Page 18

Lila

T he delivery truck's engine rumbles to life just as I sign for the packages, leaving me standing on my front porch at eight in the morning with three large boxes.

I stare at the shipping labels, my name, this address, sent express from my assistant in LA. Right after I'd arrived here and had my first night alone in this house, when my resolve about being completely independent temporarily cracked.

The largest box has "FRAGILE - HANDLE WITH CARE" stamped across it in red letters that feel like an accusation.

I know exactly what's in these boxes because I ordered them myself in a moment of panic right after the breakup, when I was still reeling and not thinking clearly.

I'd had them shipped to my assistant Sarah's house because I couldn't bear the thought of having them delivered to the mansion I was about to be evicted from.

When I realized I was about to live completely alone for the first time, that I'd have to handle everything by myself. Including the possibility of going through heat alone.

The thought had terrified me enough to place an emergency order for supplies I swore I'd never need.

Comfort items. Nesting materials. The kind of things that omega lifestyle magazines insist are "essential for emotional regulation during transitional periods." Things I told myself were just practical purchases for someone starting over.

I should have canceled the order when I decided to prove I could handle everything myself. Should have redirected it back to LA or just eaten the cost. Instead, I'd forgotten about it entirely until this morning when a cheerful delivery driver handed me evidence of my own contradictions.

I carry the boxes inside and set them on the kitchen table, staring at them like they might explode. The note from my assistant is taped to the top box in her neat handwriting:

Lila—These arrived at my place a few days after you left. Figured you might want them forwarded to your new address. Hope you're settling in okay! The press has moved on to other scandals, so you can come back whenever you're ready. Miss you! —Sarah

The casual assumption that I'll be back stings more than it should. Sarah means well, but she doesn't understand that "whenever you're ready" might be never. That I don't want that life anymore, the cameras, the red carpets, the constant performance of being someone else.

She also doesn't understand that these boxes represent the panicked, dependent version of myself I'm trying to leave behind.

I open the smallest box first, telling myself I'm just being practical. Might as well see what I'm dealing with before I decide what to do with everything.

Scent-neutral sheets in the softest cotton I could find.

A diffuser with three bottles of calming essential oils.

Lavender, chamomile, and something called "comfort blend" that the website promised would help with anxiety.

A weighted throw blanket in cream-colored fleece that looked innocent enough online but feels suspiciously like the kind of thing you'd want to wrap around yourself when you're feeling vulnerable.

I lift the blanket and immediately catch the faint scent of the warehouse it came from, clean and neutral, waiting to absorb whatever environment it lands in. My fingers tighten in the soft fabric without my permission.

It's just a blanket. People buy blankets all the time without it meaning anything significant about their designation or their need for comfort.

Regular people have cozy things in their homes because cozy things are nice, not because they're biologically driven to surround themselves with soft textures and familiar scents.

The second box contains pillows. Six of them, in different sizes and textures.

Down-filled and perfectly plump, covered in cases that match the sheets.

The kind of pillows that are clearly meant to be arranged and rearranged, stacked and scattered, built into configurations that serve no practical purpose except making a space feel safe and contained.

My throat goes tight as I look at them. Even packed in plastic, they look like an invitation to something I've been trying very hard not to want.

The third box contains fairy lights and a bottle of linen spray that promises to "refresh and soften fabrics." More blankets, lighter weight, in coordinating colors. Everything you'd need to turn a space into exactly the kind of nest I swore I didn't need.

I should put it all back in the boxes and donate it to charity.

Someone else could use these things, someone who isn't trying to prove they can handle being alone.

Someone who hasn't spent the last month insisting that independence means not needing comfort items designed specifically for their designation.

Instead, I find myself gathering everything in my arms and walking upstairs.

I told myself the small front bedroom would be for storage. Maybe a home office eventually, when I figure out what kind of work I want to do that doesn't involve cameras or people analyzing my every expression.

But standing in the doorway with my arms full of comfort items, I can see exactly what this room wants to be.

It's the perfect size, not too big, not too small. The windows face the street but are positioned high enough that no one can easily see in. The morning light is soft instead of harsh, and the blue walls feel calm and peaceful in a way that makes my shoulders relax without conscious thought.

I set everything on the floor and open the windows, letting the summer air flow through the space. The room immediately feels different. Alive somehow, waiting for something to happen.

I'm just arranging things temporarily, I tell myself as I spread the cream blanket across the floor in a patch of warm sunbeams. Just seeing how everything looks, making sure nothing was damaged in shipping. It's not like I'm creating a space for any particular purpose.

The pillows look ridiculous piled in the corner, so I spread them out a little. Better distribution, more visually appealing.

The scent-neutral sheets can't be returned if they've been unfolded, so I might as well see if they're actually as soft as advertised. I shake them out and let them settle over the blanket, then smooth out the wrinkles with more care than the task requires.

I step back to assess the results and realize I've created exactly what it looks like I've created.

The natural light streams through the windows, warming the space and making everything glow softly. The cream and blue color palette is soothing without being boring. The pillows are arranged in a way that suggests comfort and relaxation, and the blankets layer together to create texture and depth.

It looks like a nest. It looks like a place someone might retreat to when the world feels overwhelming. It looks exactly like the kind of space an omega might create when she needs to feel safe and contained and surrounded by softness.

"I'm not nesting," I say aloud to the empty room, as if saying it will make it true.

The room doesn't answer, but the way the light catches the fabric suggests otherwise.

I sit down on the edge of the arrangement. Just to test the comfort level, obviously. The blankets provide cushioning against the hardwood floor, and the pillows arrange themselves around me without effort. The blanket wraps around my shoulders like it was designed specifically for this purpose.

My scent immediately begins to warm the space, green apple and white musk mixing with the clean scent of new fabric. It's subtle but unmistakable. The beginning of the scenting process that turns a collection of objects into something personal and claimed.

I should get up. Should put everything back in the boxes and pretend this never happened. Should maintain the careful emotional distance I've been building since I decided to start over.

Instead, I find myself adjusting a pillow and wondering where I should hang the fairy lights.

That's when I see him.

Dean jogs past my house with the kind of easy rhythm that suggests he does this regularly, part of his daily routine. This morning, he's close enough that I can see the focus on his face, the way his breath comes steady and controlled.

Close enough to notice that he's not wearing a shirt.

My brain stops working entirely.

Dean shirtless is a revelation I wasn't prepared for.

All that golden skin gleaming with a light sheen of sweat, muscles moving with the fluid coordination of someone who's naturally athletic.

His chest rises and falls with his breathing, and I can see the definition in his abs, the way his shoulders work with each stride.

He's beautiful in a way that bypasses rational thought and goes straight to something much more primal.

That's when he looks up and sees me watching him through the window.

Our eyes meet across the distance, and something electric passes between us. Dean's stride falters slightly, surprise flickering across his face before it transforms into that warm smile that has my heart skip a beat.

He slows to a stop and raises his hand in a wave, his expression brightening with obvious pleasure at seeing me.

I wave back automatically, my heart hammering against my ribs, completely unable to look away from all that exposed skin and the way he's looking at me like seeing me has made his morning better.

That's when my body decides to betray me completely.

Heat blooms beneath my skin like someone struck a match, starting in my chest and spreading outward until I'm flushed and breathless.

My scent flares immediately, green apple and white musk turning rich and warm and unmistakably interested, filling the small room with evidence of exactly how affected I am.

The pillow I was holding ends up clutched against my chest like armor that won't protect me from anything.

Dean's grin widens, and he gives me a little salute before resuming his run, disappearing around the corner with that easy athletic grace.

I sit frozen in my accidental nest, clutching a pillow and breathing in my own scent like some kind of hormonal disaster. My heart is still racing, and I can feel the flush across my cheeks and down my neck.

This is exactly what I was afraid of. Not Dean specifically—though Dean shirtless is definitely now filed under "dangerous territory"—but this feeling. The way my body seems to have its own opinions about attractive alphas that my brain hasn't approved yet.

I came here to be independent. To figure out who I am without pack dynamics and alpha politics and the constant navigation of omega expectations. The last thing I need is to start scenting like an interested omega every time someone attractive jogs past my house.

But the damage is done. My scent has thoroughly claimed this space now, turning it from a neutral collection of comfort items into something unmistakably mine.

The green apple and white musk sweetness clings to the fabric, and when I settle back against the pillows, arranging the blankets around me, I find myself sinking into a cocoon of softness.

My body relaxes in ways I haven't felt in years. The tension I've been carrying in my shoulders melts away. My breathing slows and deepens.

For the first time since I arrived in Honeyridge Falls, I feel completely, utterly safe.

The realization hits me like a physical blow.

This is what I've been missing. Not romance, not pack dynamics, not the complicated politics of alpha attention, just safety.

The bone-deep security that comes from having a space that's entirely yours, scented with your presence and arranged according to your instincts.

No cameras, no paparazzi lurking around corners, no need to be "on" every moment. No autograph requests or forced smiles or carefully calculated responses. Just me, just Lila, allowed to exist without performance or expectation.

I curl up against the pillows and let myself feel it fully. The peace, the contentment, the sense of being exactly where I belong.

I didn't come here to find a pack. I didn't come here to fall in love. I definitely didn't come here to create a nest in my spare bedroom while getting flustered over shirtless joggers.

But between Dean's dinner invitation, Julian's literary care packages, and Callum's promise to teach me actual home repair, independence in Honeyridge Falls is going to be significantly more complicated than I planned.

That's when I hear a truck pull up outside.

My heart does a little skip—Dean, maybe, back from his run? But when I peek out the front window, I see Callum's familiar pickup loaded with lumber and supplies, Callum himself already unloading wooden beams with methodical efficiency.

Right. The porch repairs. We talked about this.

Time to pretend I wasn't just creating a nest while fantasizing about a certain shirtless firefighter.