Page 15

Dean

I wake up thinking about her laugh.

It's the first thing that hits me when consciousness creeps back in.

Not the alarm clock, not the morning light filtering through my blinds, but the memory of Lila's genuine, surprised laughter when I told her she was making progress by not burning anything down in twenty-four hours.

The way it transformed her whole face, like she'd forgotten she was allowed to find things funny.

The way she said "For me too" when I told her the evening was really good, better than I'd hoped.

I drag myself out of bed and throw on running clothes, trying to get my head on straight.

It was supposed to be just dinner. Just neighbors being neighborly, like I told her when I asked.

Except it didn't feel like "just" anything, and I'm having trouble pretending it did.

I'm the one who said "as friends" to make her comfortable, but now I'm wondering if that was a mistake.

The early morning air helps, but it doesn't do much for the restless feeling that's been building since I left her house last night.

I keep thinking about the moment when Muffin interrupted us in the kitchen.

What might have happened if that cat hadn't chosen that exact second to demand attention.

Would I have kissed her? Would she have let me?

More importantly, what does it mean that I wanted to so badly?

I've dated before, but never an omega. Always betas, relationships that were comfortable and straightforward. But this feels completely different in a way that should probably worry me. Like something shifted last night, and I don't know how to shift it back. Or that I want to.

By the time I'm heading out for my morning run, I've convinced myself that checking on Lila today would be the neighborly thing to do.

Maybe she needs help with something else around the house.

Maybe she's struggling with that temperamental oven again.

Maybe she just needs someone to remind her she doesn't have to handle everything alone.

The fact that I want to see her smile again has nothing to do with it. Obviously.

Honeyridge Falls is still quiet at this hour.

Just a few early risers walking dogs and the distant sound of someone starting their car.

The morning sun is just beginning to warm things up, and by the time I'm halfway through my usual route, I'm working up a sweat.

I pull off my t-shirt and tuck it into the back of my shorts, grateful for the cooler air against my skin.

I take my usual route through town and up toward the older neighborhoods, but instead of turning back at my normal halfway point, I find myself jogging past Lila's street.

Just to see if everything looks okay, I tell myself. Make sure there weren't any overnight disasters with the plumbing or electrical. Or that she didn't burn the kitchen down trying to make breakfast. The thought makes me smile despite myself.

Her house looks peaceful in the morning light, curtains drawn but no signs of distress. I almost turn around and head home, but then I catch a glimpse of movement in the front window. Just a shadow passing by and relief floods through me that she's up and moving around.

See? She's fine. Mission accomplished.

I'm halfway back to town when my phone buzzes with a text from Mitchell at the station.

Early call came in. Handled it. Captain wants to see you when you get in.

Great. Nothing says "good morning" like an unexpected meeting with the boss. I pick up the pace and head home, my peaceful morning run officially ruined.

The quick shower and change into uniform feels rushed, but I make it to the station with a few minutes to spare. The familiar smell of coffee and diesel fuel greets me as I walk in. Mitchell's at his desk doing paperwork, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"Morning, sunshine," he calls without looking up. "Captain's in his office. Fair warning he's got that look."

"What look?"

"The one that means he's about to volunteer you for something you don't want to do."

Fantastic.

Captain Williams waves me into his office with the weary expression of a man who's been dealing with municipal politics since before I was born. "Close the door, Dean. We need to talk."

I settle into the chair across from his desk and wait. Williams has this way of starting conversations that makes you feel like you're already in trouble for something you haven't done yet.

"Community outreach," he says without preamble. "City council wants us more visible, more involved with local events. They think it'll help with the next budget approval."

"Okay," I say carefully. "What kind of events?"

"Berry festival's coming up. They want a fire safety booth, demonstrations, the whole dog and pony show." Williams leans back in his chair. "Normally I'd assign this to Stevens, but he's out on paternity leave for another month. You're up."

"I can handle that," I say, because really, how hard can it be? Set up a booth, talk to kids about stop-drop-and-roll, maybe demonstrate the equipment. Easy.

"Good. First planning meeting is Thursday. Oh, and Dean?" Williams fixes me with a look that's more knowing than stern. "Heard you've been helping out our new resident. That pretty omega who bought the Anderson place."

"Sir?"

"Small town," Williams says with a warm smile. "Word gets around when one of my guys is cooking dinner for a lovely young lady. About time you started dating someone, son. Just make sure you're treating her right."

I nod, surprised by how much his approval means to me.

Having Williams's blessing feels important in a way I can't quite explain.

My whole face must light up because Williams chuckles and shakes his head with obvious fondness.

Though I have to admit, if Lila had been a seventy-year-old guy instead of a beautiful omega who smells like green apples and trouble, I probably wouldn't have stress-cooked enough food for six people.

"Understood, sir."

"Good. Meeting's at ten on Thursday. Don't be late."

The rest of the morning passes in routine maintenance tasks.

Checking equipment, reviewing protocols, the kind of busywork that keeps a fire station running when there aren't any actual emergencies.

But I keep catching my mind wandering back to Lila, wondering what she's doing with her day, whether she's making progress on any of those house projects she mentioned.

I'm in the middle of reorganizing the supply closet when Aunt Maeve appears in the station doorway like she's been summoned by my thoughts.

"Dean Matthew Maddox," she says in that tone that means I'm about to be conscripted for something, "I need to talk to you."

Mitchell looks up from his paperwork with the expression of a man who's about to witness something entertaining. "Morning, Mrs. Bennett. How's the bakery business?"

"Busy enough to keep me out of trouble," Maeve replies, but her attention is focused on me. "Dean, come here."

I approach cautiously, because Maeve in full-on auntie mode is a force of nature that shouldn't be underestimated. She's carrying a large container that I recognize as one of her good storage dishes, the kind she only uses for special occasions or when she's trying to make a point.

"I made too much stew last night," she announces. "No sense letting it go to waste."

She presses the container into my hands with the kind of authority that makes arguing seem pointless. The stew smells incredible, rich and hearty, with that indefinable quality that makes everything Maeve cooks taste like a warm hug.

"Aunt Maeve, I appreciate it, but?—"

"You're going over there anyway," she interrupts, fixing me with a look that suggests she knows exactly what I was thinking about during my morning jog. "Don't let her live on toast."

"I'm not going anywhere," I protest, which would be more convincing if I weren't already mentally calculating whether I have time to swing by Lila's.

"Of course you are," Maeve says with the patient tone of someone explaining something obvious to a slow child.

"She's new in town, living in that big house all alone, trying to figure out how to take care of herself.

And you're a nice young man who happens to be on a long shift with time for a quick break. "

Mitchell makes a sound that might be a cough or might be a laugh. When I glare at him, he goes back to his paperwork with suspicious intensity.

"Besides," Maeve continues, "I saw Callum Greaves heading over there about an hour ago with his toolbox. Poor girl's probably drowning in good intentions by now."

Something cold twists in my stomach at the mention of Callum.

Not that there's anything wrong with Callum.

He's a good guy, reliable, knows his way around anything that needs fixing.

It's just that the thought of him in Lila's house, being helpful while she looks at him with that grateful smile.

.. makes me wish I'd thought to check on her first.

"She needs the help," I say, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile.

"She needs friends," Maeve corrects. "And maybe someone who understands that helping doesn't have to come with strings attached."

The dig is gentle but pointed, and I'm not entirely sure whether it's aimed at me or Callum or just men in general. Knowing Maeve, probably all three.

"Fine," I say, accepting defeat with as much grace as I can muster. "I'll drop it off."

"Good boy." Maeve pats my cheek like I'm twelve years old. "And Dean? Try not to overthink it. Sometimes the best thing you can do for someone is just show up."

She leaves me standing there with a container of stew and the uncomfortable feeling that my aunt sees right through every carefully constructed justification I've built for wanting to see Lila again.

"Your aunt's something else," Mitchell observes once Maeve's out of earshot.