Page 42

Julian

I notice things. It's what I do—catalog details, analyze patterns, understand the systems that make people tick.

It's served me well in business, helped me build a quiet, ordered life in Honeyridge Falls, and apparently made me irresistible to exactly one omega who appreciates the way I pay attention.

Which is why I know something's troubling her.

It's Tuesday morning, a week and a half since Lila's heat broke and we stumbled into whatever this beautiful, complicated thing between us has become.

I'm sitting at her kitchen table with my laptop, supposedly working on quarterly reports for three different businesses, but really watching her move around the space we've all somehow claimed as ours.

She's making coffee with the kind of attention that suggests her mind is elsewhere.

The same thoughtful energy she's had for the past few days, actually.

Ever since the mail came and she grabbed it before any of us could offer to help, disappearing into the living room for exactly seven minutes before returning with empty hands and a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

Seven minutes. I counted because when someone you care about suddenly gains a new layer of consideration in their expressions, time becomes important. Seven minutes is long enough to read something twice, maybe make a phone call, definitely long enough to receive news that requires careful thought.

The way she's been moving since then isn't wrong. Lila's too genuine for anything truly wrong, but there's a new carefulness to her interactions. Like she's protecting us from something she's not ready to share.

This morning she checked the locks, windows, and that loose floorboard Callum fixed. Twice.

Lila James, who has spent the past week and a half slowly relaxing into happiness, is carrying something she's not sure how to handle.

And my chest aches because I recognize this.

It's the same way I hold myself when I'm trying to figure out how to handle something important without hurting people I care about.

"More coffee?" she asks, holding up the pot with that same bright smile.

"Please," I say, watching as she refills my mug. Her hands are steady—too steady. The careful kind of control that reminds me of board meetings when my ex-pack was slowly deciding I wasn't worth keeping.

The coffee is perfect, of course. Exactly the right temperature, precisely the amount I prefer. She's been learning my preferences the way I learned hers, through attention and care and the kind of quiet observation that most people think is too much.

"Any exciting plans for the day?" I ask, testing the waters.

"Nothing special," she says, settling into the chair across from me. "Thought I might work on the front flower beds. Maybe plant some late summer blooms."

Her voice lacks the warmth it usually carries when she talks about house projects. She's been excited about every small improvement, but this is the first time home improvement has sounded like a chore.

"Julian," she says suddenly, her voice taking on that careful casualness that always comes before something important. "Can I ask you something?"

"Always."

She takes a sip of coffee, buying time. When she meets my eyes, I see something that makes my heart clench with protective instincts.

"Do you ever miss your old life? Before you came here?"

The question catches me off guard, not because it's unexpected, but because of the careful way she asks it. Not idle curiosity. This is someone trying to understand something important.

"No," I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel. "There was nothing there worth missing. My job was adequate, my apartment was functional, but I wasn't... myself. I was performing a version of myself that other people found acceptable."

She nods like this makes perfect sense, but I can see her processing my response with careful attention. "But weren't you tempted sometimes? To go back to what was familiar, even if it wasn't perfect?"

The words hit too close to home. Because yes, there were moments in those first months here when I'd catch myself reaching for my phone to call people who'd made it clear I was too much work.

"Are you?" I ask gently, because sometimes the best way to understand someone is to let them know you see they're wrestling with something important.

Her expression softens, and I catch a glimpse of vulnerability before she looks down at her coffee. "I got something in the mail yesterday. Something I thought I'd successfully avoided."

Relief floods through me, not because I want her to be struggling, but because I can finally help instead of wondering.

"What kind of something?"

She takes a shaky breath. "The Cinema Excellence Awards nominations were announced last month. My last film, the one that wrapped right before everything fell apart got nominated for Best Picture. And since I was one of the executive producers..." She trails off, but my brain fills in the blanks.

"You're invited to the ceremony." It's not a question.

"Not just invited. Expected." Her voice gets smaller. "It's in three weeks, and my publicist has been calling and emailing and apparently decided to escalate to physical mail when I didn't respond."

The admission hangs between us, and I watch her realize that I've been cataloging her careful consideration the way my brain always does—through numbers and patterns and detailed observation. But instead of looking annoyed, her expression softens into something that might be relief.

"You notice everything," she says quietly, and there's wonder in her voice instead of judgment.

"Only about things that matter to me," I admit, my throat tight. "And you matter, Lila. More than I know how to explain."

Her laugh is watery, surprised. "I love how your brain works, Julian. I love that you count things and notice patterns and remember details that other people miss. It makes me feel seen."

The words hit me like a physical blow—the good kind, the kind that reorganizes something fundamental in your chest. She loves how my brain works. The thing that made my ex-pack call me exhausting, she loves.

"Do you want to go?" I ask, even though I'm terrified of the answer.

"I don't know," she admits. "It's complicated."

I can see the war playing out across her face—the part of her that built a successful career fighting against the part that found peace in a small town with three alphas who think she's perfect exactly as she is.

"Tell me why it's complicated," I say, settling back in my chair.

She takes another deep breath, organizing her thoughts in a way I recognize, the same careful mental filing I do when I'm trying to make sense of overwhelming information.

"I worked really hard on that film. We all did.

It was a passion project about women in WWII that almost didn't get made because studios thought it wouldn't find an audience.

If it wins, it validates everything we fought for.

" She pauses, staring into her coffee. "But going back means stepping into that world again.

Seeing Dustin and his pack, probably. Dealing with reporters who'll want to know about my 'extended vacation' and whether I'm planning to return to work. "

Her voice gets smaller with each word, and I can see her shoulders tensing with the weight of trying to protect everyone's feelings simultaneously.

"You're afraid of going alone," I say, because sometimes the kindest thing you can do is voice the fear someone's trying to manage by themselves.

"I can't ask you to come with me," she whispers. "Any of you. You have jobs, lives here. It would be selfish to expect you to drop everything for my Hollywood stuff."

The words hit every protective spot I have, not because they're painful, but because they're honest. They're coming from someone who's genuinely terrified of being a burden to people she loves.

"Can I tell you what I see?" I ask.

She nods, looking up at me with those wide green eyes that trust me to understand what she can't quite say.

"I see someone who's trying to protect the people she loves from having to choose between their comfort and her needs," I say. "I see someone who's been taught that asking for support is selfish, so she's trying to handle something scary alone instead of trusting us to want to help."

Her eyes widen, and I realize how that might sound.

"You see me," she whispers, and there's wonder in her voice instead of judgment. "You really see what I'm afraid of."

"Of course I do. You're afraid of being a burden. Afraid of asking too much. But Lila..." I lean forward, needing her to understand this. "We'd go anywhere with you. Support anything you need to do. The only thing we can't handle is you trying to protect us from choices we want to make."

"Do you want us there?" I ask, my voice rough with emotion. "Not whether you think we'd be comfortable, not whether it's convenient. Do you want us with you?"

She looks up at me with those wide green eyes, and I can see the exact moment her careful control cracks. "Yes," she breathes. "God, yes. I can't imagine facing all of that without you. Any of you. But I don't want you to feel like you have to?—"

"Then we'll be there," I say simply, and watch relief flood her face. "All of us."

"You'd really do that?" she asks, her voice small with wonder. "Go with me to something like that?"

The vulnerability in the question hits me hard. Like she can't quite believe that people who love her would be willing to step into her world, even temporarily.

"Lila." I lean forward, needing her to see the truth in my eyes. "We'd do anything for you. Support you through anything. Even if it means wearing uncomfortable formal wear and learning to navigate Hollywood politics."

My mind is already running through logistics—flights, hotel rooms, the kind of formal wear that won't embarrass her in front of cameras. None of it matters compared to the look on her face right now.