Page 25

REMI

Finally, after several minutes of warring within myself, I take a step back and open the door wider, an unspoken permission for him to come inside. A small, timid smile tugs at the corner of his lips. The sight of it fills me with warmth.

There’s something about Tripp that makes it easy to be around him, much easier than the other two. He has an aura of a cuddly teddy bear despite being a fierce alpha.

“Thank you,” he says, taking a step inside.

The moment Tripp crosses the threshold, the room feels impossibly smaller.

It’s as if his presence swells to fill every inch of space, crowding out the familiar quiet with something heavier, charged, and electric.

The air thickens, weighted by the intangible gravity he carries, and suddenly, I am acutely aware of the shallowness of my breathing.

Every inhale seems to catch on the edge of his nearness, my lungs struggling to expand against the invisible pressure pressing in from all sides.

Even the lamplight appears to bend around him, shadows gathering in corners as if to make room for his size, his scent, the subtle but undeniable force of him.

I find myself wishing for more air, more space, but I can’t look away—can’t do anything but stand still and let the sensation wash over me, equal parts intimidating and inexplicably comforting.

I shift from foot to foot, the entryway carpet muffling the restless scrape of my feet as I try to anchor myself in the moment. My fingers twitch at my side, betraying the swirl of unease that no amount of deep breaths can quite tame.

Finally, with a voice that wavers just above a whisper, I manage, “So, how do you know where I live?”

His smile widens. “I may have had help with that.”

“Help?”

“My little secret,” he retorts.

The smile comes unbidden onto my face as I turn around and head toward the kitchen. Just as I anticipated, he follows right behind me. I can practically feel his eyes beaming into the back of my body, roaming his gaze over every inch that greets his eyes. I don’t know how, but I can.

I busy my hands, fingers fumbling for something ordinary.

The cabinet door creaks as I open it, reaching for mismatched cups—one, then two—stacking them with unnecessary precision.

Their ceramic clinks echo louder than I intend, a clumsy soundtrack to my unsettled thoughts.

I set the cups down on the counter a little too carefully, aligning their handles as if that minor act might grant me control over my skittering nerves.

With my back turned to him, I reach for the coffee pot, the familiar weight grounding in my palm.

I busy myself with old motions: filling the reservoir, scooping out grounds, tapping the spoon against the rim.

Each ordinary gesture becomes deliberate, stretched out, as if the choreography of making coffee might ward off the tension rising behind me—or at least delay it.

The silence between us thickens, punctuated only by the soft rattle of glass and the low hum of water heating.

I fuss with the filter, pretending to be absorbed by the process, grateful for any excuse not to meet his eyes just yet.

If I focus hard enough on the swirl of steam and the hiss of the machine, I can postpone whatever conversation waits, heavy and inevitable, in the charged air that hangs between us.

“Coffee?” I ask, the word barely coming out above a whisper.

“That would be lovely. Thank you.”

“All I have is decaf since it’s so late. I’ll never sleep if I consume caffeine right now.”

“Decaf is fine, Remi,” he says with a chuckle.

After a few moments, the subtle warmth behind me grows—at first, a gentle presence, then something more consuming. Heat shrouds my entire back, prickling up my spine, impossible to ignore.

Tripp is close—so close that the air between us seems to thin and shimmer, every inch of him radiating toward me like a hearth I never meant to approach. My thoughts scatter, stubbornly refusing to line up, as his breath ghosts the nape of my neck, and the fine hairs on my arms stand at attention.

It’s suddenly difficult to remember the order of things: scoop, pour, stir.

All of it feels secondary to the immediacy of him, the magnetic field of his nearness making ordinary movements feel foreign.

I grip the edge of the counter, steadying myself, determined not to turn around—yet unable to focus on anything but the impossible heat blooming between us.

“On second thought, you don’t have to make me anything.” His breath ghosts across my neck, making my entire body shiver from his closeness.

I stay silent, my breath caught somewhere high in my chest, unwilling to break the delicate spell of the moment.

He doesn’t touch me—his hands land instead on the counter, bracketing me in.

Their presence feels more in the space they claim than in any contact.

The warmth of him pools around me, cocooning, inescapable.

My heart pounds a frantic, secret rhythm, loud to my ears, but I force myself not to move, not to lean back, not to give away the tremor that runs through me.

His arms form a cage that feels less like confinement and more like shelter, though I dare not admit that, even to myself.

My hands let go of the counter and find one of the cups.

My fingers tighten around the mug I haven’t lifted, knuckles whitening in the half-light, as I stare unblinking at the slow drip of coffee.

The silence deepens, thick with things unsaid, and I let it stretch, let it say for me what I cannot: that I am here, unmoving, unwilling to step away.

I don’t want to think about how right this feels, having Tripp standing so close to me. I don’t want to think about how this feeling will go away when he leaves, because he doesn’t belong here.

Their pack doesn’t want me. They made that very clear the first time we had dinner, even more so last night when they stood me up in the coffee shop for our date.

I know Tripp said he had nothing to do with the message, that he was going to get to the bottom of it, but that could be a lie to placate me.

Not being able to stand the silence any longer, I whisper my thoughts, “I thought you all didn’t want me.”

I hear Tripp groan before my mouth falls open when he leans his entire weight into me, pressing me against the counter. The counter digs into my stomach, but it’s not painful. Instead, it’s a comforting feeling. It makes me not feel alone.

“Remi,” he says, and I feel his face press into the back of my head, and he takes a deep inhale, taking my scent into his body. “Fuck.”

It would be easier, maybe, to believe this heady nearness is about want or choice or longing—but I know, with a certainty that roots itself in my bones, that it’s biology, fate, the sharp inevitability of being scent matched.

It’s the deepest law neither of us can rewrite.

The world has tilted on its axis, not because I earned this closeness, but because his instincts have drawn him here—his body answering mine, helpless to resist the pull.

Every nerve ending is alive with the knowledge that, in the language beneath words, we are perfectly aligned.

Not because of shared memories or promises whispered in the dark, but because something fundamental in him is tethered to me.

Scent, the oldest magic—his and mine, tangled and undeniable—writes its own story in the heated space between us.

He’s close because he can’t not be. I feel it in the way his breath stutters, the way his hands tighten around the edge of the counter as if bracing against a current too strong to fight.

It’s not romance, not yet. It’s need, raw and unyielding, and for one breathless moment, I let myself believe that’s enough.

But just because he wants me doesn’t mean he wants me. His body wants me. There is a biological need for him to be close to me. Knox and Boone have no problem ignoring the pull we have with each other. Tripp, on the other hand, seems to be struggling.

I let him stay near, my body a tense contradiction—craving the comfort of his presence but feeling the ache of what remains just out of reach.

To let him hold me like this is to press against a bruise, to test the boundaries of pain and longing in the same shuddering breath.

I allow Tripp’s warmth to seep into me, but I keep my hands stubbornly on the mug, fingers locked in place, as if I can anchor myself against whatever this moment threatens to unravel.

Each breath I take is laced with longing and regret, a silent plea for more war with the knowledge that I can’t— won’t —ask for it.

There’s a hollow place inside me that aches as his chest rises and falls against my back, a space carved out by hope and the certainty that I don’t belong.

To be this close is to be reminded of everything I’ve been denied, every invitation rescinded before it could be spoken aloud.

The closeness hurts in a way distance never could.

I feel the promise of connection in every inch of space he refuses to yield, but it is a promise neither of us can fulfill—not now, not like this.

I ache for his touch, for the wild inevitability of what we could be, but instead, I let the pain settle.

I let it teach me restraint, let it remind me that proximity is not the same as acceptance, nor want the same as belonging.

So I stand, unmoving, letting him orbit me with all the gravity of fate, and swallow back the tears that threaten, refusing to let them fall. The wanting—the ache of it—cuts deeper than I ever thought possible.

“I can’t do this,” I whisper through an emotionally clogged throat.

“ Please ,” His breath wisps across my ear.