Page 30

Dean

I walk into Greaves Lumberyard's back office carrying a tray of coffee cups, the scent of sawdust and cedar mixing with fresh-brewed caffeine in the afternoon air.

It's been five hours since my shift started, and I've got maybe twenty minutes before the next call comes in, but I needed to see how the other two were handling last night.

Based on the atmosphere in this office, the answer is not well.

Callum sits hunched over his desk, reviewing lumber invoices with the kind of intense focus that means he's avoiding thinking about something else entirely. His jaw is set in that stubborn line I've known since we were kids, and he hasn't looked up since I walked in.

Julian perches on a stool near the window, his hands folded neatly in his lap, staring out at the yard where workers are loading trucks. He's got that distant look behind his wire-rimmed glasses, the one that means his brain is running calculations he doesn't want to share.

Neither of them acknowledges my entrance, which tells me everything I need to know about how they're processing what happened at Maeve's.

"Afternoon, team," I say, setting the coffee tray down on Callum's desk with deliberately cheerful energy. "Figured you could use some fuel before the day gets worse."

Callum grunts without looking up from his invoices. Julian gives me a polite nod and a quiet "thank you," but his gaze slides away before making real eye contact.

The silence that follows is heavy enough to suffocate small animals.

I take a sip of my own coffee and lean against the doorframe, watching dust motes dance in the afternoon sunlight. The memory of her scent last night—green apple and white musk turning rich and warm—makes my chest tight with something that might be longing or regret or both.

Finally, Callum slams a file folder closed with enough force to make both Julian and me jump.

"You shouldn't have said it."

I blink, setting my coffee cup down carefully. "What?"

"Last night." Callum's jaw flexes, and when he finally looks up, his hazel eyes are stormy with something that looks suspiciously like self-recrimination. "Too soon. You rushed it."

The accusation hits like a physical blow, partly because there might be truth in it. "I wasn't trying to pressure her. She needed to know where we stood."

"Three alphas circling like she's prey?" Callum stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the concrete floor. "Course she ran."

The bitterness in his voice makes my chest ache. "Callum?—"

"Forget it." He waves me off, but I can see the way his hands shake slightly before he shoves them into his pockets. "Should've known better."

The defeat in his tone is worse than if he'd yelled. "That's not—" I start, but Julian's voice cuts through the tension.

"You're not the only one who feels like last night was... optimistic."

Both Callum and I turn to look at him. Julian's gaze stays fixed on his clasped hands, but there's something in his posture that suggests he's been holding these words in for a while.

"Julian," I say carefully.

He takes a breath, and when he speaks, his voice is quiet but steady.

"I came to Honeyridge Falls because I needed somewhere that didn't care that I was.

.. too complicated. My last pack told me I was too much work.

Too analytical. That omegas don't want men who read poetry and struggle to fix mailboxes. "

The admission hangs in the air like a confession, raw and honest in a way that makes my throat tight.

"They said I made everything harder than it needed to be," Julian continues, his fingers tightening in his lap. "That I thought too much, felt too much, wanted too much connection. That normal alphas don't need to understand every emotion, every thought."

Callum's expression softens, the storm in his eyes shifting toward something that might be recognition.

"But Lila..." Julian's voice gets even quieter, almost wondering. "She didn't look at me like I was broken. Just... different. Like different might actually be okay."

The hope in those last words does something devastating to my chest. Because I know exactly what he means. Lila looks at all of us like we're worth figuring out instead of just convenient.

"She does that for all of us," I say, surprised by how rough my voice sounds. "Makes us feel like we could be enough."

Callum lets out a long breath, his shoulders sagging as some of the fight goes out of him. He drops back into his chair. "Don't know what to do. She ran."

The words carry weight beyond their surface meaning. "She left pretty quickly once we told her how we felt," I say. "But that doesn't mean she doesn't want us. Sometimes people need time to process."

"That's not necessarily about us," Julian says thoughtfully, lifting his gaze from his hands for the first time since I arrived. "That could be about her. About what brought her here."

He's right, and I know it. The way Lila talks about her past—carefully, with emotional distance—tells a story about someone who's learned not to trust too easily.

"So what do we do?" Callum asks, and there's something almost vulnerable in the question.

Julian straightens on his stool, resolve flickering through the sadness in his dark eyes. "Maybe... maybe we need to approach this differently."

I set my coffee down and cross my arms, giving him my full attention. "How?"

"She needs support. From someone who isn't... us. An omega. A friend who understands what she's feeling right now."

Callum's brow furrows as he processes this. "You mean like Sadie?"

Julian nods slowly. "She runs the flower shop. She's discreet and understands what it's like to be an omega in a small town where everyone has opinions about your personal choices."

I think about Sadie Penrose—quiet, thoughtful, the kind of person who notices things but doesn't gossip about them. If anyone could approach Lila without making her feel pressured or judged, it would be Sadie.

"If we ask her to deliver something thoughtful," Julian continues, his voice gaining confidence. "Flowers, perhaps a calming arrangement. Something that demonstrates we're thinking about her without being overwhelming. She might be able to assess what Lila needs."

The plan has merit. It's indirect enough not to feel like pressure, personal enough to show we care.

"That's brilliant, actually," I say, feeling some of the tension in my shoulders ease. "Sadie's solid. She'd know exactly how to handle it without pushing."

Callum doesn't look entirely convinced, but he nods slowly. "Fine. But no more declarations. Not yet."

The self-imposed restriction makes sense, even if it feels like swallowing glass. "Whatever it takes to make her feel safe," I say, meaning it. "Even if it means stepping back."

Julian slides off his stool and moves toward the window. "She deserves the choice I never got," he says quietly.

The words hit deeper than they should, carrying implications about his past that make my chest ache. But he's right. Lila deserves to choose her own path.

"So we ask Sadie," Callum says, his voice steadier now that we have a plan. "And then we wait."

"And we don't crowd her," I add. "No more showing up at her house unless she asks."

My radio crackles to life, dispatch calling about a minor fender bender. The outside world reminding me that life continues even when your personal life feels balanced on a knife's edge.

"I have to go," I say, gathering my empty coffee cup. "But we're okay? All of us?"

Callum nods, and Julian gives me a small smile that looks more genuine than anything I've seen from him today.

"We're okay," Julian confirms. "Just... figuring it out."

I head for the door, then pause and look back at them. "She's worth figuring it out for."

"Yeah," Callum says quietly. "She is."

The drive back to the station gives me time to think about framing the request to Sadie as genuine concern for Lila's wellbeing. Because that's what it is, underneath all the want and hope and fear. We care about her as a person, not just as a potential pack member.

My phone buzzes with a text from Julian: Talked to Sadie. She'll stop by tomorrow with something thoughtful. No pressure, just checking in.

Relief floods through me, followed immediately by nervousness. Because this feels like our one chance to get it right.

I text back. Good. Thank you.

Then I settle in for the rest of my shift, trying not to count the hours until I'll know whether Lila James might be willing to let us prove that sometimes, broken pieces can build something stronger than what came before.

Some wants are worth waiting for.

Even when the waiting feels like it might break you.