Page 52

Lila

T he plane touches down in the small regional airport forty minutes from Honeyridge Falls, and I feel something in my chest unclench for the first time in three days. The cramped commercial flight feels like freedom after the suffocating luxury of LA's first-class everything.

"Home," Dean says quietly, his hand finding mine as we taxi toward the gate.

"Home," I agree, meaning it completely.

A wave of nausea rolls through me as we come to a stop, and I press my hand to my stomach automatically.

Probably just the airplane food, the rubbery chicken they served an hour ago is making its displeasure known.

Or maybe it's relief mixing with exhaustion.

Either way, it passes quickly, leaving me eager to get back to solid ground and familiar spaces.

Even as relief floods through me, there's a nervous energy building in my chest. Something I realized in LA, something I need to tell them but haven't found the courage to voice yet.

The weight of unspoken words sits heavy on my tongue as we gather our bags and make our way through the tiny terminal.

The drive back to town passes in comfortable quiet, all of us processing what we've left behind.

The mountain air through the open windows smells like pine and possibility, so different from LA's perpetual haze of ambition and exhaust. I watch familiar landmarks appear through the windshield—the old barn with its faded advertising painted on the side, the creek that runs alongside the highway, the first glimpse of mountains that cradle our valley like protective arms.

Each mile that passes makes me feel more like myself again. Not Lila James, former movie star, but just Lila. The woman who chose three incredible men and a life built on substance rather than spectacle.

When Callum's truck turns onto my street—our street—I catch sight of the little white house and feel tears start without warning. Not sad tears, but the overwhelming relief of someone who's been holding their breath finally allowed to exhale.

The house looks exactly the same but somehow different, maybe because I'm seeing it through eyes that know this is forever now.

The porch Callum rebuilt, the mailbox Julian fixed, the door handle Dean repaired.

Evidence of three men who saw something worth saving and invested their time and skill in making it beautiful.

"You okay?" Julian asks softly, his gaze taking in my expression with that careful attention he brings to everything.

"I'm perfect," I say, wiping my eyes. "I just... I love this place. I love our life here. I never want to leave again."

"Then don't," Callum says simply, parking in what's become his usual spot. "Stay. With us."

Dean twists in the passenger seat to look at me directly. "Lila, these past few days in LA just confirmed what I already knew. You belong here. With us. This is your home now."

"Our home," Julian corrects gently, his precise way of speaking carrying extra weight. "All four of us together."

"If you want it to be," Callum adds, though there's something vulnerable in his gruff voice that suggests this matters more to him than he's comfortable admitting.

Inside the house, everything smells like home.

Like us. The scent of our combined presence has settled into the walls and furniture, creating something that belongs entirely to the four of us.

It's stronger now than when we left, as if the house itself has been holding our essence, waiting for us to return.

I move through the rooms slowly, reacquainting myself with the space that's become ours.

The kitchen where Dean makes pancakes on Sunday mornings.

The living room where Julian reads while Callum fixes whatever needs attention.

The reading chair by the window where I've spent countless afternoons with books Julian brings me.

Another gentle wave of queasiness hits as I pass through the kitchen, and I pause, one hand on the counter. Definitely something from the plane. Maybe I should stick to crackers for dinner instead of whatever elaborate welcome home meal Dean's probably already planning in his head.

Upstairs, the bedroom we've all been sharing feels like a sanctuary. The bed is perfectly made—probably Julian's doing before we left—but I can still smell traces of all of us in the fabric. The nest room sits empty but waiting, ready for whenever I might need that particular kind of comfort again.

"I need to tell you something," I say suddenly, standing in the living room where this all began. "Something I realized in LA but couldn't say there."

They arrange themselves around me with unconscious ease.

Dean settling onto the couch where he can watch my face, Callum leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed but his expression open, Julian taking the reading chair that's become his favorite spot.

Their positioning creates a circle of attention and support that makes me feel completely safe to be vulnerable.

My heart hammers against my ribs as I gather the courage for what I need to say. These words will change everything between us, make this real in ways that go beyond domestic partnership or convenient arrangement.

"I love you," I say, my voice stronger than I expected. "All of you. Not grateful love or convenient love or heat-driven love. Real, bone-deep, forever love."

The silence that follows feels endless, stretching between us like a held breath. I watch their faces carefully, looking for any sign of doubt or hesitation or the polite retreat that would break my heart.

Instead, Dean's face breaks into the most beautiful smile I've ever seen, like sunrise after the longest night.

"I love you too," he says, rising to cross to me with that easy stride I've come to adore.

"Have for weeks. Maybe since that first day when you burned dinner and looked at me like I'd hung the moon. "

He reaches me and cups my face in his hands, thumbs stroking across my cheekbones.

"I've been wanting to say it, but I didn't want to pressure you.

Didn't want you to feel like you owed me anything just because I was falling head over heels for an omega who steals shirts and argues with door handles. "

"I love you," Callum says gruffly, his voice rough with emotion he rarely lets show. "Didn't think I was capable of it, but you changed that. Made me remember what it feels like to want someone's happiness more than your own comfort."

He pushes away from the doorframe and moves closer, his hazel eyes soft with wonder. "Used to think love was something that happened to other people. People who were smoother, better with words. But you make me want to be better. Make me believe I might actually deserve something good."

"I love you," Julian adds quietly, his dark eyes soft with the kind of wonder that comes from having your carefully ordered world turned upside down in the best possible way.

"More than I have words to explain, which is saying something for someone who thinks in spreadsheets and statistical analysis. "

He sets down the book he'd been holding and leans forward in his chair.

"I've spent years thinking I was too much for anyone to want permanently.

Too analytical, too intense, too likely to overthink every emotion until I'd analyzed it to death.

But you love how my brain works. You see all my neuroses and call them features instead of bugs. "

The relief that floods through me is so intense I feel dizzy, though that might also be whatever's making my stomach unsettled. They love me back. All of them. This beautiful, impossible thing we've been building has a name now, and it's love.

And then they're all moving toward me, surrounding me with warmth and certainty and the kind of love that feels like coming home after years of wandering.

"Move in with me," I say against someone's shoulder, the words tumbling out before I can second-guess them. "Officially. All of you. Make this ours."

"Already is ours," Callum murmurs, pressing a kiss to my temple. "Has been since your heat. Since you let us take care of you."

"Since you chose us back," Dean adds, his arms tight around me.

"Then make it permanent," I say, pulling back to look at them. "I want everything with you. The ordinary days and the complicated ones and all the messy, beautiful stuff in between."

"Everything?" Dean asks, and there's heat in his voice that makes my pulse quicken.

"Everything," I confirm, meaning it completely.

The word carries implications that make the air between us feel charged with possibility.

Everything means sharing space permanently, combining our lives in ways that go beyond temporary arrangement.

Everything means building a future together, making decisions as a unit, choosing each other every single day.

"We'll need to figure out logistics," Julian says, his practical mind already shifting into planning mode. "Storage, closet space, whose furniture stays and whose gets donated. Financial arrangements, insurance, how to handle?—"

"Julian," I interrupt gently, touched by his immediate shift into caretaking mode. "We have time to figure out the details. Right now I just need to know you want this. All of you."

"I want this," Dean says immediately, his warm brown eyes bright with certainty. "Want to wake up in our bed every morning. Want to come home from work and find you here. Want to build something real and lasting."

"I want to take care of you," Callum adds, his gruff voice carrying surprising tenderness. "Want to fix whatever needs fixing and build whatever you dream up. Want to make this place perfect for you."

"I want to understand you," Julian says quietly, his precise way of speaking carrying extra weight. "Want to catalog every expression and memorize every preference. Want to be the person you turn to when you need someone who pays attention to details."

The different ways they express love. Dean through caretaking, Callum through action, Julian through observation, fit together like puzzle pieces I didn't realize were missing.

"I want all of that too," I tell them, meaning it completely. "I want Sunday morning pancakes and Tuesday evening conversations about nothing. I want to fight about whose turn it is to do dishes and make up by cooking dinner together."

"I want to learn your routines and contribute to them," I continue, warming to the subject.

"I want Julian to reorganize my spice cabinet according to whatever system makes sense to him.

I want Callum to build me garden boxes and whatever else his hands can create.

I want Dean to teach me his grandmother's recipes and stress-cook for me when he's worried. "

"You want us to be ourselves," Dean says with wonder, like the concept is revolutionary.

"I want you to be exactly who you are," I confirm. "I fell in love with Dean who brings coffee and fixes door handles. With Callum who sees broken things and makes them whole. With Julian who notices everything and remembers what matters."

The silence that follows is comfortable, weighted with the significance of what we've just committed to.

This isn't just romance or attraction or the biological pull that brought us together during my heat.

This is choice, deliberate and informed, made by people who've seen each other at their worst and decided to build something beautiful together.

"So we're doing this," Dean says, grinning like he's won the lottery. "We're really doing this."

"We're really doing this," I agree, feeling lighter than I have in years.

As evening settles over our little house, we start making practical plans.

Julian produces a notepad and begins listing considerations with characteristic thoroughness.

Dean starts mentally rearranging kitchen storage to accommodate four people who all like to cook.

Callum examines furniture with a critical eye, already planning modifications and improvements.

Watching them work together, seeing how naturally they adapt to including me in decisions that will affect all of us, makes something profound settle in my chest. This is what partnership looks like.

Not one person making choices for everyone else, but four people collaborating to build something none of us could create alone.

"I love you," I say again, because the words feel too important to say just once.

"We love you too," they respond, and the certainty in their voices makes me believe, for the first time in my life, that forever might actually be possible.