Page 24

Lila

T he coffee tastes like heaven, but I can barely focus on it when there's a display of competence happening on my front porch.

Dean and Callum work together like they've been doing this for years instead of hours.

Through the kitchen window, I watch Dean hold a support beam perfectly steady while Callum measures and marks cutting points with methodical precision.

No conversation needed. Just the easy rhythm of two alphas who understand how to share space without stepping on each other's authority.

The sight does something dangerous to my chest. Makes me want things I'm not ready to examine too closely.

This is exactly what I came here to avoid, I think, gripping my coffee mug tighter.Getting distracted by helpful alphas who make domestic cooperation look effortless.

Dean straightens up to stretch his back, his t-shirt riding up to reveal a strip of golden skin that makes my mouth go dry. Even from inside the house, I can see the sheen of sweat across his shoulders, the way his muscles move with easy strength as he adjusts his grip on the beam.

Callum says something that makes Dean laugh—a genuine, delighted sound that carries through the afternoon air. The easy camaraderie between them shouldn't be as attractive as it is, but watching them work together makes me imagine other things they might do with that same cooperative efficiency.

Stop it, I tell myself firmly. You're supposed to be proving you can handle things independently. Not fantasizing about your helpful neighbors.

But independence is significantly harder to maintain when said neighbors keep taking their shirts off in your front yard.

Movement on the sidewalk draws my attention away from the porch construction zone.

I move to the front window to get a better look and see Julian appearing at the end of my front walk, carrying what appears to be a bakery box and a small stack of books.

Even from this distance, I can see the careful way he moves.

Deliberate, observant, like he's cataloging details most people would miss.

My pulse kicks up in an entirely different way than it does for Dean's sweet energy or Callum's steady presence. There's something about Julian's quiet attention that makes me feel noticed in ways I'm not sure I'm ready for, like he sees more than I'm comfortable revealing.

I watch him approach the porch, noting how Dean and Callum pause their work to greet him. There's no tension between them, just easy acknowledgment and what looks like genuine friendship.

Julian says something that makes both of them glance toward the front of the house, and suddenly I'm very aware that I'm standing at the front window, probably looking like I've been watching them work for the better part of an hour.

Which I have been.

I retreat from the window just as a soft knock comes at my front door. When I open it, Julian stands on my threshold with that small, knowing smile that suggests he's perfectly aware I was watching.

"Good afternoon," he says, holding up the bakery box.

"I thought you might appreciate some proper sustenance to go with all the manual labor happening in your yard.

" He glances toward the front lawn where the mailbox lies sideways in the grass.

"And I noticed your mailbox needs attention.

I brought tools, if you would like the help. "

"You didn't have to—" I start.

"I know," he says. "I wanted to."

The distinction hits deeper than it should. In my old life, everything came with obligations and expectations, carefully calculated gestures designed to benefit the giver as much as the receiver. Julian's quiet generosity feels different, no strings attached, no hidden agenda.

"Come in," I say, stepping back to let him pass.

Julian moves into the entryway with careful grace, bringing with him the scent of black tea and bergamot that sends electricity racing along my nerve endings.

As he passes by me in the narrow space, his shoulder brushes mine in a contact that sends heat racing down my spine.

"What kind of food are we talking about?" I ask, following him toward the kitchen.

"Cinnamon rolls from Maeve's bakery," Julian says, setting the box on my counter with careful precision. "Still warm. I may have mentioned to her that you seem to appreciate quality baked goods, so there are enough here to feed what could reasonably be called a small construction crew."

"I'm never going to want to leave if she keeps this up," I say, meaning it.

"I told her that our new neighbor has excellent taste in literature and deserves proper sustenance while she settles into her new home," he says, his dark eyes holding mine with that steady attention that makes me feel like he sees more than I'm ready to share.

"She drew her own conclusions about appropriate portion sizes. "

There's something in the way he says it, casual but weighted with meaning that tells me Julian's conclusions about me extend far beyond my reading preferences.

He pulls a thermos from his jacket pocket and sets it beside the bakery box. "Coffee that is actually strong enough to serve a purpose. The diner brew is adequate for most people, but I suspected you might appreciate something with more complexity."

"You suspected correctly," I say, accepting the thermos with hands that aren't quite steady. When our fingers brush during the exchange, that electric thrum intensifies, spreading from the point of contact up my arms and settling somewhere low in my belly.

Julian notices, of course he does. His gaze sharpens slightly, taking in the subtle shift in my scent that I can't quite control, the way my breath catches at the simple contact.

"The books are additional items I thought might interest you," he continues, his voice maintaining that measured tone. "Nothing urgent. Simply something to read if you have the time."

He places the small stack beside the other items, and I catch the titles: Jane Eyre , A Room with a View , and The House of Mirth . A little laugh slips out before I can stop it. Trust him to give me stories about fierce, stubborn heroines who somehow still find their happy endings.

He sees me, I realize with a flutter of something that might be panic or pleasure. He actually sees who I am.

"Thank you," I manage, meaning it more than the simple words can convey. "I've never had a man give me books before."

"You're welcome," Julian says, leaning back against my counter. "Though I should warn you. Dean and Callum are likely to detect the scent of cinnamon rolls and abandon their project with considerable speed."

As if summoned by his words, the front door opens and Dean's voice calls out, "Please tell me someone's making something that smells amazing, because I'm starving over here."

"Kitchen," I call back, trying to compose myself before Dean's enthusiastic energy fills my small space.

He appears in the doorway still flushed from work, his hair disheveled and his t-shirt damp with sweat in ways that should be unappealing but absolutely aren't. His scent fills the kitchen immediately.

"Julian," Dean says with genuine pleasure, then his gaze lands on the bakery box. "Oh man, please tell me that's what I think it is."

"Cinnamon rolls from Maeve's bakery," Julian confirms. "Still warm."

Dean's face lights up like Christmas morning. "Dude, you're my new favorite person."

"I was your favorite person yesterday when I helped you carry furniture," I point out, trying to inject some lightness into the sudden tension building in my small kitchen.

"You guys are both awesome," Dean says easily, moving to the sink to wash his hands.

The simple comment shouldn't make my pulse flutter, but the way he says it—like having multiple favorite people is the most natural thing in the world sends warmth spreading through me in ways I'm not ready to analyze.

This is getting out of hand,I think as Dean dries his hands and his scent mingles with Julian's in the enclosed space.I came here to be independent, not to collect alphas like some kind of omega cliché.

Callum appears in the doorway as Dean's finishing up, taking in the scene with those steady hazel eyes that seem to document everything without judgment.

His presence immediately changes the dynamic in the room, not because he dominates the space, but because he grounds it, makes everything feel more solid and secure.

There's sawdust caught in his dark hair and his work shirt clings to his broad chest in ways that make my mouth go dry.

"Julian," he says with a nod, then his gaze lands on me. "Sorry for the dust."

His voice is rougher than usual, probably from working in the heat, and the gravelly tone sends an unexpected shiver down my spine.

"I don't mind," I say, and mean it. There's something deeply satisfying about having evidence of their work in my space, proof that things are being built and fixed and made better.

Now all three of them are in my kitchen. Dean at the table, Julian leaning against the counter with that watchful stillness that makes me hyperaware of every breath I take, and Callum filling the doorway with quiet competence that somehow makes the space feel both smaller and safer.

Their combined presence should feel overwhelming in a space this small, but instead it feels... right . Like pieces of a puzzle clicking into place.

Oh no, I think with dawning realization.This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. This feeling like they all belong here.

Their scents begin to mingle in the enclosed space.

Dean's warm marshmallow and amber, Callum's cedar and sawdust, Julian's sophisticated blend of black tea and bergamot.

The combination creates something new and complex that wraps around me like a physical embrace, making my skin feel too warm and my breathing slightly unsteady.