Page 13 of Nesting With My Three Alphas (Hollow Haven #1)

"You don't have to figure it all out today," I said, echoing words I'd told myself countless times over the past three years. "Just let yourself be okay now."

She was looking at me with those warm brown eyes, her lips slightly parted, and for a moment I thought about leaning closer.

About finding out if she tasted as sweet as she smelled.

About what it would feel like to kiss her while my daughter slept peacefully in her lap, surrounded by the golden light of an October afternoon.

But something held me back. Maybe it was the knowledge that Reed and Micah were both clearly interested in her too and there was an important conversation we needed to have first, or maybe it was just the understanding that Kit needed time to heal before anyone asked her to make that kind of choice.

Instead, I squeezed her hand gently and looked out at the passing orchard, trying to memorize the feeling of this moment. The three of us together, Kit's scent mixing with the crisp autumn air, Charlie safe and happy between us.

It felt like family. It felt like home.

The hayride ended too soon, the tractor pulling back into the barn as other families began gathering their things. Charlie woke up slowly, blinking in confusion before remembering where she was.

"Did I miss anything good?" she asked, stretching like a cat.

"Just some very pretty apple trees," Kit said, though her eyes were still on me. "Nothing too exciting."

Charlie seemed satisfied with that answer, jumping down from the wagon with renewed energy. "Can we get cider before we go? Please?"

"Of course," I said, helping Kit down from the wagon. My hands lingered on her waist longer than strictly necessary, and I caught her small intake of breath at the contact.

We bought steaming cups of mulled cider and fresh apple donuts, eating them while Charlie ran around the barn looking at the harvest displays. Other families milled around us, the comfortable bustle of a community tradition in full swing.

"Jonah Maddox," a familiar voice called from behind us. I turned to see Tom Corbin approaching with a grin. "Good to see you here again this year."

"Wouldn't miss it," I said, shaking Tom's hand. "Tom, this is Kit. She's new to town."

"Ah, the famous new neighbor," Tom said with a knowing smile. "Welcome to Hollow Haven, Kit. Hope Jonah's been showing you all the best spots."

"He has," Kit said, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. "This place is wonderful. I can see why it's a tradition."

"Thirty-two years running," Tom said proudly. "Sarah used to say we put on the best fall celebration in three counties."

I tensed slightly at the mention of Sarah, old habits making me expect the familiar pang of grief. But looking at Kit, who smiled warmly at the memory without any trace of jealousy or discomfort, I realized the pain had softened into something more like gratitude.

Sarah would have liked Kit, I thought. Would have appreciated her gentle way with Charlie, her genuine interest in community traditions. The thought didn't hurt the way it used to.

"She was right," I said simply. "You've built something special here."

We said our goodbyes and gathered our pumpkins, Charlie chattering about carving plans as we walked back to the truck. Kit was quiet on the drive home, but it was a comfortable silence, her hand resting near mine on the center console.

When we pulled up to my house, Charlie had fallen asleep again in the backseat, worn out by the day's adventures.

"I can wake her," Kit offered softly.

"No need. She's used to being moved when she's sleeping." I carefully lifted Charlie from her seat, and Kit immediately moved to help, opening doors and gathering Charlie's jacket and hat that had been discarded during the ride.

"Where should I put these?" Kit whispered, holding Charlie's things.

"Just on the hall table. Thank you."

I settled Charlie on the sofa with gentle hands, and Kit was right there, pulling a throw blanket over her small form without being asked. My daughter murmured something in her sleep and snuggled deeper into the cushions, completely at peace.

"Thank you," I said as Kit straightened. "For today. For everything."

"Thank you for including me," Kit replied. "I had a wonderful time."

We were standing close in the dimmed living room, Charlie's soft breathing the only sound. Kit's scent was warm and inviting, and when she looked up at me, I saw something in her eyes that made my pulse quicken.

"Jonah," she said softly, and I thought she might be about to say something important.

Instead, she reached out and squeezed my hand, the same way she had on the hayride. "You've made this town feel safe," she said. "I wanted you to know that."

"You've made it feel right again," I replied honestly. "Just thought you should know."

For a moment, I thought she might lean closer. Her eyes dropped to my lips briefly, and I felt the pull between us like a physical thing. But then she stepped back, that careful distance reasserting itself.

"I should go," she said. "Let you get Charlie to bed properly."

"Of course." I walked her to the door, trying not to be disappointed. "Kit?"

"Yeah?"

"Sweet dreams."

Her smile was soft and genuine. "You too."

I watched from the window as she crossed the small yard to her own front door, pumpkin cradled in her arms like a prize. The porch light Reed had installed caught her hair as she unlocked her new deadbolts, and I found myself thinking about how perfectly she'd fit into our day. Into our lives.

When I turned back to check on Charlie, I found her awake and watching me with knowing eyes.

"You like Kit," she said matter-of-factly.

"We all like Kit," I replied, sitting on the edge of the couch.

"No, Dad. You like like her. The way grown-ups like each other."

Sometimes my daughter's perceptiveness was alarming. "It's complicated, buttercup."

"Why?"

How to explain the delicate balance of three alphas all drawn to the same omega? The need to let Kit heal and choose for herself? The fear that wanting something good didn't automatically mean you deserved it?

"Because grown-up feelings usually are," I said finally.

Charlie considered this with seven-year-old wisdom. "Well, I think she likes you too. She smells different when you're around. Happier."

"Does she now?"

"Mmhmm. Like flowers before it rains, but in a good way."

I pressed a kiss to Charlie's forehead, marveling once again at her intuitive understanding of omega dynamics. "Come on, sweetheart. Let's get you to bed."

As I tucked Charlie in and listened to her recount her favorite parts of the day, I found myself thinking about Kit's hand in mine, the way she'd looked at me on the hayride, the moment when we'd almost kissed in my living room.

But there was something else lingering too.

Kit's scent, faint but unmistakable, clinging to Charlie's clothes and the throw blanket.

Vanilla and honey with those notes of contentment I was learning to associate with her happiness.

She'd left a piece of herself here, and I found I didn't want it to fade.

Tomorrow, I'd probably overthink it all. Wonder if I was reading too much into simple kindness, worry about the complications of competing with my closest friends for the same woman's attention.

But tonight, I was content to remember the way Kit had held my daughter like she was precious, the sound of her laughter mixing with the autumn wind, the feeling that maybe, just maybe, good things were still possible.

Even if I had to wait for them.