I curl my fingers into the fabric of the shirt. My shirt—no, Carson’s. Everything about this moment feels borrowed.
“It probably wouldn’t end well if you tried,” Carson says.
Graham huffs out a laugh. “Yeah.”
“Do you think he can be trusted? Obsession has a really fine line, and he has a history of violence,” Hunter says.
My throat tightens. I shift my weight to my other foot, trying to stay still, trying not to creak the floor.
“Against Alpha’s who are pretty shitty if you ask me,” Carson quips.
A quiet breath escapes me, half relief, half guilt. I hadn’t expected him to defend Finn. Not out loud.
“Which means he’d probably protect her from alphas he thinks are hurting her,” Graham adds.
I press a hand to my stomach, fingers trembling. I hate that they’re talking about this. About him. About me.
“Guess it’s a good thing we’re bodyguards who are also protecting her,” Carson chuckles.
My eyes sting. I’m not sure if it’s from how hard I’m trying not to cry, or from how much they still surprise me.
“I told her we’d make it work if she wants him,” Graham says.
A soft, traitorous sound slips from my throat. Quiet. But not quiet enough. I clamp a hand over my mouth and stare at the floor, wishing it could open up and swallow me.
“Shit. You really are whipped by her if you’re willing to bring a psycho into our pack,” Hunter replies, but there’s no real heat in it.
“Fuck you,” Graham says. “I think we’re all pretty far gone for her.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, pulse thudding in my ears.
Hope fills me. They’re talking about Finn, making plans to include him. They aren’t going to punish me for my curiosity. They aren’t going to leave me for it.
I curl my toes into the wood floor, breath shaky as I back away. One step. Two.
Because if I hear one more word, I might cry. And I don’t want them to see that part of me yet. Not until I figure out if I can survive being loved this much.
I close my bedroom door behind me, pressing my back to the wood and letting out a slow, trembling breath.
They’re going to let me have him—if that’s what I want.
My chest aches with something I don’t know how to name. Gratitude. Guilt. Longing. Maybe all of it, twisted up together in a knot beneath my ribs.
I walk quietly to the window.
The curtain is still open. The morning sun filters in, pale and warm, and I scan his windows across the street.
There.
He’s there.
Not standing this time, but seated. Still. Almost statuesque, except for the subtle movement of his fingers as he traces something along the edge of a sketchpad. His hair is messy. A tiredness in his shoulders that I can see from here, says maybe he didn’t sleep.
The thought twists in my chest, cold and warm all at once.
He doesn’t look up.
It feels strange to be the one watching him. To stand behind the glass, heart thudding, hands curled into the windowsill. I study the shape of him—the way his muscles shift beneath his shirt as he sketches, the way the light from his window dances across his face. His lips curve with satisfaction as his pencil flies across the page, and there’s something magnetic about him, something I can’t look away from.
