The silence stretches. Her scent shifts again—the sharp distress fading into something softer, warmer.
"You kissed me back," she says finally, voice barely above a whisper. "I remember. The way you held me..."
Heat floods my face. "Yeah. I... sorry if I?—"
"Don't." She shifts in her seat, and her scent intensifies. "Don't apologize. It was... god, Seth, it was really good."
I have no idea what to say to that. My brain has completely abandoned me.
There's a long moment of silence. I can hear her breathing, feel the weight of everything unsaid between us.
"Seth, look at me."
I can't. If I look at her right now, sitting this close in my car, her scent everywhere, those eyes on me?—
"Seth."
I turn my head.
Her pupils are dilated. Lips slightly parted. Cheeks flushed pink. She's looking at me like—like?—
No. I'm reading this wrong. I have to be.
"You're right," she says slowly. "I did choose you. We'd just been talking—you were so sweet, offering to help me find Ben. And then when Terrance showed up and I was panicking, I looked around and there you were. Still watching to make sure I was okay." Her voice softens. "I thought—I want him. It has to be him."
My chest tightens. "Bea?—"
"And when you kissed me back?" Her voice drops. "The way you held me, like I was precious? That was?—"
She stops.
"Was what?"
"Everything," she finishes quietly. "It was everything."
The air in the car shifts. Gets heavier. Charged with something electric and dangerous. Every alpha instinct I have is screaming at me to move closer, to touch her, to?—
The radio crackles.
"All units, 10-35 at Main and Birch. Vehicle on the curb, possible impaired driver."
I grab the radio like a lifeline. "Deputy Monroe responding. Two minutes out."
My hands are shaking as I start the engine, flip on the lights. The moment breaks, but my heart's still racing.
"Sorry," I mutter. "I have to?—"
"Do your job. I know." But she's gripping the handle above her door, concern clear in her scent. "Be careful."
The drive takes ninety seconds. There's a sedan half-mounted on the curb, hazards blinking. Someone slumped over the wheel.
"Stay here," I tell Bea.
"Seth—"
But I'm already out, training kicking in. Hand on my belt. Approach the vehicle from behind. The window's down. Inside, Mr. Garrison—my old high school English teacher—is pale and sweating, gripping the steering wheel.
"Mr. Garrison? Sir, are you alright?"
