“I’ve been fighting this for months,” he admits. “Avoiding her because I didn’t want to feel this way. Didn’t want to want something and not know if I could have it.”
“So stop fighting it.”
The fire pops. The wind howls. Tessa shifts in her sleep, and all three of us turn to look at her like we’re tied to her by invisible strings.
“Okay,” Ben says, voice low. “Okay. We do this together.”
It’s not a plan. It’s not a promise. But it’s a start.
Elijah nods once. I raise my beer in a silent toast.
Whatever comes next, we’re in it together.
We move backto the living room. The fire’s burned down to embers now, casting more shadow than light.
“She should sleep in a real bed,” Elijah says, standing. “The couch isn’t comfortable enough.”
Tessa stirs at our voices, blinking awake. “I can just... there’s a spare room, right? I don’t want to take anyone’s bed.”
Ben goes very still. “The spare room’s not—it’s full of junk. Storage stuff. You can’t sleep in there.”
I cough to cover my laugh. Elijah suddenly finds something fascinating about the ceiling.
“Junk,” I repeat, voice carefully neutral. “Right. All that... junk.”
Ben shoots me a look that promises death. I grin back at him, because I remember exactly what’s in that spare room. Helped carry it in myself. A custom nesting bench built by the man currently studying the ceiling like it holds the secrets of the universe.
Junk. Sure.
“You’ll take my room,” Ben says firmly to Tessa. “I’ll take the couch.”
She looks like she wants to argue, but her eyes are already drifting closed again. “You don’t have to?—”
“I want to.” His voice is softer now. “Go back to sleep.”
She does. Out like a light, burrowed into the couch cushions.
“I call the pullout,” I say. “Elijah, you want the armchair or the floor?”
“Floor’s fine. I’ll grab blankets.”
Ben moves to the couch and slides one arm under Tessa’s knees, the other behind her back. She murmurs against his neck but doesn’t wake. Just turns her face into his shirt, one hand fisting in the fabric.
Ben’s face does something complicated. Wonder and fear and want, all tangled together.
He carries her down the hall, and I watch them go.
Her scent lingers in the room. Warmer than before. Sweeter. Mixed with all of ours now—leather and musk and cedarwood and honey and dark chocolate—layered and tangled together.
Tomorrow we figure out the car, the roads, whatever this is between us.
Tonight, there’s a storm outside and a fire burning low and an omega sleeping safely down the hall. Tonight, that’s enough.
Elijah comes back with blankets. We make up the pullout couch, toss pillows on the floor, and settle in.
“Think she’ll remember tonight?” he asks. “When she wakes up?”
I think about the way she reached for my hand. The small smile she gave me before she fell asleep.
