This man has been hurt. Badly. By people who should have loved him unconditionally. And he's still here—still trying, still opening up, still offering pieces of himself despite knowing how badly it can go wrong.
That's not weakness. That's the bravest thing I've ever seen. Letting someone see you at your most vulnerable after already being hurt for that vulnerability once before.
The fire crackles softly beside us. Somewhere in the darkness, an owl calls, and another answers. The stars wheel slowly overhead, ancient and indifferent and beautiful. And here, in this moment, in this clearing in the woods with this man who has shown me more of himself in one evening than most people show in a lifetime, I feel something shift.
This isn't fake anymore. This isn't just an arrangement. This is something real, something growing, something I didn't expect and am terrified to want.
But maybe that's okay. Maybe wanting things—real things, messy things, uncertain things—is allowed. Maybe I'm allowed to hope for more than survival.
I lean in and press a firm kiss to his cheek—not his lips, not pushing for anything more than this moment of connection. Just a gentle press of my mouth against his stubbled skin, a promise sealed with warmth. I feel him exhale slowly, feel some of the tension drain from his massive frame, feel him lean into the touch like he's been starving for exactly this.
"A hug it is."
CHAPTER 22
Fondue And Fire Trucks
~ROSEMARIE~
"Hello, men."
The words leave my mouth with more confidence than I actually feel, but the reaction is immediate and gloriously chaotic.
The firehouse erupts into a frenzy of excitement that you'd think had never been witnessed by an Omega before. Chairs scrape against concrete floors with ear-splitting screeches. Someone drops what sounds like a very heavy piece of equipment—possibly a helmet, possibly an entire human body, it's hard to tell. Multiple voices overlap in a cacophony of surprised exclamations and barely-appropriate whistles. I count at least three "holy shits" and one "is that the Chief's girlfriend?" before the noise becomes too jumbled to parse.
Well. That's... a reaction. Not entirely unexpected, but still overwhelming in its intensity.
The space is everything you'd expect from a working firehouse—polished red trucks gleaming under industrial lighting, equipment hung in precise rows along the walls, thelingering scent of engine oil and metal and something that might be smoke but is probably just the ghost of a hundred emergencies past. Turnout gear hangs from hooks near the trucks, boots positioned beneath them with military precision. A whiteboard near the entrance lists the day's schedule and crew assignments. It's overwhelming in a way I didn't anticipate—so much space, so much noise, so many large Alpha males suddenly very interested in my presence.
I should probably shrink back. That's what the old Rosemarie would do. The one who learned to make herself small and invisible to avoid attention. The one who kept her eyes down and her voice soft and her opinions locked away where no one could criticize them.
But the old Rosemarie didn't have three Alphas who look at her like she's worth seeing. The old Rosemarie didn't know what it felt like to be wanted instead of merely tolerated.
I stand my ground, offering a polite smile that hopefully doesn't betray how fast my heart is beating. My palms are sweating, but I keep them clasped loosely at my sides rather than wiping them on my jeans.
"Alright, alright, that's enough!"
A woman's voice cuts through the chaos like a blade through butter. She emerges from what looks like an office area—tall, athletic, with close-cropped dark hair and an expression that suggests she's seen far too much nonsense in her life and has exactly zero patience for more.
"Touch some grass and pick your balls up on the way back to the truck," she barks, arms crossed over her uniform shirt. "Before I make every single one of you drop and give me a hundred pushups. Try me. I dare you."
The transformation is instantaneous. The rowdy group of firefighters suddenly finds extremely important things to do elsewhere—equipment to check, trucks to inspect, anywherethat isn't within range of their superior's wrath. Within seconds, the entrance area is cleared of everyone except me and the woman who just commanded it.
I think I'm in love with her. Platonically. Professionally. Whatever the word is for immediate and overwhelming respect.
"Sorry about them," she says, her voice losing some of its sharp edge as she addresses me. "They're like puppies who've never been socialized. Good in emergencies, useless at basic human interaction."
Before I can respond, another voice joins the conversation.
"Thanks for taming the beasts I call a team, Rodriguez."
I turn to see Elias walking toward us, and immediately feel my face heat up. He's wearing an apron. An actual cooking apron, navy blue with white stripes, tied around his waist over his civilian clothes. His hair is slightly mussed, there's what looks like cheese sauce on his sleeve, and he's grinning at me like I'm the best thing he's seen all day.
An apron. He's wearing an apron. Why is that so attractive?
He doesn't slow down as he reaches me, just leans in and presses a kiss to my lips—brief but firm, claiming and confident. The action sends a ripple of noise from somewhere behind the trucks, where I'm absolutely certain multiple firefighters are peeking around corners and howling like wolves at a full moon.
Rodriguez arches an eyebrow, her expression shifting from stern to curious.
