Chapter 3
Theo
Ibelieve in the power of first impressions.
As a vet, I've learned to read a lot from that initial moment—the way an animal holds itself, the look in its eyes, the subtle signals that tell you whether it's in pain or just scared.
People aren't that different, really. We all communicate in ways that go beyond words.
"You look ridiculous," Jasper grumbles as he passes behind me, carrying a toolbox toward his workshop in the backyard. "They're not going to arrive any faster with you hovering."
"I'm being welcoming," I counter, not bothering to turn around. "Someone in this house should be."
He makes a noncommittal grunt and continues on his way.
Jasper's been in a mood all week—more than his usual baseline grumpiness.
He spent all of yesterday reinforcing the lock on the spare room door "just in case," like our new roommate might be a professional cat burglar masquerading as an accountant.
I check my phone again. No new messages, but I reread the last exchange for probably the fifteenth time.
On my way! GPS says arrival around 2-3 pm if traffic cooperates. Thanks again for the opportunity. —Rowan
We still don't know if Rowan's an alpha or beta.
They never responded to that particular question, which has sent Jasper into full conspiracy-theory mode.
Wells's trying to be the voice of reason, pointing out that normal people don't check their messages at 3 AM, but I can tell he's a little concerned too.
Me? I'm just curious. And maybe a little excited. Living with the same two people for seven years—even when those people are your best friends—can get predictable. A new perspective might be exactly what we need.
A car I don't recognize turns onto our street—a battered Tonda Civic that's seen better days, and my nose picks up engine trouble before I even catch sight of the vehicle itself. The thing smells like burning rubber and dirty oil. I lean forward, scanning the street, just to confirm.
Yep. There it is.
The silver sedan rattles like it’s being held together by duct tape and sheer willpower.
What is that? A 1992? How’d he manage to drive anywhere with that rust bucket?
The car groans to a stop in front of where I’m waiting on the sidewalk, making one final, pitiful wheeze before the engine cuts off entirely, and I straighten up, adjusting my shirt. First impressions go both ways.
The truck pops open with a groan. The driver’s side door creaks open, and then she steps out.
I blink.
I look into the car again, because maybe I missed something. Maybe this is Rowan’s girlfriend, or sister, or cousin, or a person who just hitched a ride in this death-trap of a car.
But there’s no one else in the passenger seat.
She must be the one.
And if she’s Rowan, then—wow, is Jasper going to be pissed.
Rowan is not a tall, broad-shouldered alpha dude, like I assumed.
No. Rowan is... Rowan is smaller than me, about average height for a woman.
She’s got a mass of honey blond curls that are piled into a lopsided bun on her head.
She’s wrapped in an oversized hoodie, dark leggings, and sneakers that have clearly seen better days.
After parking the car, she steps out and raises her arms high above her head, clearly feeling tension in her shoulders.
She tilts her head to one side, then the other, and I swear I hear her mutter, "Still alive. Ha. Suck it, universe."
I bite back a grin.
I step forward, closing the distance, and try to make my smile look more excited and less like a nervous grimace. "Hey, you must be Rowan," I say, doing my best to sound normal. But I’m pretty sure my voice cracks a bit as the words come out.
She jumps a little, like she wasn’t expecting to have an audience. Her eyes widen with something between surprise and panic before she forces herself to look calm.
"Rowan?" I call again, taking a few steps toward her.
She offers a tentative smile. "That's me. You must be... one of the three guys I'm about to live with, which I realize now sounds like the setup to either a funny sitcom or a horror movie."
As she walks up our path, I can see dark circles under her eyes and a determined set to her jaw. She looks exhausted but resolute, like she’s someone who's reached the end of one rope and is desperately grabbing for another.
I laugh, extending my hand. "I'm Theo. The friendly one, according to house polls. Here, let me help with your bags."
As she shakes my hand, I catch a whiff of her scent, and something about it makes me pause. It's... unusual. Not quite alpha, not quite beta, and definitely not fully omega, but with hints of something sweet underneath, like vanilla barely detectable under layers of scent-dampening soap.
Interesting.
"That would be amazing," she says, breaking the moment. "Most of my stuff is still in my car, but fair warning—I may have panic-packed seventeen different mugs and forgotten essentials like, I don't know, pants."
I grin at her. "We have a strict 'pants optional' policy here anyway."
Her eyes widen, and I quickly add, "That was a joke. We're very pro-pants around here. Wells especially. He color-codes his sock drawer."
"Good to know," she says, looking slightly relieved. "I'd hate to have misjudged the clothing situation on day one."
I help her grab a duffel bag and a surprisingly heavy box from her backseat. "So you drove all the way from the city?"
"Yeah," she sighs, shouldering her backpack. "Six hours of nothing but cornfields, gas station coffee, and my own increasingly questionable life choices."
"What brings you to Vineyard Groves? It's not exactly a happening metropolis."
Something flickers across her face—caution, maybe. "Just... needed a change. Fresh start. You know how it is."
I nod, not pushing. Everyone has their reasons for needing to start over. God knows I had mine when I moved here after vet school.
"Well, you picked a good place for it," I tell her as we walk up the porch steps.
"Vineyard Groves is small, but it grows on you.
We've got four seasonal festivals that basically take over the town every few months, a bakery-coffee shop rivalry that's lasted longer than most marriages, and enough gossip to fuel a lifetime of soap operas. "
"Sounds perfect," she says, and I can't quite tell if she's being sarcastic.
I shoulder open the front door, which sticks slightly in humid weather. "Welcome to Casa... well, we don't actually have a cute house name. We probably should. Maybe you can help us come up with one."
She steps into the foyer, looking around with wide eyes.
I try to see our home through a newcomer's perspective—the high ceilings with crown molding Jasper spent three weekends restoring, the original hardwood floors we uncovered under hideous 1970s carpet, the stained-glass window on the landing that bathes the entryway in colored light on sunny afternoons.
It's not perfect. There are paint swatches on one wall where we've been debating colors for approximately eight months, and the staircase banister is half-stripped of varnish, a project Jasper started and then abandoned when the Henderson job came up. But it's ours.
"This is... wow," Rowan says, spinning slowly. "It's beautiful. How long have you guys lived here?"
"About three years," I answer, setting her box down carefully. "It was Jasper's great-aunt's place. She left it to him, but it needed a lot of work. Still does, as you can see. We're renovating as we go."
"And by 'we,' he means Jasper does the actual work, while Theo and I provide moral support and occasional manual labor," Wells says, appearing in the doorway to the living room.
He's wearing his work clothes—pressed slacks and a button-down with the sleeves rolled up—his version of casual Friday. "I'm Wells. Welcome to our home."
"Rowan," she says, shaking his hand. "Thanks for having me. This is honestly a lifesaver."
Wells smiles, infinitely more polished than my own greeting. "We're happy to help. Theo, why don't you show Rowan upstairs to her room? I've just put fresh sheets on the bed."
Before I can answer, there's a thud from the direction of the kitchen, followed by heavy footsteps. Jasper appears, wiping his hands on a rag, his expression darkening when he spots Rowan.
"You're not a dude," he says bluntly.
Rowan blinks. "Um... no? Not last time I checked anyway."
"Your email didn't specify," Wells jumps in smoothly. "But it's not an issue. The room is available regardless of gender."
Jasper crosses his arms, his large frame suddenly seeming to take up more space in the hallway. "The listing specifically said we were looking for an alpha roommate."
"Actually," I interject, "it didn't. It said 'must be comfortable with three roommates.' It didn't specify the gender or designation of the renter."
Jasper shoots me a betrayed look, and I shrug apologetically. Technically, I'm right, and he knows it.
Rowan glances between us, wariness creeping into her posture. "Is this going to be a problem? Because I can find somewhere else—"
"No," Wells says firmly, at the same time Jasper mutters, "Maybe."
I clear my throat. "What my socially challenged friend is trying to ask is whether you're an alpha, beta, or omega. We should have been clearer about that in our communication."
Rowan shifts her weight, and for a split second, I catch that strange undercurrent in her scent again—something not quite settled, like a perfume that changes depending on the wearer's body chemistry.
"I'm not an omega," she says carefully. "If that's what you're worried about."
"So you're a beta," Jasper presses.
She hesitates just long enough to be noticeable. "...It's complicated. But I'm definitely not an omega. You won't have to worry about heats or pheromones, or anything."
Jasper narrows his eyes, clearly not satisfied with her answer. But Wells steps forward, effectively cutting off any further interrogation.
"That's all we needed to know," he says diplomatically. "Let's get you settled in. Theo can show you to your room, and then we can go over house rules."
Jasper makes a sound that's halfway between a scoff and a growl. "Speaking of rules. This arrangement is temporary. 3 months. Not a day longer."
Rowan's expression hardens slightly, the exhaustion in her eyes giving way to something steelier. "Understood."
"Rent is due on the first," Jasper continues, as if reciting from a manual titled 'How to Be Maximally Unwelcoming.' "No overnight guests without advance notice. No parties. Kitchen duty rotates weekly. And common areas remain scent neutral."
"Scent neutral," she repeats. "As in...?"
"Blockers in shared spaces," he says flatly. "I don't care what you do in your own room, but I don't want the house smelling like—" He cuts himself off, but the implication is clear.
"Like me?" Rowan finishes, her voice deceptively light, though I can see her knuckles whitening around the strap of her backpack.
An uncomfortable silence stretches between them.
"Like anyone other than who lives here," Jasper finally says. "It's a security thing."
It's a lie, and we all know it, but Rowan just nods. "Right. Well, good news is I'm a big fan of personal space and boundaries myself, so that works just fine."
She turns to me with a forced brightness. "So, that room?"
"Right this way," I say quickly, picking up her box again and heading for the stairs. As we climb, I hear Wells's quiet but unmistakable "Was that necessary?" directed at Jasper, followed by a muttered response I can't quite make out.
On the second floor, I lead Rowan down the hallway, past Jasper's room at the front of the house, past my own in the middle, and past Wells's across from mine. The guest room—her room now—is at the end of the hall.
"Bathroom's here," I point out as we pass it. "We share, because the ensuites are out of commission. But Wells has a very detailed shower schedule posted on the inside of the door. He's a bit... particular."
"Noted," she says, some of the tension leaving her shoulders as we move further from Jasper.
I push open the door to her room. It's not huge, but it gets good afternoon light, and Jasper rebuilt the window seat last spring, adding storage underneath. The walls are a soft blue-gray that Wells chose because it's "scientifically proven to promote calm.
"There's a double bed with fresh linens, a desk under the window, and an empty bookshelf.
"I know it's a bit bare," I say as I set her box on the desk. "But we figured you'd want to make it your own."
Rowan steps inside, dropping her bag on the bed. For a moment, she just stands there, taking it all in. Then she turns to me with a small, genuine smile that transforms her tired face.
"It's perfect," she says softly. "Thank you."
Something protective stirs in my chest—an alpha instinct I usually keep firmly in check. There's a vulnerability about her that triggers it, despite her obvious determination.
"Listen," I say, lowering my voice. "Don't mind Jasper. He's... well, he's complicated. But he's not actually as much of an asshole as he seems. He's just protective of this place."
She nods, absently rubbing her shoulder where the backpack strap has left a mark. "I get it. I'm the intruder here."
"Guest," I correct. "And potentially friend, if you don't turn out to be secretly terrible."
That earns me another small smile. "I save my terribleness for special occasions. Like Tuesdays."
"I'll mark my calendar," I reply, matching her lighter tone. "I'll let you get settled. Bathroom's stocked with the basics if you need anything. And we usually do pizza on Friday nights if you want to join."
"Thanks," she says, and then adds, more softly, "Really."
I hesitate at the door, that strange note in her scent nagging at me again. There's something she's not telling us—something beyond the usual new-roommate awkwardness. But it's not my place to pry, at least not yet.
"Welcome to Vineyard Groves, Rowan," I say instead.
As I close the door behind me, I hear the bed creak as she sits down. Then, very faintly, what sounds like a deep, shuddering breath.
Whatever she's running from, whatever she's not telling us, I have a feeling our peaceful, predictable life just got a lot more complicated.