Page 25

I can feel my body responding to their proximity in ways I can't control. A flush spreading across my chest, a subtle dampness between my thighs that makes me shift uncomfortably.

A low hum begins building in my belly, not urgent heat, but something warmer and more insistent than simple attraction. My omega instincts have developed very specific opinions about my current situation, and those opinions are becoming harder to ignore.

"So," Dean says, apparently oblivious to my growing distraction, "what's the plan for these cinnamon rolls? Are we talking civilized snack or complete feeding frenzy?"

"A complete feeding frenzy would be most appropriate," Julian says without hesitation, and there's the hint of dry humor in his precise delivery.

"I like this guy," Dean grins, gesturing at Julian with obvious approval.

Callum moves further into the kitchen to get a glass of water, and suddenly the space feels impossibly small. Every direction I turn, there's another alpha. Broad shoulders and competent hands and scents that make my head spin with want I'm not supposed to be feeling.

Dean leans past me to grab plates from the cabinet, his chest brushing against my shoulder for just a moment.

The brief contact sends electricity through me, and I have to bite back the small sound that wants to escape.

His scent intensifies with the movement, warm and inviting, and I catch myself leaning slightly into the contact before I remember to step back.

You're supposed to be independent, I remind myself desperately. Stop melting every time one of them gets close.

"You okay?" Callum asks, his deep voice rumbling with what might be concern. Those steady hazel eyes take in my flushed cheeks, the way my knuckles have gone white where I'm clutching the counter. "You look flushed."

"Just the heat from the oven," I lie, though I haven't turned the oven on. "Kitchen gets warm."

Julian's gaze sharpens as he takes in my obvious distress. "Fresh air would be advisable," he suggests smoothly. "The afternoon is quite pleasant."

"Good call," Dean agrees, already loading plates with cinnamon rolls. "We can eat on the front steps, take a break from all the hammering."

They file out of the kitchen with easy efficiency, leaving me alone for a moment to collect myself.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing pulse and ignore the very noticeable slick between my thighs that suggests my body has opinions about three attractive alphas in my space that my brain hasn't approved yet.

This is just normal attraction,I tell myself.Normal biological responses to appealing alphas who smell good and look even better. Nothing to worry about.

But as I follow them outside, carrying Julian's coffee and trying not to think about how their combined scents seem to have soaked into my clothes, I can't shake the feeling that something's shifting.

Some internal barrier that's been keeping me safely distant is starting to crack, letting in possibilities I'm not sure I'm ready for.

The afternoon air helps clear my head slightly, but not enough to stop the way my gaze keeps drifting between them as they arrange themselves on my front steps.

Dean sprawled comfortably with his long legs stretched out, Julian sitting with precise posture that somehow manages to look both elegant and relaxed, Callum leaning back against the porch railing with easy confidence.

They look like they belong here. In my space, on my porch, sharing cinnamon rolls in the sunshine, like this is something we do regularly instead of the first time we've all been together.

This is dangerous, I think, settling onto the steps between Dean and Callum.This feeling like we're already a unit. Like this is natural.

The thought should worry me. Should make me want to maintain careful boundaries and professional distance.

Instead, it makes me wonder what it would feel like to belong here with them.

"These are incredible," Dean says around a bite of cinnamon roll, interrupting my dangerous train of thought. "Aunt Maeve's outdone herself."

"She particularly enjoys having someone new to care for," Julian agrees, though his attention seems more focused on studying me than on the pastry. "I believe she finds it satisfying to have a worthy recipient for her efforts."

"Lucky me," I say, settling deeper into my spot between Dean and Callum—close enough to Dean that I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, close enough to Callum that his steady presence makes something in my chest unclench.

"Lucky," Callum says quietly, and there's something in his tone that suggests he's not just talking about Maeve's baking.

The afternoon passes in easy conversation and comfortable silences, punctuated by the sounds of neighborhood life around us. Mrs. Peterson walking her ancient golden retriever, someone a few houses down starting up a lawn mower, the distant sound of children playing in a backyard.

Normal sounds of people living normal lives in a place where Sunday afternoons are for coffee and pastries and fixing things that need fixing.

But underneath the normalcy, something's building.

A tension that has nothing to do with construction projects and everything to do with the way Julian's gaze keeps finding mine with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken, how Dean's laugh seems to vibrate through my chest and settle somewhere much lower, the solid comfort of Callum's presence beside me that makes me want to curl into his warmth.

How right this feels, all of us here together. How much my body wants what my mind isn't ready to acknowledge.

You wanted independence, I remind myself. So why does this feel like exactly what you've been missing?

When Dean stands to stretch and announces it's time to get back to work, I feel an almost physical pang of loss. The easy intimacy of the afternoon break is over, replaced by the return to practical concerns and careful boundaries.

"Actually," Julian says, rising with that precise movement, "I should address the mailbox situation before I return to town. It will only take a few minutes."

"Thank you," I say as they gather the empty plates. "For the food, for the company, for..." I gesture vaguely, trying to encompass everything about this afternoon that's made me feel less alone than I have in months.

"Thank you for allowing us to share this," Julian says with that measured precision, and the words carry the weight of someone who chooses each one deliberately.

As they head back to work—Dean and Callum to the porch construction, Julian to tackle the fallen mailbox—I remain on the front steps, breathing in the lingering traces of their combined scents and trying to convince myself that the warmth spreading through my system is just contentment.

Just the satisfaction of having good company and better food on a beautiful afternoon.

Nothing more complicated than that.

But as I watch Julian approach my broken mailbox with what appears to be quiet determination and a small toolbox, I can't help but think that independence might be more complicated than I originally planned.

Especially when it keeps getting interrupted by alphas who bring books and coffee and the kind of attention that makes me feel like I matter in ways I'd forgotten were possible.