I go back to filming, but this time without the familiar weight of anxiety pressing on my shoulders. Without waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Just creating, the way I've always wanted to.
The highway continues through the countryside, cutting a dark line through white and brown fields. We pass a small town—barely a dot on the map with maybe fifty people living there. Just a gas station with pumps that look like they haven't been updated since the 1990s, a handful of buildings clustered together looking worn but loved, and not much else.
A hand-painted sign advertises fresh Christmas trees for sale—$40 for six-footers, $60 for eight-footers. Another sign announces upcoming holiday events at the local church: cookie exchange on the fifteenth, Christmas pageant on the twenty-second, candlelight service on Christmas Eve.
Nash's truck eats up the miles with steady purpose, the engine humming beneath us with barely contained power. He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh, completely relaxed in a way that suggests he makes this drive frequently. Every so often his scent—motor oil and leather and something uniquely Alpha that I can't quite name—drifts over to me on the heated air.
"Where will I be staying?"
"Guest room in the main house," he says, taking a turn onto an even smaller road. "Grayson's already got it set up for you. Fresh sheets, cleared out the closet and dresser drawers, made sure the heating works properly in that room. He stress-cleaned for three straight hours yesterday. Reorganized the linen closet twice."
The image makes me smile despite myself. Sweet Grayson stress-cleaning, probably second-guessing every decision, wanting everything to be perfect for someone he barely knows.
We turn off onto another road—this one barely more than a dirt track with gravel scattered across the surface. The pavement here is rougher, cracked from years of freeze-thaw cycles and heavy vehicles. Trees grow closer on both sides now, creating a natural tunnel that filters the weak winter sunlight into dappled patterns across the truck's hood.
Then we round a curve and the property opens up before us like something from a painting.
The main house sits on a gentle rise, exactly like Nash described—two stories with white siding that looks freshly painted and dark green shutters framing every window. Awraparound porch spans the entire front and both sides, complete with rocking chairs that look inviting despite the cold weather. Smoke rises from the brick chimney in lazy spirals, suggesting a fire burning inside to ward off the November chill.
The house looks welcoming.Warm.Like a home instead of just a building.
Christmas lights line the porch railing in perfect, even strands—white lights that probably look magical when lit up at night. More lights wrap around each porch post in careful spirals, the kind that take hours to get right. Garland with red velvet bows decorates the front door and hangs from the porch ceiling in elegant swags.
A massive wreath hangs in the big picture window, adorned with pine cones and more red ribbon and what looks like real evergreen branches.
To the left, I can see Nash's cabin—smaller and more rustic with rough-hewn logs and a metal roof that looks built to withstand harsh winters. A large garage sits attached to it, the kind built for serious work rather than just parking cars. Through the windows I can see tools hanging on pegboards and what looks like motorcycle parts on workbenches. His space. His sanctuary.
To the right, partially hidden by a dense stand of evergreen trees that provides natural privacy, another cabin is barely visible. Just a corner of dark wood and a glimpse of a stone chimney. That must be Theo's place—private and secluded, perfect for someone who needs space to process trauma and decompress from the world.
"Wow," I breathe, taking it all in.
"Grayson went overboard with the decorations this year," Nash says, but there's clear affection in his voice.Fondness."He does every year even though we don't really celebrate Christmas properly, let alone get much visitors. Says it makes the placelook lived-in instead of like three bachelor Alphas are squatting here."
"It's beautiful. Seriously beautiful. Like something from a magazine or a Christmas movie."
Nash pulls the truck up the gravel driveway to the main house and cuts the engine.
For a long moment we just sit there in the sudden quiet, looking at the property spread out before us. The only sounds are the truck engine ticking as it cools and a crow cawing somewhere in the distant trees.
This is going to be my home for the next six weeks.
This beautiful house in the countryside with three Alphas who are already showing me more kindness in a few days than my ex-pack did in years. A place where I can document my life without fear. Where I can chase dreams instead of having them crushed.
Where I can figure out who I am when I'm not being told I'm worthless.
I pull out my phone again, framing the house in my camera app.
The composition is perfect—the white house with Christmas decorations, the smoke from the chimney, the winter landscape surrounding it like something from a greeting card.
This is something new I'll be experiencing.
A genuine fresh start.
A chance to be myself without constant criticism or control.
And this time I can document it without fear or mockery.
