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"Uh-huh. Well, if you happen to see Lila while you're 'returning' things, you should know Dean came by an hour ago grinning like an idiot.

Apparently he asked her to dinner." Levi's expression turns thoughtful.

"As friends, he was very careful to specify.

Seemed to think that was important information to share. "

Something uncomfortable settles in my chest at the news, though I can't quite identify whether it's jealousy or something more complex.

Dean is exactly what most omegas want. Straightforward, caring, the kind of alpha who doesn't complicate things with too many questions or expectations.

The kind of alpha my ex chose when she decided I wasn't enough.

If Lila is looking for simple and healing, Dean is the obvious choice. Dean doesn't come with the baggage of being rejected by an entire pack for being too analytical, too controlling, too much of everything no one actually wants in an alpha.

And maybe that's what she needs. Maybe Dean's straightforward approach is exactly what someone should choose, instead of getting tangled up with someone who over thinks every interaction and wants to understand every thought.

But she didn't seem entirely comfortable with simple when she was standing close enough for me to count the freckles across her nose.

She stepped back from me, yes, but her scent told a different story than her body language.

Her scent said she was interested, intrigued, maybe even a little breathless.

Her scent said she was exactly as affected by my proximity as I was by hers.

"Good for Dean," I say, which is mostly true. Dean deserves someone who appreciates his straightforward approach to caring for people. And if Lila chooses that path, it'll be the right choice for her.

The fact that it might not be the right choice for me is irrelevant.

"Julian," Levi says as I reach for the door handle. "For what it's worth, I think she notices more than she lets on. The way she kept glancing back at you while I was ringing her up... that wasn't casual curiosity."

I don't respond, but the observation follows me out into the early evening air.

The walk to Lila's neighborhood gives me time to second-guess this decision at least three times. The books feel heavier with each step, not because of their weight but because of what they represent. Another step toward something I'm not sure I'm ready for.

But I keep walking, past the familiar streets and toward the part of town where someone is trying to build a new life from scratch.

The Anderson place sits on its small lot, small and neat with good bones hidden under cosmetic problems. Someone's been working on the yard, the grass is trimmed and the walkway cleared of debris.

The mailbox is lying sideways in the grass, but there's something endearing about the evidence of her priorities. Inside first, aesthetics later.

Smart approach for someone learning to fix a house on her own.

I'm halfway up the front walk when her scent hits me properly for the first time today.

It's stronger here, where she's been living and sleeping and moving through space without the overlay of other people's presence.

Green apples and white musk, yes, but also something I couldn't identify in the bookstore—a warm, honey-like note that speaks of contentment, of someone who's found a place that feels like it might become home.

The combination is intoxicating in ways I'm not prepared for. My steps slow involuntarily as the scent wraps around me, as my body responds to the evidence of her presence with an intensity that catches me off guard.

This is why alphas get into trouble. This is why we're taught from childhood to respect omega spaces, to understand that scent can be as intimate as touch when it's unguarded and unfiltered.

Standing in Lila's space, breathing in the honest evidence of her daily existence, feels like an intrusion even though I'm technically still on public property.

It also feels like coming home, which is a problem I don't know how to solve.

I set the wrapped package of books on her front porch and step back, intending to leave quickly before the scent can affect my judgment any further.

But as I turn to go, my fingers brush against the door handle Dean repaired.

Solid brass worn smooth by decades of use, now warmed by the late afternoon sun.

For just a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to turn that handle with permission.

To walk through that door as someone welcomed rather than someone leaving gifts in the shadows.

To see the space she's creating for herself, to understand how she moves through rooms and what makes her feel safe.

To be part of whatever new life she's building instead of just an observer at the edges.

The thought is dangerous enough that I force myself to step away from the door, away from the intoxicating cloud of her scent, away from the temptation to linger in her space longer than I should.

I knock once, quickly, then retreat to the street before she can answer. From the corner, I hear her door open and see the light spill onto the porch as she discovers the package. I don't let myself watch her reaction, that would cross a line I'm not ready to cross.

But I can't help the small surge of satisfaction knowing she'll find the poetry book, knowing she might understand why I chose those particular lines about finding strength in starting over.

The walk back to my apartment takes longer than usual, partly because I'm in no hurry to return to an empty space after being surrounded by the warm evidence of Lila's presence, and partly because I keep thinking about the moment her light spilled onto the porch as she discovered the books.

My apartment sits above the bookstore on Main Street, a small but efficiently designed space that suits my need for order and privacy. Tonight, though, the careful organization and minimalist aesthetic feel less like peace and more like emptiness.

I pour myself a glass of wine and settle into the chair by the window that overlooks the street.

From here, I can see most of Main Street, the diner with its warm glow, the corner where her street branches off toward her house.

It's a view I've enjoyed for five years, but tonight it feels like a watchtower, like I'm positioned to observe a life I'm not quite part of.

The poetry book I marked for Lila sits on my coffee table.

The same edition, the same poem. I bought it for myself months ago and have read it enough times to have it memorized, but tonight the words feel different.

Tonight they feel like a conversation I'm having with someone who may or may not be listening.

"From broken places, something beautiful grows," the poem begins. "Not in spite of the cracks, but because of them. Light gets in where we least expect it, and what seems like ending becomes the space where beginning lives."

I read the lines again, imagining Lila's voice speaking them, imagining her hands turning the pages.

Does she understand why I chose this particular poem, this particular page?

Does she see herself in the metaphor of transformation, or does it feel like presumption from someone who doesn't know her story?

More importantly, does she want to be known by someone like me—someone who notices too much and feels too deeply and can't seem to find the right balance between patience and pursuit?

My phone buzzes with a text from Levi.

Books delivered safely? Or are you still wandering the streets brooding?

I consider ignoring it, but Levi has an annoying habit of showing up at my apartment when I don't respond to his messages.

Delivered. Not brooding.

Sure you're not. For what it's worth, I think you made the right choice with the poetry book. She seems like someone who'd appreciate that kind of thoughtfulness. Dean's over there cooking for her right now. Making enough food for six people because he's nervous.

The message makes something warm and territorial unfurl in my chest, which is probably exactly the reaction Levi was hoping for. Dean's cooking for her while I'm sitting here with poetry and wine. The irony isn't lost on me.

Good for Dean, I type back.

Julian. You know you're allowed to want things, right? You don't have to analyze every feeling until it's safe enough to acknowledge.

I stare at the message for a long time before responding. Some things are worth waiting for.

And some things are worth taking a risk for. Just saying.

He's right, which is why I don't respond. Instead, I set the phone aside and return to the poetry book, to the words I chose for someone who may or may not understand what they mean to me.

Outside my window, Honeyridge Falls settles into its evening rhythm.

Lights come on in houses where people are sharing meals and stories and the comfortable intimacy of knowing someone well enough to exist in the same space without conversation.

It's a picture of contentment that I've always appreciated from a distance, but tonight it makes me acutely aware of my own solitude.

For five years, I've been content with observation, with the quiet satisfaction of understanding how things work without needing to be central to their operation. I've built a good life here, meaningful work, solid friendships, a place that feels like home. It's been enough.

But lying in bed later, staring at the ceiling and thinking about white musk and green apples, about the way Lila's breath caught when I stood too close, about the poetry book that might be sitting on her kitchen table right now... I realize that enough might not be enough anymore.

I don't know if she'll want me. Hell, I don't even know if she's looking to date anyone. But for the first time in years, I'm willing to risk the possibility of disappointment for the chance at something more than enough.

When I finally sleep, I dream of a house that smells like green apples and possibility, of morning coffee shared in a kitchen where broken things get fixed together, of someone who understands that the most beautiful structures are built slowly, with patience and intention and the willingness to get the foundation right before moving on to anything else.

I dream of Lila reading poetry by lamplight, her fingers tracing the same lines I marked for her, her voice speaking words about new beginnings and the courage it takes to let light into broken places.

And when I wake, the dream doesn't fade the way dreams usually do. Instead, it settles into my chest like a promise I'm not ready to make but can't quite let go of either.

Maybe Levi is right. Maybe some things are worth taking a risk for.

Maybe it's time to stop observing from the sidelines and start figuring out how to become part of the story I want to be telling.

Starting tomorrow, I'm going to learn how to fix houses.

Not because I need the skill, though it couldn't hurt.

Not because it's logical, but because everything about her makes me want to be useful.

Because it's something that matters to her, and increasingly, the things that matter to her are beginning to matter to me in ways that probably should worry me more than they do.

But first, I have quarterly reports to finish and a normal day of work to get through.

I have the careful, ordered routine of my regular life to maintain while I figure out how to make room in it for someone who's turned my understanding of myself upside down with nothing more than a scent that lingers and a way of looking at me like I'm worth figuring out.

It's going to be a long day.