The roads were clear by noon.
Monday. Four days since the hurricane had hit, four days trapped together in my little cabin while the bayou swallowed the roads and the world outside ceased to exist.
I knew because Silas had checked three times since breakfast, walking down to where my property met the main road with that silent, methodical patience of his, returning each time with a report delivered in as few words as possible. First trip: "Still flooded past the oak." Second trip: "Passable for trucks, maybe." Third trip: "Clear."
That single word hung in the cabin like a death sentence.
"Well." Remy set down his coffee cup with a soft clink, his fingers lingering on the ceramic like he wasn't quite ready to let go, his thumb tracing the chip on the rim he'd memorized over four days of morning routines. "Guess that's that, then." His voice came out too casual, too light, the performance of nonchalance from a man who'd made an art form of hiding what he really felt.
Nobody moved.
The morning light streaming through the now-unboarded windows painted everything golden—the scuffed wooden floors, the pile of blankets still tangled on the living room floor from last night, the three Alphas scattered around my kitchen like they'd grown roots there. Harper stood by the sink, a dish towel thrown over his shoulder, even though there were no more dishes to dry. Silas leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the bayou through the screen door with an expression I couldn't read. Remy sat across from me at the table, drumming his fingers against his thigh in a restless rhythm that matched my heartbeat.
The cabin still smelled like all of us. Moonshine and honey and rain and apple cider, woven together so tightly I couldn't separate the threads anymore.
"I should check the generator one more time." Harper's rumble broke the silence, and he was already moving toward the back door before he'd finished the sentence, his broad shoulders tight beneath his flannel, his boots heavy on the wooden floor like he was trying to anchor himself to the spot even as his body carried him away. "Make sure it's properly shut down. Don't want any issues when?—"
"You checked it an hour ago, big guy." I raised an eyebrow, fighting the smile tugging at my lips, watching the way his hand hesitated on the doorframe, knuckles whitening against the wood. "And an hour before that."
He paused with his hand on the door, the tips of his ears going red beneath his dark hair, a flush creeping up the back of his neck that disappeared into his collar. "Could've missed something." His voice came out gruff, defensive, his jaw tight beneath his beard, dark eyes fixed on the floor like it held the answers to questions he couldn't ask.
"You didn't." I kept my tone gentle but firm, letting him hear the certainty in it, the understanding of what he was really doing—finding any excuse, no matter how thin, to stay a few minutes longer. A muscle worked in his jaw, grinding against words he couldn't say, his massive hands curling into fists at his sides before deliberately relaxing. He didn't argue. Just stood there, frozen between staying and going, his massive frame filling the doorway like he was trying to physically block his own exit.
"I think I left something here." Remy made a show of patting his pockets, then looking under the table, his movements too quick, too theatrical for genuine searching. His smile didn't reach his eyes, the usual sparkle replaced by something desperate and searching, his fingers drumming against his thigh even as he crouched to peer beneath a chair. "My guitar pick. The good one. Can't leave without it."
"You've been playing guitar every night for four days." I tilted my head, studying him, watching the way his fingers twitched against his thigh like he was playing an invisible chord, the tension in his shoulders that his loose posture couldn't quite hide. "Pretty sure I saw you put your picks in your pocket this morning."
"That was my backup pick." He said it with absolute conviction, like this was a perfectly reasonable explanation, his chin lifting slightly in challenge even as his amber eyes pleaded with me to play along, to give him this ridiculous fiction to cling to. "I need myluckypick. Can't leave without it. Might take hours to find."
"Hours." I let the skepticism drip from every syllable, one eyebrow climbing toward my hairline, my arms crossing over my chest as I leaned back in my chair and waited.
"Could be anywhere, chere. I have seventeen picks and they're all ranked." He spread his hands, all innocence, dimples threatening to appear despite the tension around his mouth,his voice taking on that theatrical quality he used when he was trying too hard to be charming. "It's a whole system. Very complex. Might need to search every room. Twice."
Silas hadn't moved from his spot by the door, but I caught the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth—as close to a laugh as he ever got, his pale eyes flickering with brief amusement before settling back into careful neutrality, his arms still crossed, his weight still perfectly balanced.
"And what about you?" I turned to face him, matching his stillness with my own steady gaze, refusing to let him fade into the background the way he usually did. "What's your excuse for lingering?"
He considered the question with that unsettling stillness of his, pale eyes fixed on some middle distance, his scarred fingers tapping a silent rhythm against his crossed arms—the only sign that he was anything other than completely at ease. "Don't have one." The words came out flat, matter-of-fact, completely unapologetic, like he saw no point in pretending.
"So you're just... not leaving?" I pressed, taking a step toward him, watching for any crack in that careful composure, any hint of what was happening behind those unreadable eyes.
"Thinking about it." A pause, long enough that I could hear Gumbo's distant rumble from outside, the creak of the cabin settling in the morning heat. "Haven't decided yet." His gaze finally met mine, steady and patient, giving nothing away but somehow telling me everything—that he would stay if I asked, leave if I needed him to, wait forever if that was what it took.
I looked at the three of them—Harper frozen by the back door, Remy halfway out of his chair, Silas immovable as stone—and felt something crack open in my chest. These ridiculous, stubborn, beautiful men who'd somehow become mine in the span of a hurricane. Who were now inventing increasinglyabsurd reasons to stay in my cramped cabin instead of returning to their lives.
Part of me wanted to let them. Wanted to close the doors and board up the windows again and pretend the outside world didn't exist for another week, another month, forever.
But that wasn't how this worked. That wasn't how anything worked.
"Okay." I stood, pressing my palms flat against the table, feeling the worn wood grain beneath my fingers, using the solid reality of it to ground myself for what I had to say. "Here's what's going to happen. You're all going to go home."
Remy made a sound of protest, a soft wounded noise in the back of his throat that he tried to turn into a cough, his hands gripping the edge of his chair hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Harper's shoulders went rigid, the muscles in his back bunching visibly beneath his shirt, his hand tightening on the doorframe until the wood creaked. Silas just watched me with those unreadable eyes, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly, the only sign that my words had landed.
"You're going to check on your lives," I continued, keeping my voice firm even as something in my chest protested every word, demanded I take it back, beg them to stay. "Remy, you're going to see if your gigs are still happening. Harper, you're going to make sure your distillery didn't flood. Silas, your animals have probably staged a revolt by now."
"They're fine." Silas's voice was flat, his expression unchanged, though his fingers had stopped their tapping against his arms, gone completely still in a way that felt more telling than any fidget. "I called the volunteer who's been feeding them."
"Then go make sure they're fine in person." I moved around the table, stopping in front of each of them in turn, letting them feel my presence, my certainty, the steel beneath my softness."This isn't goodbye. This is just... going back to normal. The new normal." I reached up to touch Harper's chest, feeling his heart pound beneath my palm, rapid and desperate despite his still expression, his whole body thrumming with the effort of holding himself in place. "Sunday dinners, remember? Can't have Sunday dinner if you never leave."
