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It turns easily in the lock, which is either a good sign or a concerning statement about the security situation in Honeyridge Falls.

The door swings open, and I step inside.

The smell hits me first, not mold or dust or any of the horrors I'd been bracing for.

But something clean and faintly sweet, like lavender and lemon oil.

Someone cared for this place once, cleaned it thoroughly before they left.

No lingering scent of previous owners, no ghost of pack bonds or alpha posturing or omega heat.

Nothing.

For the first time in years, I'm standing in a space that doesn't smell like them.

The floorboards creak under my feet, announcing my arrival to the house itself.

I set my suitcase down in the tiny entryway and really look around.

The living room is small but bright, with hardwood floors that need refinishing and walls that could use a fresh coat of paint.

There's a stone fireplace that looks functional, and in front of it sits a worn leather armchair that's seen better days but looks impossibly comfortable.

I walk over to the chair and sink into it, and suddenly the enormity of what I've done hits me.

I bought a house. Sight unseen. In a town I'd never heard of until three days ago, based on nothing more than a real estate listing and the desperate need to prove I could make my own decisions.

This is either the bravest thing I've ever done or I'm about to learn some very expensive lessons about self-sufficiency.

I look around the empty room and see all the things the sunny photos managed to hide. Water stains on the ceiling that definitely weren't in the listing. Wallpaper peeling in the corners like it's trying to escape. Floorboards that creak ominously even when I'm sitting still.

This isn't a charming fixer-upper. This is a project. A beautiful, expensive, overwhelming project that's going to require me to learn skills I've never needed before and handle problems I've never had to solve.

And I'll be doing it all alone, without anyone to call when things go wrong, without anyone to tell me what I should want or how I should feel about it.

But the leather chair cradles me like it's been waiting for someone to need exactly this kind of comfort.

Someone lived here once, someone who sat in this chair and read books by the fireplace and probably raised a family in these small, imperfect rooms. Someone who cared enough to build built-in shelves and maintain that stone fireplace and plant the fruit trees I can see through the windows.

They figured it out. Learned what they needed to know, made mistakes, fixed them, made it work.

Maybe I can too.

The silence in the house is overwhelming at first. I'm used to the constant hum of Los Angeles, the traffic and sirens and neighbors that reminded me I wasn't alone even when I felt like it. Here, there's nothing but the sound of my own breathing and the occasional creak of old wood settling.

But as I sit in the quiet, something unexpected happens.

Instead of feeling alone, I feel... peaceful.

Like I can finally think without someone else's opinions crowding into my head.

Like I can want things without having to justify them.

Like I can make mistakes without them becoming someone else's disappointment.

I pull out my phone and stare at Dustin's name in my contacts. Part of me wants to call him back, to hear his voice and fall back into the familiar pattern of letting someone else make the hard choices.

But then I remember the way he looked at Skye in those photos. Not the way you look at a convenient omega or a good career move, but the way you look at someone you're actually in love with. The way he used to look at me, before I became part of the routine instead of part of the excitement.

Maybe the breakup wasn't just about them finding someone better. Maybe it was about all of us settling for something that looked right from the outside instead of something that felt right from the inside.

I delete his number.

Then I delete Jace's and Theo's too, one by one, until my contacts list looks as empty as this house feels.

But empty isn't the same as lonely, I'm learning. Empty means there's room for something new. Something chosen instead of assigned. Something that grows from what I actually want instead of what I think I should want.

I sit with my phone in my hands, realizing I don't need to call anyone. Don't need permission or approval or someone else's opinion about whether buying this house was smart or reckless.

I did something for myself, based on my own judgment, and I get to find out how it turns out. That's terrifying and exhilarating in exactly equal measure.

The sun is starting to set, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor. In a few hours, it will be dark, and I'll be alone in a strange house in a strange town where I don't know a single soul.

The thought makes me sit up straighter instead of shrinking back. Tomorrow I'll start figuring out what this place needs, what I need, how to build a life that's actually mine instead of a life that looks good in magazine spreads.

At least I have somewhere to sleep tonight. The bed and mattress I ordered online arrived this morning, and the real estate agent was kind enough to have it set up in the master bedroom along with some of the furniture the previous owners left behind including a working refrigerator. Small mercies.

Tonight, I'm going to sleep in a house that doesn't smell like them , on a bed that I chose, in a room where no one else gets to have an opinion about the temperature or the lighting or whether I want to read until 2 AM.

I'm about to get up and start exploring when I hear something that makes me freeze. Footsteps on the front porch, followed by a knock at the door.

My first thought isn't fear—it's curiosity. Who in this town even knows I'm here? Is this what small-town life is like, neighbors just... showing up?

I creep to the window and peer out, but the porch roof blocks my view. The knocking comes again, polite but persistent. A reporter? How did they find me this fast. My stomach drops.

"Hello?" a woman's voice calls. "I know you're in there, dear. I saw you arrive."

The voice is warm, grandmotherly, completely non-threatening. But more than that, it sounds... welcoming. Like whoever's on my porch is genuinely glad I'm here.

When was the last time someone was just glad I existed without wanting anything in return?

Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm walking toward the door, ready to find out what small-town neighborliness actually looks like.