I laugh but keep walking right to my room, only stopping long enough to pick up the bag I dropped on the floor.
When I sit down on my bed, I take out my phone and message the guys in the group chat.
Me: I’m home. I think the conversation went well. He’s at least trying to see reason.
37
Lincoln
The house feelswrong without her.
It’s not quiet—we’re three alphas in one space; it’s never really quiet—but it feels… empty. The couch looks wrong without her curled on it. The kitchen feels too big without her perched on the stool, sipping coffee and rolling her eyes at Milton. Even the hallway smells wrong—no thread of mint and green tea winding through the stronger notes of sandalwood, peach, and grapefruit.
Bayleigh’s been back home for four days.
Four days of group chat messages. Four days of “good morning” texts. Four days of pretending that’s enough.
It’s not.
Milton is the most obvious about it. He wanders around the house sighing like a Victorian widow, dramatic as hell, texting her every meme he can find and then pouting when she sends back only laughing emojis and not paragraphs.
Korbin hides in the gym. He’s snappier than usual, all clipped words and tight jaw, beating the hell out of the treadmill and thepunching bag. His peach and honeydew scent runs hotter, more frustrated, every time her name comes up.
Me?
I check my phone like it’s a heartbeat monitor and she’s the pulse. Every time my screen lights, my chest tightens. Every time it’snother, something inside me sinks just a little.
By the time I finish work, I’m dusty, exhausted, hands scraped from wrestling with a stubborn breaker box, and all I can think about is her. Her smile. Her hands. The way she’d said thank you for letting her stay here like it cost her something precious to say it out loud.
I sit in my truck for a full minute, phone in my hand, thumb hovering over our chat. The last thing she sent was:
Bayleigh: I miss you too, and I need to talk to you about something. I’m nervous.
I’d stared at the wordnervousfor a long time.
I exhale, finally type:
Me: Don’t be nervous. Whatever it is, we'll handle it. Can I come get you?
The second I hit send, my pulse spikes, my scent tightening in the cab—sandalwood, warm and a little sharp with nerves.
The dots appear almost immediately.
Bayleigh: Yes.
Bayleigh: Please.
That’s all it takes. My whole body exhales at once, every alpha instinct in me flipping from restless to focused.
On her. Always her.
I text Milton and Korbin that I’m taking our girl out and not to wait up. Milton sends three obscene winks. Korbin replies with a single thumbs-up that somehow still manages to say,don’t fuck this up.
Her house glows faintly when I pull up, porch light on, curtains drawn tight. I park at the curb and sit for a second, palms pressed to the steering wheel, scent running hot with nervous anticipation.
The night air bites at my skin when I step out. My heart is thudding too hard, too low in my chest, my alpha instinct wound tight, ready to ease only when I know she’s okay. I lift my hand and ring the doorbell. I wait.
For half a heartbeat, nothing happens. Then the lock clicks and the door cracks open. She’s in leggings and an oversized sweater, hair in a loose braid over one shoulder. No makeup that I can see. Just her. Soft, real, beautiful.
