I’m going to die. I’m going to die right here in my grandmother’s kitchen.
“He’s a good one.” A pause. “Well. They all are. All three of those alphas grew up while you were gone.”
There’s no accusation in her voice.
I feel the words land anyway.
Nate finishes the walkway and moves to the porch steps. His breath fogs in the cold air. Even from here, even through glass, I can see the focus on his face. The way he approaches a simple task like it’s a mission.
That’s always been Nate. Everything matters. Everything gets his full attention.
Everything except me, apparently, because he hasn’t looked at the house once. Not a single glance. Like he’s deliberately keeping his eyes anywhere else.
“You should go thank him,” Grandma says.
I whip around to stare at her. “What?”
“It’s polite. He’s been out there for twenty minutes in the cold.” She raises an eyebrow. “Unless you’d rather hide in my kitchen and watch him through the window like a stalker. Which, I should mention, you’ve been doing for the past five minutes.”
“I’m not—I wasn’t—” I sputter. “I was just surprised to see him.”
“Mm-hmm. Very surprised. Couldn’t look away, you were so surprised.” She sets down her mug. “There’s fresh coffee. Bring him a cup. He takes it black.”
“Grandma, I can’t just walk out there and?—”
“Two sugars if he’s had a rough morning, but he won’t admit to that, so you’ll have to guess.” She’s already pushing me toward the counter. “The mugs are where they’ve always been.”
“This is a terrible idea.”
“Most good things start as terrible ideas.” She pats my cheek. “Don’t forget a coat. And maybe run a brush through your hair. You look like you fought a pillow and lost.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.” She smiles sweetly. “Now go. Chop chop.”
And then she shuffles toward the living room, leaving me standing in the kitchen with my heart pounding and my palms sweating and absolutely no exit strategy.
I could just... not go out there. Stay inside. Pretend I didn’t see him.
So much for being brave.
But I can already hear Grandma’s voice in my head.It’s polite, Cara. He’s doing you a favor.
And my own voice from five minutes ago.They deserve an apology.
Damn it.
I grab my coat from the hook by the door, pour a cup of coffee with shaking hands, and step outside before I can talk myself out of it.
The air bitesinto me the second I step outside. Sharp and clean, the kind of February morning that makes your lungs ache.
My boots crunch on the freshly cleared path as I make my way toward him. Coffee cup clutched like a shield.
He doesn’t turn around.
He has to know I’m here. Has to have heard the door open, has to smell me approaching even through the winter air. But he keeps shoveling. Methodical and unhurried.
Like I’m not worth interrupting his rhythm for.
