Page 40

Lila

T wo days after my heat broke, I wake up in my own bed transformed.

The morning light streams through my bedroom windows, and for the first time in days, I feel completely, utterly normal. Not the desperate, clawing need of heat, not the bone-deep exhaustion that followed. Just me. Lila. Whole and settled and somehow more myself than I've been in years.

But also different. Changed in ways I'm still figuring out.

Walking downstairs, I'm struck by how the house feels.

The furniture Dean helped me pick out has settled into its proper places, but it's more than that.

The air itself feels different, warmer somehow, more lived-in.

Like the space has absorbed the memory of three days when I wasn't alone, when I was cared for by people who saw my need and met it without reservation.

From the kitchen comes the sound of quiet conversation and the smell of real coffee brewing. Someone—probably Julian, based on the thoughtful timing—has started my day with the kind of care that still catches me off guard.

I pad downstairs in one of Dean's t-shirts and soft shorts, following the sounds and scents.

Dean's at the stove making actual breakfast instead of the energy bars we lived on during my heat.

Julian sits at my kitchen table with coffee and what appears to be a small stack of papers, probably work he's been neglecting to take care of me.

Callum leans against the counter, toolbox at his feet, clearly planning to tackle another project.

The sight of them here, comfortable in my space, making themselves useful without being asked, does something warm and complex to my chest. But it also makes me freeze in the doorway, suddenly uncertain.

What are we now? What am I supposed to say to them? How do I act around the three men who've seen me at my most vulnerable?

"Morning," I say, and all three turn toward me with smiles that make my heart flutter.

But there's something else in their expressions too.

Heat in Dean's gaze as it travels over me wearing his t-shirt, how it clings to my curves and barely covers my thighs.

The way Julian's eyes linger on my bare legs with dark appreciation.

How Callum's grip tightens on his coffee mug when he catches my scent, still carrying traces of all three of them.

The awareness crackles between us like electricity. I'm suddenly hyperaware of every inch of skin his shirt doesn't cover, how the soft cotton skims places these men have touched and claimed and worshipped.

Independence , I remind myself, even as my body responds to their attention. You're supposed to be figuring out who you are when you're not being taken care of.

But the reminder feels hollow when Dean's moving toward me with easy confidence, when his voice carries that warm affection I'm still getting used to.

"There she is. How'd you sleep?"

"Like the dead," I admit, accepting the cup of coffee Julian hands me. Our fingers brush during the exchange, and the contact sends electricity racing up my arm. "Real sleep, in my real bed. It was amazing."

"Good," Callum says simply, but his voice is rougher than usual. "Needed proper rest."

The kitchen feels smaller with all three of them in it, but not uncomfortably so.

More like it's found its proper capacity, like this is how it was meant to be used.

They move around the space with quiet efficiency.

Dean handling breakfast with cheerful competence, Julian organizing papers with his characteristic thoroughness, Callum's solid presence making everything feel more secure.

This is what you were afraid of , I realize, watching them work together in my space.Not that they'd leave, but that you'd get too comfortable being taken care of.

"We saved you some breakfast," Julian says, gesturing toward the plate Dean's preparing. "Though Dean may have gone slightly overboard with the portion sizes."

"I stress-cook," Dean says with a grin, but there's something softer in his expression now. "Besides, someone's got to make sure you eat something that isn't energy bars."

The plate holds fluffy scrambled eggs, perfectly crispy bacon, and toast cut into triangles. It's exactly the kind of breakfast that says someone cares about starting your day right, and I have to blink back unexpected emotion.

"This looks incredible," I manage. "Thank you. All of you."

"What's everyone's plan for today?" I ask around a bite of eggs, trying to navigate this new territory.

"Work," Julian says simply. "I'm behind on several accounts after..." He gestures vaguely, not making me feel guilty about the time they've spent here.

"Same," Callum agrees. "Got orders backing up."

"Shift starts at seven tomorrow morning," Dean adds. "So I'm free today if you need anything."

The casual way they're returning to their normal routines helps something settle in my chest. They're not treating me like I'm made of glass or like our time together created obligations that need constant discussion.

But they're also not pretending it didn't happen. There's a new ease between us, an intimacy that comes from having been vulnerable together.

"Actually," I say, an idea forming, "I was thinking about walking into town. Maybe visiting Sadie. I feel like I've been hiding in this house for days."

"You haven't been hiding," Julian corrects gently. "You've been recovering. There's a difference."

"Still. I want to get out, see people, remind myself what the rest of the world looks like."

And remind myself that I'm capable of functioning without constant caretaking.

"Want company?" Dean asks immediately, but when I look at him, he seems to catch himself and relaxes. "I mean, if you want. No pressure."

The fact that he offers but doesn't push makes my heart flutter. He's learning to read my needs instead of assuming them.

"I think I need some girl time," I say with a smile. "But thank you for offering."

An hour later, I'm walking through downtown Honeyridge Falls wearing jeans and a soft t-shirt, breathing in warm summer air that smells like blooming flowers and fresh possibilities.

The town feels different now, not because anything has changed, but because I'm seeing it through eyes that aren't looking for an escape route.

For the first time since I arrived, I'm not running from something. I'm walking toward it.

But I'm also walking alone, on my own two feet, making my own choices about how to spend my morning. The independence feels good, rusty from disuse, but satisfying in ways I'd forgotten.

The flower shop sits on Main Street, windows full of arrangements that look both carefully planned and effortlessly natural. The bell chimes as I enter, and Sadie's face lights up with genuine warmth.

"Lila! You look radiant."

Heat creeps up my neck at the knowing way she says it. "I feel good. Really good."

"Post-heat glow is real, but this is something else. This is happiness." Her smile is understanding without being intrusive. "Coffee?"

We settle in the back room of her shop, surrounded by the sweet scent of roses and the earthy smell of potting soil. Sadie pours coffee from a thermal carafe, and I breathe in the normalcy of it—two women sharing coffee and conversation, nothing complicated or charged.

"How are they?" she asks as we settle into comfortable chairs. "The guys? Post-heat can be intense for everyone."

"They're wonderful," I admit, meaning it completely. "I never knew it could be like that. So gentle and caring."

"The good ones know heat is about the omega," Sadie says with understanding that comes from experience. "And those three? They're good ones."

We talk easily about my settling in, about the changes in town, about her flower business and the upcoming late-summer blooms. She doesn't pry or ask invasive questions, just listens with the kind of attention that makes me feel heard rather than judged.

"I'm happy for you," she says as I'm preparing to leave. "All of you. You deserve this."

"Thank you," I say, meaning it more than the simple words convey. "For being a friend. For checking on me that day when I was falling apart."

"That's what friends do," she says simply. "We show up."

The walk home gives me time to process. Not just about my heat and what comes next, but about how much I've changed. How comfortable I feel talking about my developing relationships, how much I want this to work.

But also how good it feels to make my own choice about how to spend my morning, to have a conversation that's just mine, to walk home under my own power.

The house welcomes me back with the lingering scent of Dean's breakfast. I find all three of them in my living room, clearly having made themselves at home while I was gone.

I thought they had work to do. But Dean's reading one of Julian's book recommendations, Julian has papers spread across my coffee table, and Callum's examining the loose floorboard that's been creaking.

The domestic scene should be innocent, but there's something about seeing them in my space that makes my pulse quicken.

Dean's shirt pulls tight across his shoulders as he reaches for his bookmark.

Julian's sleeves are rolled up, revealing strong forearms. Callum's jeans stretch across his ass in ways that make my mouth go dry.

They look up when I enter, their faces lighting up with welcome that makes me understand why people write songs about coming home. But there's heat beneath the warmth, the kind of awareness that comes from intimate knowledge.

"How was Sadie?" Dean asks, setting down his book.

"Good. Really good." I settle into my reading chair, marveling at how right it feels to have them here like this. "She's happy for us."

"All of us?" Julian asks quietly.

"All of us," I confirm, and watch careful tension leave his shoulders.