm supposed to. But because I want to.
Because he matters.
Because, for the first time in my life, I'm not just being cared for. I'm choosing to care for someone else.
And that feels like everything.