Hunter’s eyes lock on mine, dark and steady, his chest rising slow, controlled. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver—just holds my gaze, patience carved into every breath.
Graham’s jaw works, teeth grinding once before his arms drop stiff at his sides. He doesn’t move, but when our eyes meet, the restraint fractures—protection burns there, fierce and unspoken.
I open my mouth. I don’t even know what I’m going to say, maybe something to ease the tension in the room, to reassure them that none of this means I’m walking away, but before I can speak, he does.
“Whatever you decide,” Graham says, “we’re not going anywhere.”
My breath hitches. Because that’s everything.
Carson shifts beside me, his fingers brushing mine on the countertop in a silent agreement. Hunter moves closer too, steady and grounding. If I’m honest, a part of me is curious.
About Finn. About his obsession. His intensity. His art. The way he sees me.
But then there’s Landon.
And in the swirl of everything, chaos, loyalty, love, I feel it clearly now: he’s not just showing up.
He’s seeing me.
And maybe I want to see him too.
The memory of the last time he got me flowers is unbidden, but takes over all the same.
Bright pink carnations, their soft, frilly petals a shade or two lighter than my hair. They’re wrapped in brown paper, simple but thoughtful, and the sight of them steals the air from my lungs.
“They made me think of you,” Landon says, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips.
I blink at him, momentarily stunned. This big, gruff alpha—who I was convinced only knew how to brood and push people away—is standing here on Chad’s porch, holding flowers as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The edges of my lips curl upward, almost involuntarily. “Carnations,” I murmur, reaching out to take them. My fingers brush his, and I feel a little jolt, like static electricity.
He watches me with those intense eyes of his as I lift the bouquet to my face, inhaling its soft, spicy fragrance.
“These are my favorite flowers,” I admit, my voice quieter now. “They last so much longer than roses.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, his voice warm like honey dripping into tea.
My stomach flips, and I can’t stop the grin that spreads acrossmy face. My hand drifts to my hair as I breathe in the scent again, unable to tear my gaze from his. There’s something about the way he’s looking at me—soft but focused, like I’m the only thing he sees—that makes my chest feel both light and heavy at the same time.
I think I’m in love.
I shake myself out of the memory. I fell hard and fast for him. Granted, looking back, it was partly my fault. Pursuing someone who’s not ready for something serious…never a good idea.
And maybe that’s why it hurt so much when it ended—because I wanted so badly for it to last. Even now, surrounded by the scent of pink carnations, my heart stutters at the memory of his voice calling me his.
I glance back at the counter.
The flowers are beautiful. Thoughtful. Maybe even a little desperate.
But they’re him.
Landon never did anything small. He didn’t ease in. He crashed through my life, a storm come to life—messy, loud, consuming. And then he did something stupid. Or maybe I did. I still don’t know where to draw that line. Maybe if I stormed across that bar that night and confronted him, it would have ended differently.
All I know is, it changed me.
And looking back at it now, I can see why he panicked. That week was consuming and came in like a wrecking ball. Kissing another girl, right in front of me, wanting me to see, wasn’t just stupid and cruel. It was a scream: I’m not ready.
I touch one of the blossoms, the soft petal catching on the pad of my finger. I thought I was over him. I wanted to be over him. But the flutter in my chest says I’m not there. And I’m not sure I want to be now.
