Page 39

Washing someone's hair is more intimate than I expected. The trust it requires, the vulnerability of closing your eyes and letting someone else take care of something so basic. Lila melts under my touch, little sounds of contentment escaping her as I massage the shampoo through her tangled hair.

"No one's ever done this for me before," she says quietly, her eyes still closed.

The admission hits me like a physical blow. "What do you mean?"

"Washed my hair. Taken care of me when I was..." She gestures vaguely at herself. "Like this. Vulnerable, I guess. Dustin and his pack, they weren't really the aftercare type. Heat was something to get through, not something to recover from."

The casual way she mentions her ex-pack, like their shitty behavior was normal, makes my hands clench. What kind of alphas don't take care of their omega after heat? What kind of assholes see this as a chore instead of the privilege it actually is?

"That's their loss," I say, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. Not anger at her, but at the idiots who made her think getting taken care of was weird instead of normal.

"Tilt your head back, sweetheart. Let me rinse this out."

She obeys, trusting me completely, and I use the cup to pour clean water through her hair until it runs clear. Taking care of her like this, being allowed to do this for her, makes my chest feel too tight and too full at the same time.

While the conditioner sits, I use a soft washcloth to gently clean her shoulders, her arms, being careful around any sensitive spots.

"Dean?" Her voice is softer now, thoughtful.

"Yeah?"

"What happens now? I mean, after this. When we go back downstairs and have to figure out what we are to each other."

The question I've been wanting her to ask and dreading at the same time.

Because I know what I want. I want her, want all of us together, want to build something real in this little town where people actually fix things instead of throwing them away.

But I also know she needs space to figure out what she wants without us pressuring her.

"Whatever you want to happen," I say honestly, focusing on rinsing conditioner from her hair so I don't have to meet her eyes. "We're not going anywhere, Lila. But you get to decide what this looks like going forward."

"What if I don't know yet?”

"Then you take all the time you need," I say simply. "We'll be here when you're ready."

She's quiet for a long moment, then asks. "What do you want? Not what you think I want to hear, what do you actually want?"

The directness catches me off guard. Most people dance around the hard stuff, but Lila's asking for honesty. The least I can do is give it to her.

"I want Saturday mornings," I say, the words coming easier than I expected.

"I want to make you pancakes and coffee and watch you read the paper in that chair by your window.

I want to come home from work and find you there, want to know you're safe and happy and choosing to be with us because you want to be, not because you have to be. "

I pause, testing the water temperature before adding more hot water to keep her comfortable.

"I want to take care of you when you're sick, and let you take care of me when I'm being stubborn about going to the doctor.

I want to fight about what movie to watch and who's doing the dishes and whether Julian gets to rearrange all the kitchen cabinets according to some organizational system only he understands. "

That gets a small laugh from her, which encourages me to keep going.

"I want to build something with you. All of us. Something real and messy and imperfect and ours." I finally meet her eyes, letting her see everything I'm feeling. "I want forever, Lila. But only if that's what you want too."

The silence that follows feels endless. She's looking at me with those wide green eyes, and I can't read her expression. Have I said too much? Been too honest about feelings that are probably way ahead of where she is?

Then her face crumples, and she starts crying.

Not gentle tears or the kind of emotional release that comes with relief. Full-on sobbing, the kind that shakes her whole body and makes my heart slam against my ribs in panic.

"Shit," I breathe, immediately moving closer to the tub. "Sweetheart, what's wrong? What did I say?"

But she's crying too hard to answer, and I have absolutely no clue what to do. This isn't like a broken door knob or a flooded kitchen—stuff I can fix with the right tools and enough elbow grease. This is feelings, big scary emotions that I've apparently screwed up, and I'm totally lost.

"Lila, please," I say, my voice probably betraying my panic. "Talk to me. What's wrong? What can I do?"

She tries to speak but only manages broken sounds between sobs. I reach for a towel, thinking maybe she's cold, maybe that's why, but she shakes her head, pushing the towel away.

"Julian!" I call, probably louder than necessary. "Julian, I need you!"

Footsteps pound up the stairs, both sets, Julian and Callum moving fast. They appear in the bathroom doorway within seconds, taking in the scene with immediate concern.

"What happened?" Julian asks, his analytical mind already trying to assess the situation.

"I don't know," I admit, feeling helpless. "We were talking, and I told her about wanting Saturday mornings and forever, and she just started crying. I don't know what I did wrong."

Julian's expression softens with understanding, and he moves to kneel beside the tub with the same careful attention he brings to everything else.

"Lila," he says gently, his voice cutting through her sobs with calm authority. "Can you look at me, love?"

She turns toward his voice, tears still streaming down her face, but her breathing starts to even out slightly.

"That's good," Julian murmurs. "Now breathe with me. In for four, hold for four, out for four. Can you do that?"

She nods, focusing on his voice as he guides her through the breathing exercise. Gradually, the sobs quiet to sniffles, though tears keep sliding down her cheeks.

"Better?" Julian asks, reaching for a washcloth to gently dry her face.

She nods again, then looks at me with red-rimmed eyes full of something that might be wonder.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I didn't mean to scare you. It's just—" Her voice breaks again, but this time I can see it's not distress. "No one's ever wanted Saturday mornings with me before."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. She's crying because I offered her something she's never had. The promise of ordinary, everyday love. The kind of commitment that's about more than just heat and attraction and the chemistry that brought us together.

"Oh, sweetheart," I breathe, finally understanding. "Of course I want Saturday mornings with you. I want every morning with you."

"Dustin always said I was too much work for domestic stuff," she continues, her voice getting stronger. "Too high-maintenance, too complicated. He said real relationships were about passion and excitement, not boring everyday things like pancakes and newspapers."

Callum makes a sound like a growl from the doorway, and I feel my own anger spike. What kind of person convinces someone that wanting to be cared for is asking too much?

"Dustin was an idiot," I say firmly. "And he's wrong about everything. You're not too much work, Lila. You're not too complicated. You're perfect exactly as you are, and anyone who can't see that doesn't deserve you."

"The boring everyday things are the best parts," Callum adds quietly. "That's where real love lives. In the small moments, the ordinary ones."

"Saturday mornings and Tuesday afternoon grocery runs and arguing about whose turn it is to take out the trash," Julian agrees. "That's not settling, love. That's choosing someone every single day."

Lila looks between the three of us, fresh tears starting, but these ones are different. Softer. "You really want all that? With me?"

"Yes," we say in unison, and her laugh through the tears is the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.

"We want all of it," I confirm, reaching out to cup her face gently. "Every ordinary, extraordinary day with you."

She leans into my touch, her eyes falling closed for a moment. When she opens them again, there's something settled in her expression that wasn't there before.

"I want that too," she whispers. "I don’t know how… how to make this work."

The relief that floods through me is so intense I feel dizzy. She wants this. Wants us. Wants the life we're all dreaming about building together.

"We'll figure it out as we go, all of us together." I say simply.

"Can we start with getting you out of this tub before you turn into a prune?" Julian asks with gentle humor. "The water's getting cold, and you need food and proper rest."

I help her stand, wrapping her in one of the fluffy towels Julian procured. She's steady on her feet now, the emotional release seeming to have cleared away some of the exhaustion that's been weighing on her.

"Thank you," she says as I help her dry off. "All of you. For taking care of me, for being patient with me, for wanting ordinary things with me. I've never had that before."

"You have it now," Callum says from the doorway, his voice rough with emotion. "For as long as you want it."

She nods, her smile soft but thoughtful. "I want to try."

"Come on," I say, scooping her up again despite her protests that she can walk. "Let's get you fed and properly cuddled.”

She laughs, the sound bright and unguarded, and I know we've turned a corner. All of us.