I lay back on my bed and stared at the ceiling, the crimson bond pulsing steadily in my chest, and let myself hope that it would be enough.
Chapter Eleven
KEIRA
I woke to the smell of food.
For a moment, I thought I was dreaming. The fever had been giving me strange dreams lately — fragments of scent and warmth and hands that reached for me in the darkness. But this smell was real. Tangible. The rich aroma of homemade soup drifting through my apartment, mingling with something savory and comforting that made my stomach clench with a hunger I'd been ignoring for days.
Food, my omega murmured groggily, stirring to awareness.Someone brought us food.
I pushed myself up from the nest slowly, my body protesting every movement. The three bonds pulsed in my chest, a constant reminder of what I was trying to accept. The fever was still there, burning beneath my skin, but it felt slightly less consuming than it had yesterday. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.
The clock on my nightstand read seven forty-three in the morning.
I shuffled out of my bedroom on unsteady legs, one hand braced against the wall for support. My apartment was small — a tiny kitchen, a living area barely big enough for a couch and a coffee table, a bathroom I could almost touch both walls of if I stretched my arms wide. But right now it felt enormous, the distance from my bedroom to the front door an insurmountable journey.
The food was waiting just outside my door. It was left a neat stack of containers on the floor, along with a bundle of envelopes tied together with a simple string. The containers were still warm, I realized as I knelt down to examine them. Whoever had delivered this had done so recently. Maybe within the last hour.
Min-jun, my omega supplied, and I knew she was right. The faint trace of forest and cedar lingered in the air near the door, barely detectable but unmistakably him. He'd been here. He'd brought food. And he'd left without knocking, without demanding to see me, without pushing for more than I was ready to give.
Something in my chest loosened slightly.
I gathered the containers and the letters and carried them to my small kitchen table, my arms trembling with the effort. There was so much food — a large container of soup that smelled like heaven, smaller containers of side dishes I couldn't identify, what looked like homemade rice balls wrapped carefully in cloth, and a thermos that was still warm to the touch.
A small note was tucked under the thermos, written in neat handwriting:
The soup is samgyetang — good for energy and healing. The thermos has ginger tea with honey for your throat. Everything can be reheated except the rice balls — eat those first. Please eat. You need strength.
— Min-jun
P.S. The containers are microwave-safe. There are heating instructions on the back of this note.
I flipped the note over and found detailed instructions for each dish — times, temperatures, which ones could be stored and for how long. He'd thought of everything. Had anticipated that I might not have the energy to figure it out myself, that I might need guidance even for something as simple as reheating soup.
He takes care of people, my omega observed softly.That's who he is.
I set the note aside and reached for the bundle of letters, my fingers trembling slightly as I untied the string. Five envelopes, each one labeled with a name in different handwriting. Hwan. Jin-ho. Tae-min. Min-jun. Jae-won.
Five letters from five alphas.
Five chances to learn who they really were.
Open them, my omega urged gently.This is what trying looks like. Feel instead of push down.
She was right. I'd promised Jeni I would try. I'd promised Tae-min I would try. I'd spent three days hiding in my nest, telling myself I was preparing when really I was just avoiding. But this — reading their words, letting myself feel whatever came up — this was actual progress.
I opened Hwan's letter first.
His handwriting was messier than I expected — energetic strokes that slanted slightly to the right, like the words were racing to escape the pen. There were a few crossed-out sections, places where he'd started a sentence and then changed his mind, and something about that imperfection made my chest ache.
Keira,
I've started this letter about fifteen times now. Jin-ho says I should just write what I feel, but what I feel is too big to fit on paper. So I'll start small, like he suggested.
Something real: The sunshine thing is a mask.
Not entirely — I really am happy a lot of the time. I really do love making people laugh and filling awkward silences and being the bright spot in a room. Sometimes it's exhausting. Sometimes I want to be sad or angry or quiet, and I can't, because everyone expects the sunshine. If I'm not bright, something must be wrong. If I'm not laughing, I must be sick. I've been performing "happy" for so long that sometimes I forget what my real emotions feel like.
