Page 14

For a moment we're frozen like that, his arm creating a cage around me, my heart hammering against my ribs. Dean's gaze flicks down to my lips, lingers there for a heartbeat longer than it should, and the heat in his eyes makes my mouth go dry.

I can smell the faint hint of his aftershave mixing with his natural scent, can see the way his pupils have dilated, can feel the barely restrained tension in how he's holding himself so carefully still.

My omega instincts are practically purring at the proximity of a strong, gentle alpha who smells like everything I didn't know I was missing.

And then I catch it, the subtle shift in the air around us.

My scent, warming and sweetening in response to his closeness, mixing with his until the whole kitchen smells like some impossibly cozy dream.

I'd forgotten this could happen, forgotten that my body might have opinions about attractive alphas that my brain hasn't approved yet.

Dean's nostrils flare slightly, just once, and the way his eyes darken tells me he's noticed too.

"The oil," I manage to say, my voice coming out slightly breathless.

"Right," Dean says, his voice rougher than it was a moment ago. But he still doesn't move. "The oil."

We stand there for another heartbeat, close enough that I can count the flecks of gold in his eyes, close enough that leaning forward would close the distance between us entirely.

Then the timer for the rice goes off, breaking whatever spell we were under, and Dean steps back with slightly flushed cheeks and a rueful smile.

"Saved by the bell," he says, turning to check the stove.

I go back to chopping vegetables with hands that aren't quite steady, trying to focus on the simple task instead of replaying that moment. The kitchen feels smaller now, charged with something I wasn't expecting when I invited him over for dinner.

I'm hyperaware of the lingering sweetness in the air, my scent still responding to what just happened.

Despite my attempts to think practical thoughts about bell peppers and dinner prep.

Weeks off scent blockers and my body is already betraying me, advertising exactly how affected I am by Dean's proximity.

This is exactly what I was afraid of. Not Dean specifically, but this feeling.

The warm pull of attraction, the way my body seems to fit naturally into the spaces around his, the dangerous comfort of having someone in my kitchen who knows what he's doing and doesn't make me feel inadequate for not knowing it myself.

"How are those peppers coming?" Dean asks, glancing over his shoulder with that easy smile.

"Nearly done," I say, proud of how normal my voice sounds.

"Perfect. The sauce is just about ready for everything to come together."

The metaphor isn't lost on me.

We work in companionable silence for a few more minutes, the kitchen filling with the sounds and scents of a meal being prepared with care. Dean moves around the space with easy confidence, tasting and adjusting seasonings while I finish the vegetables and try not to stare.

"Okay," Dean says eventually, "moment of truth. Want to try the sauce?"

He holds out a wooden spoon with a small amount of what looks like liquid gold, and I step closer to taste it. The first flavor that hits is sweet and savory, followed by a hint of heat and something complex I can't identify.

"Oh my god," I say around the spoon. "That's incredible."

"Yeah?" Dean's face lights up with pleasure at my reaction. "Not too spicy?"

"It's perfect." And it is. Complex enough to be interesting, balanced enough that every flavor comes through clearly. "Seriously, this is restaurant-quality."

"Grandma's secret weapons," Dean says with a grin. "Love and way too much butter."

I laugh, and the sound feels lighter than it has in weeks. "Well, your grandmother was a wise woman."

"She was. She always said the real trick was cooking for people you actually care about." Dean's voice goes softer on the last part, and when I look up at him, there's something in his expression that makes my pulse skip.

He moves to check something on the stove, and we navigate around each other in the small kitchen with a new awareness. When he needs to reach past me for salt, there's a careful politeness to the way he gives me space, like we're both pretending that moment didn't shift something between us.

This is dangerous territory again. The easy intimacy of cooking together, the way he looks at me like I'm someone worth taking care of, the growing awareness that "just friends" might not be accurate.

But instead of panicking, I find myself stepping closer, drawn by the warmth in his eyes and the way his scent seems designed to make me feel safe.

"Dean," I start, though I'm not sure what I'm planning to say.

That's when something furry brushes against my legs, followed by a loud, demanding meow.

I look down to find Muffin, Mrs. Jones's tabby cat, somehow inside my kitchen and weaving between my ankles like he owns the place.

"How did you…" I start, then notice the back door is slightly ajar. "Did I not close that properly?"

Dean chuckles, the tension from the moment before melting into amusement. "Looks like you've got a dinner guest."

Muffin meows again, more insistently this time, and sits directly on my feet in what's clearly a demand for attention.

"He probably smells the food," Dean says, crouching down to scratch behind the cat's ears. "Smart guy. This does smell pretty amazing."

The interruption breaks whatever spell we were under, and I find myself grateful for Muffin's timing even as I'm slightly disappointed by it. The moment was getting too intense, moving toward something I'm not sure I'm ready for.

"Okay," Dean says, giving Muffin one final scratch before standing up. "Let's get everything combined and see what we've created."

"I should probably take him back to Mrs. Jones," I say, but Muffin seems perfectly content where he is, now investigating the fascinating smells coming from the stove.

"After dinner," Dean suggests. "He's not causing any trouble, and Mrs. Jones probably knows where he is. Cats have a way of making themselves at home wherever they find good food and company."

For the next few minutes, we focus on bringing the meal together. Dean handles the hot pans while I transfer vegetables and watch him work with the kind of easy competence that suggests this is as natural to him as breathing.

The finished stir-fry looks like something from a restaurant. Colorful, perfectly cooked, smelling like heaven and served over rice that's somehow fluffy and perfect despite coming from my temperamental stove.

"This is amazing," I say after the first bite. "Seriously, I had no idea you could cook like this."

"Told you I stress-cook," Dean says with a grin. "Though I have to admit, this turned out better than usual."

"What's different about tonight?"

Dean's smile turns softer. "Good company, I guess."

The compliment is delivered so naturally that it takes a moment to hit, and when it does, something flutters in my chest.

We eat in comfortable silence, punctuated by small conversations about the meal, about the house.

Dean asks about my plans for the space, listens with genuine interest when I describe my vague ideas about paint colors and furniture arrangements, offers practical suggestions without trying to take over my project.

Muffin settles under the table, occasionally bumping against our legs in hopes of dropped food, adding an unexpectedly domestic touch to the evening.

After dinner, Dean insists on helping with the dishes despite my protests. We work side by side at the sink, and there's something comfortable about the routine. Pass a plate, rinse, dry, stack. Normal. Easy. The kind of domestic partnership I haven't had in longer than I care to admit.

The air around us has settled into something warm and cozy, my scent having calmed from the earlier spike but still mixing pleasantly with his amber and marshmallow. It's intimate in a way I wasn't prepared for, like we're creating our own little atmosphere of contentment and care.

Muffin supervises from his perch on the windowsill, tail twitching with what might be approval.

This is what I've been missing, I realize.

Not the grand gestures or public declarations that characterized my last relationship, but this quiet intimacy of shared tasks and comfortable silence.

The feeling that someone wants to be in your space not because it benefits them, but because being with you makes ordinary moments feel meaningful.

Turns out "just friends" hits different when he's in your kitchen making everything smell like home.

Though I can't help but wonder what it would be like to have this same domestic comfort with someone like Callum. All that quiet competence focused on more than just emergency repairs. Or Julian's careful attention turned toward understanding what I need instead of studying what I'm running from.

"Thank you," I say as Dean dries the last plate. "For dinner, for the company, for..." I gesture vaguely, trying to encompass everything about this evening that's made me feel more human than I have in months.

"Thank you for letting me," Dean says simply. "It's been a while since I had someone to cook for."

The admission suggests there's a story there, but before I can ask, Dean is folding the dish towel and hanging it neatly on the oven handle.

"I should probably head out," he says, though he doesn't move toward the door. "Let you get back to whatever you were doing before I invaded your evening. And maybe return your furry dinner guest to his actual home."

"You didn't invade anything," I say quickly. "This was... really nice."

Dean scoops up Muffin, who purrs contentedly in his arms. "Well, this guy certainly made himself comfortable. I think he approves of the evening."

"He's got good taste," I say, reaching over to scratch Muffin's chin. "In food and company."

"Yeah?" Dean's smile turns pleased. "Because I was hoping we could do it again sometime. The cooking thing, I mean. Or whatever."

The "or whatever" is delivered with a slight flush that suggests Dean is thinking about possibilities that extend beyond friendly dinners, and the awareness makes something warm and reckless unfurl in my chest.

"I'd like that," I hear myself say.

Dean's smile widens. "Good. That's... really good."

We walk to the front door together, the evening air cool against my skin when Dean opens it. He pauses on the threshold, turning back to look at me with an expression I can't quite read.

"Lila," he says, his voice softer than it's been all evening. "I know you're figuring things out, and I don't want to mess with that. But I just... I needed you to know that tonight was really good. Better than I hoped, actually."

The words are simple, honest, delivered without expectation or pressure. Dean isn't asking for anything I'm not ready to give, just making sure I understand that this mattered to him.

"For me too," I say quietly.

Dean nods, something satisfied and warm crossing his face. "You're doing better than you think, Lila," he says, echoing his earlier words. "Whatever brought you here, whatever you're running from... you're stronger than you know."

Then he's walking down my front path with that easy, confident stride, carrying Muffin toward Mrs. Jones's house, and I'm standing in my doorway watching him go and wondering how someone I've known for less than a week can make me feel so thoroughly seen and accepted.

I close the door behind him and lean against it, breathing in the lingering traces of his scent and the warm smells of the meal we shared. The house feels different tonight. Not empty, despite being alone again, but full of the echoes of companionship and care.

I walk back to the living room and find myself drawn to the poetry book still sitting on the bookshelf. Without quite meaning to, I open it to the marked page and read Julian's chosen words again.

"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."

The words hit differently now, after an evening spent feeling like myself again instead of like someone performing the role of herself. Maybe Julian was right to mark this particular poem. Maybe there is something beautiful growing in the spaces where my old life fell apart.

And maybe, for the first time since I arrived in Honeyridge Falls, I'm starting to believe that beautiful thing might actually be me.

I close the book and carry it with me as I head upstairs, my house settling into comfortable quiet around me.

Tomorrow I'll deal with whatever complications come next.

Tomorrow I'll figure out what it means that I'm attracted to three very different alphas who represent three very different approaches to the life I'm trying to build.

Tonight, I'm going to read poetry and remember what it feels like to be cared for without conditions, to be seen without being scrutinized, to exist in a space where broken things can become beautiful given enough time and the right kind of attention.

Tonight, that feels like enough.