I pull my hand back.
“It’s for a client,” I say. My voice sounds strange to my own ears. “Someone local?”
“Yeah.”
“They’re lucky.”
I cover the bench back up, keeping my movements steady. I don’t nest. I haven’t nested in years, not since I learned that forever was just a word people used when they wanted something from you. I keep my apartment bare for a reason. No soft blankets. No extra pillows. Nothing that could make me weak.
Whatever that feeling was just now—that ache, that want—I don’t have time for it.
“I should go.” I grab my tablet from the workbench. “Venue walkthrough at three, and I’m already running behind.”
Elijah walks me to the door. “Six a.m. on the thirteenth for setup. River’s coordinating.”
“I know.” There’s that almost-smile again. “You mentioned it at the meeting. And in two emails.”
“Redundancy prevents miscommunication.”
“I’m not complaining.”
I make it halfway to the truck before his voice stops me.
“Tessa.”
I turn, breath fogging in the cold. He’s still in the doorway, afternoon light catching the sawdust in his hair.
“You should eat something. You smell like you skipped lunch.”
“I eat plenty.”
“Tessa.”
Just my name. Nothing else. But something about the way he says it—calm and sure and not pushing, just waiting—makes my defensive walls wobble.
“I have a granola bar in my bag,” I say, which isn’t the same as admitting he’s right.
“Eat it.”
I should argue. I don’t need alphas telling me when to eat. I don’t need anyone managing me.
But something about his quiet certainty makes me want to listen, and that’s annoying enough that I climb into Ben’s truck without another word.
The granola bar is at the bottom of my purse. I eat it while I drive, because apparently I’m taking orders from quiet woodworkers now.
Back at my apartment building,I park Ben’s truck and sit there for a moment, staring at the flannel shirt in the back seat. I’d shoved it there earlier, but it’s still visible in the rearview mirror. Still radiating leather and musk into the enclosed space.
I should leave it. It’s his shirt. It can stay in his truck.
Except the truck is a mess—less of a mess now, thanks to me—and that shirt has been balled up for God knows how long. It probably needs washing. And he did lend me his truck. Without asking for anything in return.
The least I can do is wash his shirt.
I grab it before I can overthink it and head upstairs.
My apartment is exactly how I left it this morning. Minimal, organized, everything in its place. White walls, gray furniture,no clutter. No soft blankets draped over the couch. No throw pillows in warm colors. Nothing that could trigger instincts I’ve spent seven years suppressing.
I set my bag on the kitchen counter and look at the flannel in my hands.
