Page 3

Lila

D efinitely not a reporter. But still, I'm not exactly in the right place for visitors. I'm wearing yesterday's clothes, I haven't showered since this morning, and my hair looks like I've been driving for six hours. Which I have.

More than that, I came here to figure things out on my own. Taking help from strangers on day one feels like cheating.

"I brought cookies," the voice adds, and I can hear the smile in it.

Cookies . When was the last time someone brought me cookies?

Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm heading for the front door and opening it.

A woman in her sixties stands on my broken porch, holding a plate covered with a checkered cloth. She's got silver hair pulled back in a neat bun, kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, and an apron that suggests she actually uses her kitchen for more than storing takeout containers.

"You must be Lila," she says, like we're old friends. "I'm Maeve Bennett. I own the bakery downtown."

"How did you?—"

"Small town," she says with a shrug. "Word travels. Plus, Gladys saw you drive up, and she called her sister Marie, who told her daughter Jessica, who mentioned it to my neighbor Carol when she came in for her daily muffin."

I blink at her. "That's... efficient."

"Terrifying is more like it," Maeve laughs. "But mostly harmless. May I come in? These cookies are getting cold."

I should probably say no. Should explain that I'm trying to figure things out myself, that I don't need help, that I'm perfectly capable of handling my first night alone.

Instead, I step aside, because what else am I going to do?

She seems genuinely nice, and turning away the first person to show me kindness feels unnecessarily rude.

She bustles past me into the living room, taking in the empty space with the practiced eye of someone who's seen her share of fixer-uppers.

"Good bones," she pronounces, setting the plate on the built-in bookshelf. "This place just needs some love. And probably a new water heater. The old one was making awful noises before the Andersons moved out."

"The Andersons?"

"Previous owners. Lovely couple, but they moved to Arizona for his arthritis.

Broke their hearts to sell this place, it's been in his family for sixty years.

" She uncovers the plate, revealing what look like the most perfect chocolate chip cookies I've ever seen.

"They'll be glad to know it went to someone who'll appreciate it. "

The smell hits me then. Warm butter, vanilla, chocolate and my stomach growls loud enough to wake the dead. I realize I haven't eaten since... when? This morning? Yesterday?

Maeve grins. "When's the last time you had a real meal, honey?"

"Define real.'"

"Something that wasn't purchased at a gas station or delivered by a teenager on a bike."

I consider this. "Thursday?"

"That was four days ago." She shakes her head and calls out the front door, "Boys! Bring the rest of it!"

Wait. "Rest of what?"

Two younger men appear as if by magic, carrying bags and containers that smell like heaven. One is tall and lean with dark hair and paint-stained clothes, the other an inch shorter but broader through the shoulders, with sandy-blond hair and the kind of smile that could power a small city.

My pulse does a little skip before I can stop it. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. Attractive alphas showing up to rescue me before I've even had a chance to try rescuing myself.

"This is my nephew Dean," Maeve says, indicating the smiling one. He steps forward with easy confidence that makes my omega instincts sit up and take notice despite my best efforts to remain immune.

"Hi," he says, then pauses, his eyes widening slightly. "You're..." He shakes his head like he can't quite believe it, then recovers with a smile. "I mean—welcome to Honeyridge! We brought dinner. Well, lots of dinner. I might have gone overboard."

Even flustered, there's something undeniably appealing about him. The way he fills out his flannel shirt, the confident set of his shoulders that suggests he's used to handling emergencies, the kind of solid presence that my body recognizes as safe before my brain can object.

"Enough to feed half the town," the tall, lean one says, shooting Dean an amused look. "And this is apparently what happens when Dean meets pretty omegas. His brain shorts out."

Dean's cheeks flush slightly, but his smile doesn't waver. "This is Levi, he used to be my friend." Levi just chuckles and shakes his head.

"Dean's a firefighter," Maeve continues, "and Levi owns the bookstore. They volunteered to help with the delivery."

A firefighter. That explains the broad shoulders and the way he carries himself. Confident but not cocky, like someone used to running toward danger instead of away from it.

"Volunteered," Dean says with a grin, "is a strong word. More like got voluntold."

"I brought soup," Levi adds quietly, setting a large container on the counter. "And bread."

"And I made a casserole," Dean chimes in, producing a covered dish. "Nothing fancy, just comfort food."

I stare at them. At the food. At Maeve, who's already started unpacking containers like she owns the place.

The kindness is overwhelming, but it's also exactly what I was trying to avoid.

I came here to prove I could handle things myself, and here I am, being rescued by strangers before I've even unpacked.

"This is really thoughtful," I say carefully, "but I should probably learn to manage on my own. I mean, I can't rely on neighbors to feed me every time I move somewhere new."

All three of them look at me like I've said something slightly ridiculous.

"Why not?" Maeve asks simply.

The question catches me off guard. "Because... because I need to be independent. I need to prove I can take care of myself."

"Taking care of yourself and accepting help aren't mutually exclusive, honey," Maeve says gently. "This is what neighbors do. We take care of each other."

"But I don't want to be a burden," I insist, even as my stomach growls again at the smell of Dean's casserole. "I should be able to handle basic things like feeding myself."

"And you will," Dean says, setting plates and actual silverware on the counter. "But you just drove six hours, you're in a new place, and from the looks of those cabinets, you haven't had time to stock up on basics yet. There's nothing wrong with accepting help when you need it."

The casual way he treats it, like accepting assistance is normal instead of evidence of failure, makes something tight in my chest loosen slightly.

But I'm still resistant. This isn't how this was supposed to go.

I was supposed to figure things out, struggle a little, prove to myself that I could handle being alone.

"I really appreciate all of this," I try again, "but?—"

"Sit," Maeve orders, pointing to one of the mismatched chairs in the kitchen. "Eat. Then you can argue about independence all you want."

There's something in her tone that reminds me of every stern but loving authority figure I've ever encountered. The kind of voice that expects to be obeyed not because of force, but because the person using it genuinely knows what's best for you.

I find myself sitting.

"Good," Maeve says with satisfaction. "Now, let's get some real food in you."

While I work my way through the best vegetable soup I've ever tasted and enough homemade bread to feed a small army, the three of them move around my kitchen with easy efficiency.

Dean organizes groceries they've apparently brought, Levi arranges basic supplies, and Maeve unpacks what looks like a care package designed to keep me alive for at least a week.

I should protest more. Should insist on handling this myself. But the soup is warm and hearty, the bread is still soft and perfect, and for the first time in days I'm eating something that was made with actual care instead of grabbed from a drive-through.

"This kitchen table," Levi says, running his fingers along the scarred wood surface. "Solid maple. Good bones, like Maeve said." He looks up at me with dark eyes. "Just needs someone who understands what they're working with."

The way he says it makes me think he's not just talking about furniture.

"Everything in this house is older than you," Dean points out, testing the coffee maker with practiced competence. "It has character."

"Character is just another word for 'expensive to fix,'" I say around a spoonful of soup.

"Not necessarily," Levi says, studying the built-in shelving. "A lot of these old houses just need patience and the right touch. Someone who can see what they were meant to be."

Again, that feeling that we're not just talking about the house.

"And possibly a contractor," Dean adds cheerfully. "But we know people."

By the time they're finished, my kitchen looks like it belongs to an actual human being instead of someone camping out. There's food in the refrigerator, coffee for tomorrow morning, and enough cookies to last through whatever emotional breakdown might be coming next.

The transformation is both wonderful and slightly devastating. They've solved in an hour what would have taken me days to figure out, and I can't decide if I'm grateful or disappointed in myself.

"We should let you settle in," Levi says as they gather their empty bags. "But if you need anything, the bookstore is on Main Street. Open every day except Sunday."

"And the fire station's right next to City Hall," Dean adds. "Even if we're out on a call, someone will know where to find me."

"Thank you," I manage, surprised by how much I mean it despite my conflicted feelings. "All of you. This is... no one's ever..."

"Welcome to Honeyridge Falls," Maeve says with a smile. "Population 2,647, and now we're all invested in making sure you stick around."

After they leave, I sit in my transformed kitchen and try to sort through my feelings.

The practical part of me is relieved—I have food, I have coffee, I have the basics I'll need to get through the next few days.

But another part of me feels like I've already failed at the independence test before it even started.

I came here to prove I could handle things on my own, and the first people I met immediately took over and fixed everything for me. What does that say about my ability to actually manage my own life?

But then I remember the way Dean's fingers brushed mine when he handed me that plate, warm and callused and entirely too appealing. The way my omega instincts stirred to life at his scent—toasted marshmallow and amber and something that felt like safety I haven't experienced in years.

Maybe the real problem isn't that I accepted help. Maybe the real problem is that I liked it. Liked having someone take care of the details, liked the feeling of being looked after instead of being the one doing the looking after.

That's exactly the kind of thinking that got me into trouble before. The comfortable slide into letting someone else handle the hard parts while I focused on being grateful and accommodating.

I can't fall back into that pattern. I won't.

Tomorrow I'll figure out how to be properly independent. Tonight, I'll eat the food they brought and be thankful for the kindness, but I won't let it become a habit.

For the first time since the story broke, since my life imploded on national television, I'm not thinking about them. I'm not wondering what they're doing or whether they miss me.

I'm thinking about tomorrow. About coffee in my own kitchen and maybe walking downtown to explore the shops and thank my new neighbors properly. About figuring out what's wrong with that loose porch step and whether the fruit trees in the backyard might actually produce something edible.

I'm thinking about building something new instead of mourning something broken. Something that belongs to me because I created it, not because someone else decided I deserved it.

And for the first time in months, that feels like enough.

I head for the stairs, my hand trailing along the worn banister, the bag of clean sheets Maeve handed to me and pillow tucked under my other arm.

Tomorrow I'll figure out plumbing and paint colors and how to be a person who lives in a place like this without relying on attractive firefighters to make it work.

Tonight, I'm going to sleep in a house that doesn't smell like them, on sheets that smell like lavender and independence instead of broken promises.