A small smile flickered across his face, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. "Garrett's been talking about me, I see."
"He mentioned the pack. You were the only one I hadn't met." I stayed where I was, not quite retreating but not descending the steps either. "What can I do for you?"
Micah glanced down at the cloth-wrapped bundle in his hands, then back up at me. "Levi made bread. At my request. I thought you might want to try it—see if your advice actually worked, or if he's still producing hockey pucks."
The casual explanation didn't match the intensity in his gaze, the way he was watching me like I was a puzzle he was actively trying to solve. This wasn't a simple bread delivery. This was an assessment. An evaluation. The strategic mind Garrett had mentioned, calculating variables and running scenarios.
"You could have sent it with Garrett," I pointed out, not moving from my spot. "Or Levi could have brought it himself."
"Both are true,," Micah agreed easily. "But I wanted to meet you. I'm the only one who hasn't, and that seemed like an oversight worth correcting."
The fog swirled between us, adding an almost surreal quality to the moment. Here I was, standing on my porch at barely past dawn, facing the last member of a pack that apparently wanted to court me. A pack I hadn't agreed to, hadn't asked for, but couldn't seem to stop thinking about.
"Why?" The question came out more defensive than I'd intended.
Micah tilted his head slightly, and I caught a glimpse of something sharp in his expression—intelligence, yes, but also a kind of ruthless honesty that suggested he didn't have much patience for pretense. "Because if my pack is interested in courting someone, I need to know who that someone is. I need to understand what we're getting into, what you're getting into. I need to assess whether this is actually viable or just wishful thinking on Garrett's part."
The bluntness of it was almost refreshing after Levi's gentle patience and Garrett's careful warmth. Here was someone who wasn't going to dance around the truth or soften the edges. Someone who was going to look directly at the complications and name them.
I should have been offended. Should have bristled at the idea of being "assessed" like a business proposition. But instead, I found myself oddly grateful for the directness. At least I knew where I stood with this one.
"And what if I fail your assessment?" I asked, keeping my voice level.
"Then I tell my pack that this isn't a good idea, and we all walk away." He said it matter-of-factly, like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. "But I don't make assumptions. I like to gather data first."
"I'm not data." I said, with more heat in my voice than I wanted.
"No, you're a person. A complicated one, from what I've heard." Micah finally started up the steps, moving slowly, giving me time to object. When I didn't—when I stayed rooted to my spot like a deer trying to decide between fight and flight—he stopped one step below the porch, putting us at eye level. "Which is why I'm here. To have a conversation, not an interrogation. To see if the reality matches what Garrett's been telling us."
Up close, his scent hit me—different from Garrett's cedar or Levi's crisp cleanness. Micah smelled like rain and something green, like crushed herbs or fresh-cut grass. There was an edge to it too, something sharp and bright that made me think of mint or pine needles. It was almost overwhelming in its intensity, distinctly Alpha but uniquely his.
My Omega instincts stirred uncomfortably, drawn to the scent despite my wariness. I took a half-step back, creating space, and saw understanding flicker in those green eyes. He'd noticed my reaction, catalogued it, filed it away as data.
"What has Garrett been telling you?" I asked, deflecting from the way my pulse had quickened, the way my own honeysuckle scent was probably flaring in response to his presence.
"That you're independent. Guarded. That you've built a life here that doesn't need anyone else." Micah extended the bread, and I took it automatically, my fingers brushing his for just a moment—warmth, calluses, the electric awareness of touch. "That you've been hurt before and you're not interested in being hurt again. That you're worth the effort it would take to get past your walls, but only if you actually want us to try."
The assessment was so accurate it made my chest tight. Garrett had seen me. Really seen me, in a way I wasn't sure I'd been seen since Margaret and Tom. And he'd shared that withhis pack, trusted them with the truth of who I was rather than trying to present some idealized version.
"He talks too much," I muttered, unwrapping the bread. It was still slightly warm, the crust golden-brown and crackling under my fingers. The smell that rose from it was incredible—yeasty and complex, with hints of tang that suggested successful fermentation. Not a hockey puck at all.
"He talks the right amount," Micah corrected. "Just usually not this much about one person. You've gotten under his skin."
I broke off a piece of the bread, more to have something to do with my hands than because I was hungry. The interior was perfectly textured—open crumb, slightly chewy, with that distinctive sourdough flavor that came from patient cultivation of wild yeast. Levi had actually done it.
"This is good," I admitted reluctantly. "Tell him the feeding schedule worked."
"Tell him yourself," Micah said. "Or don't. Up to you." He leaned against the porch railing, settling in like he planned to stay awhile. "Can I ask you something?"
I tensed, not knowing what to expect from this Alpha infant of me. "I guess."
"Why are you so afraid?" The question was too direct, too sharp. It cut through all my carefully maintained defenses and went straight to the core of things I didn't want to examine.
"I'm not?—"
"Yes, you are." Micah's voice wasn't unkind, but it was relentless. "I can see it in the way you're standing…ready to bolt at any moment. I can smell it under your scent—that edge of panic you're trying to hide. You're terrified. Question is, what exactly are you terrified of?"
I wanted to lie. Wanted to deflect or change the subject or tell him it was none of his business. But something about his directness, his willingness to name the truth without flinching,made me want to match it. To be equally honest, even if it felt like stripping off armor.
