"I never want to be in a situation where I can be taken advantage of again," Julian says, finally meeting my eyes. "That's why I'm the way I am. That's why I—" He gestures vaguely at the immaculate penthouse, the controlled environment, everything. "The only thing our pack has failed at is finding an Omega who wouldn't do exactly what she did. Who wouldn't see us as marks to be exploited."
He shrugs, the motion almost resigned. "This arrangement helps both of us. And though you're benefitting from it, it's notan out-of-balance exchange that makes me too paranoid over your existence. You need protection. We need an Omega for professional reasons. The transaction is clear."
Transaction. He's trying so hard to keep this clinical. To keep me at arm's length by reducing what we have to an exchange of services.
But he also threw water at an Uber driver who was rude to me. And made—or hired someone to make—a heart-shaped charcuterie board.
Those aren't the actions of someone who sees this as purely transactional.
I nod slowly, processing everything he's shared. "I understand. I do. And I appreciate you telling me this."
He nods back, sharp and brief, like he's already regretting his vulnerability.
"Can I ask you something?"
His guard goes up immediately—I can see it happen, the walls reconstructing behind his eyes. But he doesn't say no.
"Are you at least happy to keep your job?" I ask softly. "The modeling, the investments—all of it. Are you relieved that our arrangement means you can continue?"
He thinks about it—actually thinks, not just deflecting or dismissing. His fingers trace the stem of his wine glass, the motion precise and repetitive.
"Why does it matter?" he asks finally.
"Because..." I move back to the espresso machine, resuming my work as I speak. The familiar motions help me find the right words. "If it's your true passion, I hope you're relieved to be able to continue. I hope this arrangement—whatever else it is—at least means you get to keep doing something that makes you happy."
Silence.
I glance over my shoulder. Julian is staring at me with an expression I can't quite read—somewhere between confusion and something softer. Like my words have genuinely thrown him off balance.
Has no one ever asked him if he's happy? Has everyone just assumed he works for the success, the money, the image—and never stopped to wonder if he actually enjoys any of it?
He doesn't respond. Not verbally. But something shifts in his expression—a crack in the armor, a tiny fracture in those impossibly high walls.
I finish the coffee in comfortable silence, pouring the lavender honey oat milk latte into two ceramic mugs that probably cost more than my phone. The foam art isn't my best work—unfamiliar equipment—but it's recognizable as a heart. Fitting, given the occasion.
"Here," I say, sliding one mug across the marble toward him. "Quality control test, as requested."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. Not quite, but closer than I've seen from him before.
We eat together as evening falls completely outside the windows. Julian lights the candles—methodically, precisely, each flame catching in perfect sequence. The wine flows. The charcuterie disappears bite by bite. The chocolate is rich and decadent, pairing perfectly with the coffee.
We don't talk much, but the silence isn't uncomfortable. It's... companionable. Two people sharing space without the need to fill it with noise.
This is different from Tank's cabin or Elias's firehouse. Those were warm and chaotic and full of energy—crackling fires and howling firefighters and the comfortable chaos of found family. This is quiet. Controlled. But there's something intimate about it too—about being allowed into Julian'scarefully curated space, about seeing the cracks in his perfect facade. About being trusted with pieces of his story.
The candlelight flickers across his features, softening the sharp lines of his jaw, the severe arch of his eyebrows. He looks younger in this light. Less guarded. Almost gentle.
Three Alphas. Three different dates. Three very different men. And somehow, in less than a month, they've all managed to work their way past defenses I spent years building.
Tank with his wilderness and his trauma and his need for someone to hold on through the dark nights. Elias with his sunshine and his found family and his hero complex that extends to everyone he meets. And Julian—Julian with his walls and his control and his desperate fear of being used again.
They're all broken in their own ways. All carrying wounds from people who should have protected them. All afraid of something—vulnerability, rejection, betrayal. And yet they opened their doors to me. A stranger. A runaway. A temporary arrangement that's starting to feel less temporary with every passing day.
And somehow, impossibly, I'm finding myself wanting to help them heal. All of them. Not because I have to. Not because of our arrangement. But because they've shown me glimpses of who they really are beneath the armor, and I like what I see. I like it a lot.
Julian catches me staring and raises an eyebrow—not the intimidating one he uses on Uber drivers, just curious.
"What?"
