“Love you too, Grandma!”
I change three times.Green sweater because Grandma said so. Different sweater because I’m contrary. Green again because she’s right.
I stare at my reflection. Same face I’ve had for twenty-eight years. The face that three alphas used to look at like it held all the answers.
“You can do this,” I tell my reflection. “It’s just Lucas. You’ve known him since you were ten.”
My reflection does not look convinced.
“He just pulled up. Stop talking to yourself in the mirror and get down here.” Grandma calls out
How does she always know?
Lucas is waitingby the passenger door when I step outside, and he looks... tired. Shadows under his eyes, tension in his shoulders. He’s wearing a charcoal coat over a blue sweater that matches the winter sky, his dark hair neatly combed in a way that makes me want to mess it up. His expression is careful, polite—the face of someone who hasn’t decided how this is going to go.
“Hi,” I manage.
“Hi.” His eyes sweep over me—sweater, hair, face—but his expression doesn’t change. “Ready?”
Notyou look nice. Not warm. Justready.
My stomach sinks.
“Ready.”
He opens my door. I climb in, and his scent hits me—bergamot and sandalwood, soaked into every surface of this car. It’s stronger than I remembered. Richer. The scent of a fully grown alpha, not the eighteen-year-old boy I left behind.
My pulse kicks up. Heat prickles across my skin. That low hum in my belly that saysalpha.
I press my thighs together and try to breathe through my mouth. It doesn’t help. The scent is everywhere.
Lucas gets in the driver’s side. For a moment, we just sit there—engine running, heat blasting, ten years of history sitting between us like an uninvited guest.
“I want to say something before we go anywhere,” he says.
Here it comes. The talk. The anger. The?—
“I’m not ready to talk about everything.” His voice is measured. Careful. “What you said last night—I heard you. I’m still processing.” He glances at me, expression unreadable. “But I’m willing to spend time with you. See if we can find something that isn’t just pain.”
Not forgiveness. Not anger. A door cracked open instead of slammed shut.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “I can work with that.”
He nods and pulls out of the driveway.
The silence is heavy.I keep glancing at him, trying to read his face, but he’s focused on the road.
“So,” I try. “How have you been?”
“Fine.”
One word.
“The clinic seems busy.”
“Flu season.”
Two words. Progress.
