It’s still a little rough, but smoother than the first time. My fingers move through the signs I practiced in the bathroommirror, my expression softening the edges. I say the words with my voice too, slow and clear, so she can read my mouth if she wants.
I pause, swallow, hands hovering midair.
Will you go to dinner with me?
The sentence comes out cleaner this time. The dinner sign still feels weird—closing my fingers like I’m pinching a chip instead of shoveling food—but it’s what the instructor told me. I lean into it, shoulders loose, letting a small smile tug at one corner of my mouth.
Probably still clumsy. Definitely not perfect.
But it’s mine.
I lower my hands, step forward, and tap the screen to stop recording. Watching it back is torture; I see every stiff finger, every hesitation, but when I get to the part where I say her name, something in my chest loosens.
I send it before I chicken out.
Me: Practice makes… slightly less terrible
Me: But I meant it. I want to take you to dinner.
I toss the phone onto the bed and lie back, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the buzz. My heart’s pounding like I’m about to step onto the ice for a shootout.
The vibration comes sooner than I expect.
Bayleigh: You’re not terrible.
Bayleigh: You’re trying.
Bayleigh: And yes. Again.
I exhale, a laugh breaking out of me, tension bleeding right out of my muscles. I close my eyes, phone pressed to my chest for a second like I’m sixteen and ridiculous.
Milton
I’m sitting in the living room pretending to watch the game highlights, but I haven’t processed a single damn play. The remote’s in my hand, my leg’s bouncing, and my phone’s on the table beside me, mocking me like it knows something I don’t.
Lincoln’s probably in his room smiling like a lovesick idiot. Good for him. Really. I should feel nothing but proud.
Except I don’t. Something twists sharp and low in my chest, and I hate that I recognize it.
Jealousy.
Not the ugly kind, just the quiet, annoying sort that makes you sit a little straighter and breathe a little deeper like it’ll shove the feeling down.
I grab my phone and pull up her pictures that I saved like a damn creep. Scroll. Stop. Scroll back.
Her picture that the publicist took at the charity event is still there. Bayleigh, kneeling beside me, checking the scrape on my wrist like I didn’t even notice the damn thing. Her fingers were soft. Her scent was softer. And for a split second, I forgot she was a Lennox. Forgot everything except the way she looked at me—direct, curious, unafraid.
My jaw tightens. I toss the phone facedown and scrub both hands over my face.
“Don’t even start, man,” I mutter to myself.
This isn’t who I am. I don’t swoon over omegas I barely know. I don’t get weird just because my best friend finally found someone he likes and who likes him back. And I sure as hell don’t get hung up on a woman whose brother would put a puck through my skull if he knew I even breathed in her direction.
But I can’t shake it.
Her signing, her smile, that soft little wrinkle she had at the corner of her eyes when she was focusing on reading my lips. The way she didn’t treat me like some towering, scary alpha… just Milton.
I lean back, drape my arm over the couch, and close my eyes for a second.
