Page 27

"Sorry, I should get that," she says, already moving toward the front door. "Thank you again, all of you. Really."

She waves as she disappears inside to answer the call, leaving the three of us standing in her front yard.

Dean watches her go, then turns that calculating look on Callum and me. There's something in his expression that makes me wonder what exactly he's thinking.

"Hey," Dean says casually as Callum reaches for his truck door, "leave the flannel."

Callum pauses, his hand on the door handle, confusion flickering across his face. "What do you mean?"

Dean's grin is knowing and warm, the expression of someone who understands dynamics that others might miss. "You like her? Trust me. Leave the shirt."

The suggestion hangs in the air for a moment, loaded with implications that make my chest tight with something that might be jealousy or anticipation or both. Callum's gaze flicks toward the house where we can hear Lila's muffled voice on the phone, then back to Dean with growing understanding.

"You sure?" Callum asks quietly.

"Positive," Dean says with the confidence of someone who's never been wrong about these things. "She'll appreciate it."

I watch, fascinated despite myself, as Callum processes this advice.

The careful consideration that crosses his face, the moment when decision crystallizes into action.

He's already holding his flannel—he'd taken it off earlier while working in the heat, leaving him in just a white t-shirt that clings to his broad chest.

The flannel carries his scent—cedar and sawdust and that grounding, masculine presence that seems to emanate from everything he touches.

When he drapes it carefully over the porch railing, the fabric immediately begins scenting the space around it, claiming territory in the subtle way that alpha garments do when left in omega spaces.

"There," Callum says simply, but there's satisfaction in his voice. Like he's finally done something right in a situation where he's been improvising.

Dean claps him on the shoulder with obvious approval. "Good man."

Callum nods once, climbs into his truck, and drives away with that same quiet competence he brings to everything else. But the flannel remains, a gentle presence that will remind Lila of steady hands and careful work and someone who shows up when things need fixing.

I'm processing the implications of what just happened when Dean turns that knowing look on me.

"You too, man," he says with gentle authority.

"Me?" I ask, though I'm already beginning to understand where this is leading.

"Yeah." Dean's voice drops to something more serious.

"I've known you for years, Julian. Never seen you build or fix anything, but here you are fixing a mailbox you clearly didn't know how to fix.

" His grin returns, warmer now. "She'll figure it out eventually.

Leave something with your scent on it. She'll like it. "

The suggestion hits me hard. Not because it's unwelcome, but because it's exactly what I want to do and had convinced myself I shouldn't.

What if she doesn't want it? What if it's too much again?

But Dean's looking at me like he thinks I'm worth taking a chance on. Like maybe my particular brand of attention isn't a burden.

If this is what she wants... what comforts her... I'll give it.

I hesitate, then pull off my button-down shirt. The undershirt beneath is perfectly adequate, and the afternoon heat makes the decision practical as much as meaningful. The shirt carries my scent concentrated in the fabric from hours of wear.

I fold the button-down with the same precision I bring to everything else, and place it on the porch table beside Callum's flannel. The sight of our shirts together does something to my chest. We're both marking this space now. Both hoping she'll want these reminders of us around.

Maybe this time it won't be too much. Maybe this time someone will want what I have to give .

"Good man," Dean says again, reaching over to pat my shoulder.

I catch movement at the front window. Lila's been watching this entire exchange. When our eyes meet through the glass, something passes between us that I can't quite name. Understanding, maybe. Like she knows exactly what we're doing and she's okay with it.

She's okay with it.

That knowledge sends heat through me that I definitely can't acknowledge in her front yard.

She emerges onto the porch, cheeks flushed. She moves toward the railing where our shirts wait, and I watch her breathing change as she catches our scents. Green apple and white musk intensify around her, responding to what we've left behind.

She likes it. She wants this.

"We'll finish up next weekend!" Dean calls as he heads toward his own truck, his voice carrying the easy confidence of someone who's orchestrated exactly the outcome he intended.

I should head back to town. Walk back to my apartment and process what just happened in private. Maintain the distance that's kept things simple for years.

Instead, I'm lingering. Watching Lila's face as she takes in our scents. Watching her expression soften, her breathing deepen.

She looks up and catches me staring. For a moment we just look at each other. There's something in her eyes that might be invitation. Or curiosity. Or just awareness that something's shifted between us.

Don't read too much into it. But also... maybe do.

"You walking back to town?" Dean asks, appearing beside me with his keys in hand. "I can give you a ride if you want."

The offer is casual, practical, but there's something knowing in his expression that suggests he understands exactly why I'm reluctant to leave. Why I'm standing here like I'm trying to memorize every detail of this moment.

"That would be helpful," I admit, finally forcing myself to step away from the invisible pull of Lila's presence.

"Ready for dinner?" Dean calls to Lila as we head toward his truck. "Aunt Maeve's making her famous pot roast tonight. You should come."

The invitation is spontaneous but genuine, and I watch Lila's face light up with something that might be surprise or pleasure or both.

"I wouldn't want to impose—" she starts.

"You wouldn't be," Dean says firmly. "Maeve loves having people to feed. Trust me, you'd be doing her a favor."

She's surrounded by us now. Whether she knows it yet or not, she's not alone.

That thought follows me to Dean's truck, settles in my chest like something I'm not ready to examine. For five years, I've been fine with watching from the sidelines. Understanding how things work without needing to be central to them. Staying safe where no one could tell me I was too much.

But sitting in the passenger seat, leaving my scent behind in her space, I realize that might not be enough anymore.

She has our shirts now. Hours of concentrated scent, proof that we want to be part of whatever she's building.

The thought of her surrounded by these reminders, breathing us in while she sleeps in whatever nest she's created upstairs.

.. it does something possessive to me that I don't entirely understand.

Tomorrow I'll go back to my routines. My ordered life where feelings stay manageable. But tonight, over Maeve's pot roast and whatever easy conversation happens, I'll let myself want what I've been too careful to acknowledge.

Not just her attention. Not just her gratitude. Her. All of her. The omega who reads poetry and fixes broken houses and looks at damaged things like they're worth saving.

Maybe, eventually, she'll decide I'm worth saving too. Worth keeping. Worth choosing.

She's surrounded by us now. And I hope... I hope she chooses to keep us.