This is not part of the fake relationship plan.
I stare at the arm wrapped around me—strong and corded with muscle, dusted with dark hair, the hand splayed possessively across my stomach. Charlie’s hand. Charlie’s arm.Charlie pressed against every inch of my back, warm and solid and real.
I try to blame it on the heat spike. Try to tell myself that this feeling—this dangerous, terrifying, wonderful feeling—is just residual hormones and endorphins and the inevitable result of three Alphas taking care of me through a blip in biology.
But I’m not that good at lying to myself anymore.
My heart is tripping, stumbling, falling headfirst into wanting this for real. Wantingthemfor real. The fake courtship, the two-month expiration date, the careful boundaries I tried to set—they’re all dissolving like sugar in hot tea.
Not everyone is your father,I tell myself firmly.Not everyone is Felton. Maybe you can actually believe them when they say they want you.
The thought is exhilarating and frightening in equal measure.
Charlie shifts behind me, his arm tightening briefly before relaxing again, and his scent wraps around me—sage and sweetgrass, like the fields I grew up in. He’s always felt like home, a safe place to fall.
I pull a deep breath into my lungs, and the mix is intoxicating—Charlie’s earthy warmth blending with the salty bergamot and leather of Beau and the rich chocolate and spice of Jake that still cling to my skin.
The combined scents settle something deep in my Omega, like pieces of a puzzle clicking into place.
This is what being a pack is supposed to feel like.
This is what home is supposed to feel like.
My body recognizes it even if my mind is still catching up, my Omega purring softly in contentment at being thoroughly cared for by all three of them.
Carefully, I slip out of Charlie’s arms. He mumbles something in his sleep, reaching for me, and I freeze. But he justrolls over, his face pressed into the pillow where my head was, and settles back into sleep.
I stand there for a moment, looking down at him. At this face I’ve known my whole life. The boy who taught me to skip stones, climb trees, and stand up to bullies. The man who disappeared from my life and then came crashing back in, claiming me without hesitation.
I have to pinch myself. This can’t be real. Can it?
I grab a shirt from the floor, and my eyes roll back when I draw in the deep musk of it. It smells of Charlie and sweat and hay. I could drown in this scent. When I pull it on, it hangs to mid-thigh, the long sleeves swallowing my hands. I roll them up and pad out into the hallway, my feet silent on the hardwood floor.
The house is quiet. Early morning light streams through the windows, painting everything in shades of gold and honey. I wander through the familiar spaces, my fingers trailing along the walls, and I’m struck by how much has stayed the same.
The kitchen is still in the same spot, though the appliances are newer—Charlie must have remodeled after his mom passed away. A wave of regret washes over me at not being here for that. The living room still has that massive stone fireplace. The hallway still creaks in the same places.
I followed my brother and Charlie through these halls a hundred times when we were kids. Played hide-and-seek in these rooms. Sat at that kitchen table, eating his mom’s cookies while Caleb and Charlie took turns trying to steal cookie dough.
There was a room upstairs, in the back. A small one, tucked away at the end of the hall. I remember loving it—the way the light came through the windows, the way it felt separate from the rest of the house. My own secret space. Because of the way it sat under the roofline, it was all angles. It always felt like a tower room, and instead of a princess, I was a knight set to defend.
My knight. My castle. My escape from a house that never felt like home and a father who never felt like family.
I find myself walking toward it, drawn by memory and the ghost of the girl I used to be. When I push open the door, I’m surprised to find it empty. No furniture, no boxes, just bare floors and walls painted a soft cream color.
But the windows are the same—large and east-facing, letting in streams of morning sunlight that pool on the floor in a splash of warmth.
I move to the closet nestled under the eaves, my heart already knowing what I’m looking for even if my mind hasn’t caught up yet. And when I crouch down and peer into the secret part of the nook near the upper hinge, I’m filled with a nostalgia so sharp it steals my breath.
I can’t believe it’s still there.
A little heart, carved carefully into the wood with my brother’s pocketknife. Inside: WJ + CH. Childish and secret and achingly sincere.
I remember when my affection became more than sisterly. I was maybe twelve, and he was probably seventeen or eighteen, and he told us about his and Caleb’s plans to go off to college when they graduated.
My heart broke into a million pieces. I ran up here, too afraid to face the possibility that he wouldn’t be here anymore. Too young to understand that we were years away from what real romantic love looked like, but my girlhood crush felt so consuming, so real.
I’d scribbled that heart like a spell, trying to will him to stay, to fall head over heels for me. A desperate child’s hope, carved into wood and infused with all the longing I didn’t know how to name.
