All three of them go still.
“I love all of you,” I continue, because now that I’ve started, the words won’t stop. “Not because of biology or instinct or any of the things we can’t control. Because you chose me. Because you kept choosing me, over and over, even when I was too stubborn to choose you back.”
My voice cracks. I don’t care.
“I spent three years telling myself I didn’t need a pack. That I was fine on my own. That wanting this, wanting you, made me weak somehow. Like needing people was a failure.” I swipe at my eyes. “But you kept showing up anyway. All of you. And I think... I think maybe that’s what love actually is. Not some grand gesture. Just showing up. Again and again. Even when the other person is too scared to let you in.”
Ben’s hand finds mine. He doesn’t speak, but I see his throat work.
“Ben.” I turn to face him fully. “You’ve been bringing me muffins and fixing my car for three years. Three years of terrible jokes at town meetings, of pretending you weren’t watching me, of showing up with coffee when I was stress-planning at 6 AM.” I squeeze his hand. “You made me laugh when I forgot how.You made everything feel lighter. And I kept pushing you away because I was scared of how much I wanted you to stay.”
His eyes are bright. The joking, deflecting Ben I know is nowhere to be found. Just this man, looking at me like I’m the answer to every question he’s ever asked.
“Milo.” I turn to my right. “You saw me. From that very first night at the bar, you saw exactly who I was, the stress, the control issues, all of it, and you didn’t try to fix me or change me. You just... made space. For me to be messy and scared and imperfect.” I reach for his hand too. “You made me feel like I could want things. Like wanting wasn’t weakness.”
Milo’s jaw is tight. He blinks rapidly, looking away, and I realize he’s fighting tears.
“And Elijah.” I meet those quiet amber eyes across the room. “You don’t say much. You never have. But you show up in every way that matters. The stage you built for the fundraiser. You put three times the work into it because you knew it would make my event perfect. The nesting bench I found in your workshop. I know you made that for me, even though you never mentioned it.” My voice breaks. “You love quietly. Without asking for anything in return. And I’ve been too scared to tell you that I see it. All of it.”
Elijah doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But I see his hands tighten on the arms of his chair.
“I want to be yours,” I whisper. “All of yours. Not just for tonight. Forever.” The words feel terrifying and right. “I want claiming bites and pack bonds and waking up surrounded by you for the rest of my life. I want to stop being scared and start being brave. I want...”
My voice gives out. I’ve said everything. There’s nothing left but silence and my heart laid bare.
Then Ben laughs, wet and overwhelmed, and pulls me into his arms.
“Thank god,” he breathes against my hair. “Thank god, Tessa. I thought I was going to have to wait another three years.”
A sob escapes me. Or maybe a laugh. I can’t tell anymore.
Milo’s hand finds my back, warm and steady. “I’ve been in love with you since the night you reorganized your color-coded binder while complaining about ‘impossible alphas.’“
“You heard that?”
“I hear everything.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Bartender’s curse.”
Movement from across the room. Elijah crosses to us, dropping to his knees in front of the couch. He doesn’t speak. Instead, he cups my face in his calloused hands and presses his forehead to mine.
Through the touch, I feel everything he can’t say. Three years of watching. Of wanting. Of building things for me in silence because words don’t come easy but love does.
“Yes,” he says finally. Just that. Just yes.
I’m crying properly now. All three of them surrounding me, their scents mingling—leather and musk, dark chocolate and amber, cedarwood and honey—until I can’t tell where one ends and another begins.
This is what I was afraid of. This overwhelming feeling of being seen, of being wanted, of being held.
And it’s the best thing I’ve ever felt.
“So,” Milo says eventually, his voice rough. “We should talk about order. Who goes first matters. The first bond sets the foundation for the others.”
I already know. I’ve known since the moment I started this confession.
“You,” I tell him.
Milo blinks. “Me?”
“You saw me first.” I reach up to touch his face. “That night at the bar, three years ago. I was stressed and overwhelmed anddrowning, and you handed me a drink and made me feel like everything would be okay. Like I would be okay.” I stroke my thumb across his cheekbone. “You should be first.”
