Chapter 14 #2
"Since 5 AM," he confirms, rolling his shoulders with a grimace. "One problem after another today."
An idea forms, one that I immediately try to dismiss. But for some reason—maybe temporary insanity, maybe genuine concern—I hear myself say:
"I could help."
Jasper looks up, eyebrows raised in skepticism. "With what? Cabinet modification?"
"With whatever you need. Basic stuff, at least." I shrug, trying to appear casual even as I question my own sanity. "I grew up helping my dads with home projects. I know my way around a toolbox."
He studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Why?"
It's a fair question. One I'm not entirely sure I have a good answer for.
"Because you look like you could use an extra pair of hands," I say finally. "And because—don't let this go to your head—I kind of like fixing things too."
A slow smile spreads across his face, transforming it completely. It's the first real smile I've ever seen from him, and it hits me with unexpected force, like a physical blow to the chest.
Oh, this is not good.
"Alright, Whitley," he says, gathering his blueprints. "Let's see what you've got."
Which is how I end up back at the house, in old jeans and a t-shirt, helping Jasper build a prototype of the modified cabinet design using scrap wood in the garage.
It should be awkward. Tense. Fraught with all the unspoken complications that have been building between us.
Instead, it's... nice. Jasper is different when he's working—more relaxed, more open.
He explains what he's doing as we go, not dumbing it down but making sure I understand.
He's patient when I struggle with a particularly stubborn piece of wood, and genuinely impressed when I demonstrate my proficiency with a nail gun.
"Where'd you learn to do that?" he asks after I perfectly set a row of finishing nails.
"Pops was a contractor before he retired," I explain, feeling a pang at the mention of my family. "He taught me the basics. Said everyone should know how to fix things themselves."
"Smart guy," Jasper nods approvingly.
"He is," I agree, surprising myself with how much I miss him suddenly. "They both are. My dads, I mean."
Jasper's hands still on the piece he's measuring. "You don't talk about them much."
"No," I admit. "It's... complicated."
"Because of the biological father thing?" he asks, his tone carefully neutral.
I look up, startled. "How did you know about that?"
He has the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "Thin walls. I overheard you telling Theo about it that night with the kitten."
"Oh." I'm not sure how I feel about that. "Yeah, that's part of it. Finding out your origin story was a lie tends to complicate family dynamics."
"He raises an eyebrow. "Origin story? What are you, a superhero?"
"Yes, didn't you know? I'm Actually-A-Mess Girl. My powers include overthinking, avoiding emotional confrontation, and making questionable life decisions at 3 AM."
That startles a laugh out of him, a deep, rich sound that I immediately want to hear again.
"For what it's worth," he says, his tone softer than I've ever heard it, "family isn't always about biology. Sometimes it's about who shows up. Who stays."
The simple wisdom of it catches me off guard. "Yeah," I say quietly. "I know you're right. I just... I need some time to process everything, I guess."
He nods, understanding in his eyes. Then, as if realizing he's being too nice, he clears his throat and hands me a sanding block. "Make yourself useful, Whitley. These edges won't smooth themselves."
I hide my smile and get to work.
As the afternoon wears on, the prototype takes shape.
We work together with surprising synchronicity, moving around each other in the confined space of the garage with an ease that feels almost choreographed.
Occasionally our hands brush as we pass tools back and forth, or our bodies press briefly together as we maneuver a piece into place.
Each contact sends a jolt through me, a warm awareness that I try desperately to ignore. But it's getting harder, especially as the physical labor brings out Jasper's scent—pine and sawdust and irresistibly male.
By the time we're putting the finishing touches on the prototype, I'm hyper-aware of him in a way that makes concentrating difficult. When he leans over my shoulder to check my work, his chest nearly touching my back, I have to fight the urge to lean into him.
"Not bad," he says, his voice close to my ear. "You might not be completely useless after all."
"High praise," I quip, turning to face him.
It's a mistake. We're too close now, barely inches apart. His eyes drop to my mouth, then quickly back up, darkening with something that makes my breath catch
.
"You've got sawdust," he murmurs, reaching up to brush his thumb across my cheekbone.
The contact is electric. His hand lingers, cupping my face with a gentleness that contradicts his gruff exterior. I should step back. I should make a joke, break the tension, maintain the boundaries I've been so desperate to preserve.
Instead, I find myself swaying slightly toward him, drawn by the heat in his eyes, the warmth of his hand, the intoxicating blend of his scent with mine in the enclosed space.
His gaze drops to my mouth again, and this time, it stays there. My heart hammers against my ribs as he leans in, just a fraction, testing.
A sudden wave of heat washes over me, intense and overwhelming. My scent spikes, filling the air between us with sweetness that even I can smell through the blockers. Jasper's nostrils flare, his pupils dilating sharply.
"What the hell are you doing to me?" he mutters, his voice a low, rough growl that sends shivers down my spine.
Then he's stepping back, putting deliberate distance between us, his expression shuttering closed. "We should stop. It's getting late."
The abrupt withdrawal leaves me off-balance, blinking in confusion. "Jasper—"
"Don't," he cuts me off, his voice harsh. "This is exactly why I didn't want... why I said no omegas. It complicates everything."
The word hits me like a slap. Omega. Is that what I am now? Is that all I am to him?
"I'm not an omega," I say, the words automatic, defensive. "I'm just—"
"You're not 'just' anything," he interrupts, frustration evident in every line of his body. "And denying it doesn't change what's happening."
He turns away, busying himself with cleaning up tools that don't need cleaning. The dismissal is clear.
"Fine," I snap, hurt making my voice sharper than intended. "Message received. Sorry to complicate your life by existing."
I storm out of the garage, my earlier contentment replaced by a churning mix of confusion, hurt, and something dangerously close to desire.
If this is how Jasper reacts to my changing scent—Jasper, who's been the most resistant, the most determined to keep his distance—what does that mean for my interactions with Theo and Wells?
What does it mean for me?
In my room, I pace, too agitated to sit still. Gerald watches from his perch on the windowsill, tail twitching as if sensing my distress.
"This isn't happening," I tell him, gripping my hair at the roots. "I'm not presenting. I can't be. I'm twenty-eight years old, for god's sake. If it was going to happen, it would have happened a decade ago."
Gerald yawns, unimpressed with my denial.
"And even if I am... changing," I continue, unable to stop once I've started, "it doesn't mean I have to act on it. I'm still me. I still make my own choices. I don't have to be defined by... by biology."
But even as I say it, I know I'm fighting a losing battle.
My body is changing, whether I like it or not.
My scent is evolving, becoming more distinctly omega with each passing day.
And the three alphas I live with are responding to it, their reactions ranging from Theo's gentle protectiveness to Wells's controlled interest to Jasper's frustrated denial.
All of which would be complicated enough without the inconvenient fact that I'm genuinely attracted to all three of them, for entirely different reasons that have nothing to do with biology and everything to do with who they are as people.
Theo, with his kind heart and steady hands, who sees the best in everyone and treats a tiny abandoned kitten with the same care he'd give any creature in need.
Wells, with his ordered mind and hidden depths, whose rigid control masks a sensitivity I'm only beginning to glimpse.
And Jasper... stubborn, grumpy, talented Jasper, who rebuilds broken things with such care and passion that it makes my heart ache.
I'm so screwed.
My phone buzzes, pulling me from my spiral of panic. A text from an unknown number. I open it, expecting spam or a wrong number.
Instead, I see:
Rowan, it's Pops. Your mother and I are coming to find you. James contacted us again. It's important. Please don't run.
I stare at the phone, my blood turning to ice. How did they find me? What could possibly be so important that they're tracking me down after I made it clear I needed space? And what does James—my biological father—have to do with any of this?
Whatever it is, I have a terrible feeling it's going to make my current problems look like a walk in the park.