Elijah’s hands. The way he touched me like I was something worth being careful with.
I set down my tea and press my palms against my eyes.
This is pathetic. I am a grown woman. A professional. I have coordinated events through crises, natural disasters, and one memorable incident involving a runaway goat. I can handle a little post-heat emotional confusion.
Except it wasn’t just heat. Not by the end.
I remember the way Ben looked at me during that last wave. The tenderness. The way he cut me off before I could say something stupid.
I remember Milo making me drink water between waves. The way he looked at me like I was something worth protecting.
I remember Elijah sayingI’ll wait.
My phone sits on the coffee table, fully charged now. Silent. No texts. No calls.
They’re giving me space.
Great. Wonderful. Exactly what I asked for.
So why am I staring at my phone like a teenager waiting for a crush to text back?
I pick it up. No new messages.
Part of me—the stupid, irrational part that apparently runs on omega hormones and poor decision-making—wants there to be something. A dumb joke from Ben. A check-in from Milo. Even just a single period from Elijah, because that’s probably all he’d send.
But there’s nothing. Because they’re actually respecting my boundaries.
Damn them.
I set the phone down and stare at my laptop. The emails blur together. I should be working. I should be in full crisis-management mode, color-coding spreadsheets and making backup plans for my backup plans.
Instead I’m sitting here wondering why three alphas aren’t texting me.
God, I’m a mess.
I should call the pharmacy. Get a refill on my suppressants. My pills are still in my car, which is probably at Ben’s shop now. But I could call in a new prescription. Be back on them by tomorrow. Go back to being controlled, predictable, suppressed Tessa who doesn’t have heats or slick or inconvenient biological urges.
Seven years I spent on those pills. Seven years of muted instincts and manageable hormones and never once losing control.
I pick up my phone to make the call.
I don’t make the call.
I set the phone back down and pretend I don’t know why.
I’ve spent three years building a life here. A career. A reputation as someone who gets things done, who doesn’t need anyone, who has everything under control. I’m proud of that woman. I worked hard to become her.
But she’s also lonely as hell.
The thought hits like a punch to the gut, and for once I don’t shove it away.
I’m lonely. I’ve been lonely for a while. And three alphas just showed me what it might feel like to not be—and that’s terrifying. Because what if I let them in and it changes everything? What if I can’t be the Tessa I’ve built anymore?
What if I don’t want to be?
I close my laptop. I’m not getting any work done tonight. Might as well stop pretending.
I curl up on the couch with my tea and let myself sit with it. The fear. The want. The complete and total uncertainty about what happens next.
