Page 13

Lila

I 'm not nesting.

That's what I tell myself as I adjust the new throw pillows I got from the local store for the third time, arranging them on the old leather armchair until they look casually perfect instead of deliberately arranged.

The vanilla candle from the grocery store and Julian's poetry book positioned just so on the built-in bookshelf?

Pure coincidence. Nothing to do with any omega instincts I may or may not be experiencing.

The living room looks different in the late afternoon light. Warmer somehow, more like someone actually lives here instead of just camping out.

Definitely not a nest. Just... strategic decorating.

The poetry book sits open to Julian's marked page on the bookshelf, and I catch myself reading the same lines for the fourth time in an hour:

"From broken places, something beautiful grows. 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 snap the book shut like it's personally offended me, but my fingers linger on the cover. The fact that he chose this specific poem, marked this specific page, feels deliberate in a way that makes my chest tight with something I'm not ready to name.

Julian sees too much. That's the problem with analytical types, they notice things you're not ready to share, understand connections you haven't figured out yourself.

The flowers were sweet, a gesture from someone who understood what it's like to start over.

But this book, these words about transformation and healing.

.. it's like he looked straight through my carefully constructed independence and saw the omega underneath who's been pretending she doesn't need anyone.

Dangerous territory.

I check my phone. Dean said he'd be here around six, which means he'll probably show up ten minutes early because he seems like the punctual type who doesn't want to keep people waiting. The thought makes me smile despite my poetry-induced brooding.

Dean is safe. Dean is uncomplicated warmth and easy smiles and the kind of alpha who asks if you're okay instead of assuming he knows what you need. Dean doesn't send mysterious book deliveries or look at you like you're an equation he's trying to solve.

Dean is exactly what I should want right now.

So why am I thinking about the way Julian's voice sounded when he said, "some things are worth taking your time with." And why can I still feel the ghost of Callum's thumb on my cheek, the way his quiet competence made chaos feel manageable?

I push those thoughts aside and head upstairs to change.

The jeans and sweater I wore to town are fine, but they feel too casual for.

.. whatever this is. Not a date. Dean was very clear about that, which is exactly what I need.

Just neighbors being neighborly. Friends sharing a meal. Nothing complicated.

But I still find myself debating between the soft green dress that brings out my eyes and the safer option of clean jeans and a nicer blouse.

The dress wins, which is probably overthinking it but feels right. It's not fancy, just a simple wrap dress in fabric that feels good against my skin. The kind of thing that says "I'm making an effort to be a good host," without suggesting anything more complicated.

I'm applying mascara when I hear a car pull up outside. Early, as predicted. I take one last look in the mirror, hair down and wavy, minimal makeup, the dress that makes me look like I actually live here instead of camping out and decide this is as good as it's going to get.

The knock comes as I'm heading downstairs, and I open the door to find Dean standing on my front porch with a grocery bag in one hand and that devastatingly warm smile of his.

"Hi," he says, and there's something in his voice that makes heat creep up my neck. "You look... wow."

"It's just a dress," I say, stepping back to let him in.

"Yeah, well." He follows me inside, and I catch his scent, toasted marshmallow and that hint of campfire that makes my omega instincts sit up and take notice. "That dress looks amazing on you."

The compliment is simple, genuine, delivered without the calculating undertone I got used to with my ex-pack. Dean means it without wanting anything in return, which is so refreshing it makes my chest tight with unexpected emotion.

"What's in the bag?" I ask, partly to change the subject and partly because I'm genuinely curious.

"Stir-fry ingredients," Dean says, following me toward the kitchen. "Nothing too complicated, but I make a decent sauce." He pauses, looking around the living room. "This place looks great, by the way. Really cozy."

I definitely don't preen at the compliment, and I absolutely don't think about how the vanilla candle is probably masking my scent.

Or how, for the first time in years, I actually have a scent to mask.

The realization catches me off guard. I'd almost forgotten what it feels like to exist in my own skin without chemical suppression.

"Thanks. I'm still figuring it out."

"You're doing better than you think," Dean says, setting the grocery bag on the counter. "It takes time to make a place feel like home."

There's something in the way he says it that suggests he understands more about starting over than his easy confidence usually reveals.

But before I can ask, he's unpacking ingredients with practiced efficiency.

Fresh vegetables, chicken, noodles, and what looks like half a spice cabinet's worth of bottles and jars.

"Can I help?" I ask, because standing here watching him work feels too much like being taken care of. And I came here to prove I could handle things myself.

"Absolutely. You can handle the vegetables while I get the sauce started." Dean hands me a cutting board and a knife that looks suspiciously professional. "Fair warning, I may have gone overboard with the prep. I stress-cook when I'm nervous."

The admission catches me off guard. "Nervous?"

"Well, yeah." Dean starts pulling containers out of what I thought was a simple grocery bag. "It's not every day I get to cook for someone I..." He trails off, running a hand through his hair. "I mean, I want it to be good. The food. I want you to enjoy it."

The sweet awkwardness of his explanation does something warm and entirely inappropriate to my chest. Dean nervous is somehow even more attractive than Dean confident.

"I'm sure it'll be amazing," I say, accepting the bag of vegetables. "Though I should warn you, my track record with anything kitchen-related is questionable at best."

"Hey, you haven't burned anything down in at least twenty-four hours," Dean points out with a grin. "That's progress."

I laugh, and the sound surprises me, genuine and relaxed in a way I haven't felt in months. To be honest… years.

"Setting the bar nice and low, I see." I cock my hip.

"It's all about realistic expectations." He grins.

We fall into an easy rhythm. Dean works on his sauce with the kind of focus that suggests he takes cooking seriously, while I tackle the vegetables with considerably less skill but growing confidence.

The kitchen fills with warm scents of garlic and ginger and whatever magical combination of spices Dean is creating.

There's something cozy about cooking together like this.

The gentle sounds of chopping and stirring, the way Dean hums softly while he works, completely at ease in my space.

I catch him glancing over at me occasionally, and there's something warm in his expression that makes my chest flutter dangerously.

This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. The comfortable slide into domestic partnership, the way having someone take care of the details makes everything feel easier. The dangerous appeal of letting someone else handle the complicated parts while I focus on being grateful.

But it doesn't feel like that with Dean. It feels like... collaboration. Like we're both contributing something instead of me just being taken care of.

"So," I say, dicing bell peppers with more precision than I knew I possessed, "stress-cooking. Is that a firefighter thing or a Dean thing?"

"Dean thing," he admits, stirring something that smells incredible.

"My grandma taught me when I was twelve.

Said it was important for alphas to know how to take care of themselves and the people they care about.

Turns out she was right. I've never met a problem that couldn't be helped by good food and someone who gives a damn about making it. "

The philosophy is so fundamentally Dean that it makes my chest tight. Of course he learned to cook as an act of service.

"She sounds wonderful," I say.

"She was something else. Lived to be ninety-three and made Sunday dinner for the whole family right up until the end." Dean's smile turns soft with memory. "This sauce? It's hers. She would've gotten a kick out of you, I think."

The statement hits deeper than it should. The casual assumption that his grandmother would have approved of me, the easy way he includes me in the category of people worth caring about, it's exactly the kind of simple acceptance I came here looking for.

I'm contemplating this when Dean reaches past me for the olive oil, and suddenly he's right there.

Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, close enough that his scent surrounds me.

His chest brushes against my shoulder as he stretches for the bottle, and every nerve ending I have sits up and takes notice.

My breath catches audibly, and Dean freezes, his arm still extended over my head. I can feel the exact moment he becomes aware of our proximity, the way his breathing changes, the subtle tension that runs through his body.

"Sorry," he murmurs, but he doesn't step back immediately. Instead, he turns his head slightly, and suddenly we're looking at each other from inches away, the olive oil forgotten in his hand.