I leave a tip in the jar and step out onto Main, the door swinging shut behind me with a hollow thunk. Morning sun’s too bright, makes my eyes ache. I take another drink of coffee, scalding my tongue on purpose. Just to feel something that isn’t this low, sour twist in my gut.
Because if she’s back, and Beck has already connected with her again, what does that mean for us?
Will my secret become a problem?
Will she even care?
Across the street, I see him.
Beck Calloway.
Walking toward the fire station, head down, boots scuffing the pavement like they’re made of lead. His hair’s a mess, curls flattened on one side as if he slept in a chair. His shirt’s untucked, uniform jacket slung over his shoulder, and his eyes are shadowed with lack of sleep.
I know that look. Beck’s a protector, a stabilizer for this pack. The kind of guy who never lets you see him crumble, even when the weight’s too much to carry alone.
We’ve not been a pack for as long as some other guys. In some ways, we’re still figuring each other out. I can’t help but wonder if this is going to set us back.
What if she just wants Beck again, and we lose him?
Because it’s always beenhim.
Even back then, when we were just dumb teenagers. Lo looked at him as if he was her whole world. The man who hung the stars in the sky. And I…
Well. I never said a damn word, did I? Just kept my head down. Watched. Waited. Never wanting to pressure her. Never wanting to throw a wrench into whatever life plans she dreamed up for herself while staring into Beck’s gaze.
That’s what I do.
Stay silent.
Stay in the background.
Stay in the dark.
I fix what I can. Leave the rest to rot. Things are safer that way.
Lonely, but safer.
But watching Beck Calloway now, looking like he might be about to collapse under the weight of something only he can carry… it digs under my skin. Makes my belly pulse, hot.
Because I’m scared of what will happen next. Where this will take us.
What the hell do I do?
What if this costs me my pack?
The truth is, I don’t know how to speak to men like Beck aboutfeelings. Men who live their lives out loud. Who rescue people from burning buildings and still sleep at night. Who look at Lo Marsh and thinkI deserve herinstead ofshe’d never want me.
I’ve never been good at talking. Even to my pack.
My mouth stays shut. My boots stay planted. I just stand there, watching him walk away, feeling the quiet life I’ve built splinter at the edges.
Because she’s back. And he looks wrecked.
And I can feel it, deep in my bones, that everything is about to change.
Like how you can smell rain, or feel an oncoming storm.
I take another gulp of my coffee and turn toward the festival gates, my chest tight and heavy. Work first. Always work first.
