I reach up and wipe a tear away from her cheek with my thumb. "I know it feels like that. But you're stronger than this. You're Sharon Martinez, and you're fucking incredible."
She laughs, a shaky, wet sound. "You barely know me."
"I know you well enough to know that you care about people,” I say. I'm still on one knee in front of her, holding her face like she's something precious.
"How?" she asks softly.
"Because I've been paying attention," I say simply. "Since the moment you started planning your ex’s wedding. Most people would have walked away, but you did it, because you promised Savannah and because you’re a professional.”
She reaches down and tangles her fingers in my hair, and suddenly I'm kissing her. It's not tentative. It's not asking permission. It's a statement. My hands slide from her face to her waist, and I pull her closer. She's standing now, and I'm still on one knee.
She pulls back first, breathing hard. "Pine, I can't do this right now. Savannah depends on me for the wedding, and so far I’ve been acting like some cry baby and not being professional about it all. I need to be. Savannah handed me her business.”
"I know," I say, and I mean it. "But that doesn't mean I'm going anywhere. That doesn't mean I'm not here if you need me."
"I need to go," she says finally. "I need to get back to the hotel and process all of this."
"I'll drive you," I say immediately, standing up and extending my hand to help her to her feet.
She takes it, and the moment our skin touches, electricity sparks between us. It's intense. It's immediate.
We gather our things in silence, and I flip the sign on the door from open to closed. I lock up the studio, and the two of us head out into the December evening. The sun has already set, and the street is lined with Christmas decorations. Lights twinkle in the darkness.
"No suppressants," she says softly as we walk toward my truck, staring at the pavement like it's the most interesting thing in the world. "I stopped taking them this morning."
"I know," I say. "I can smell it. You smell incredible. You smell like something I want to spend the rest of my life around."
"I smell like an unbonded omega hanging around alphas," she corrects, a hint of amusement in her voice despite the heaviness of the conversation we just had.
"You smell like Sharon," I say simply. "And that's all that matters to me."
I drive her back to the hotel, my hand resting on her thigh the entire way. Her fingers play with the fabric of my jeans, light and careful. We don't talk much. Just exist in the comfortable silence of two people who've already said the important things. The heat from the vents fills the truck. The radio plays soft indie music that neither of us is really paying attention to.
When I finally pull up to the curb in front of Pine Inn, I turn off the engine and turn to face her.
"I'm not asking for anything," I say. "I'm just telling you that I'm here. If you need to talk about any of this, if you need help with the wedding, if you just need someone to sit with you while you fall apart, I'm here. No pressure. No expectations. Just here."
"I know," she says softly. She leans over and kisses me one more time, a soft brush of her lips against mine that feels like promise. Like possibility. "Thank you. For telling me. For helping me. For being here. For caring about your grandfather enough to protect him even when it's complicated."
"That's what pack does," I say. "We protect our own."
"Am I your own?" she asks quietly, vulnerability clear in her voice.
I reach out and tuck a loose curl behind her ear, my fingers lingering on the soft skin of her cheek. "You're becoming it.Every day, every moment we spend together, you're becoming mine. And I'm becoming yours. That's how this works."
She smiles, sad and hopeful at the same time, and then she's leaving the truck. I watch her walk into the hotel, watch her disappear through the glass doors, watch her press her hand against the window as she looks back at my truck one more time.
I sit there for a long moment, breathing in the lingering scent of her that's still heavy in the cab of my truck. Strawberry and honey and something warm. Something that smells like home.
My phone buzzes. A text from Cassian: "How'd she take it?"
I type back: "She's processing. But she's not running. That's good enough for now."
Another text comes through, this time from Jett: “We have to visit Grandpa."
I stare at that text for a moment, and then I start the truck and pull out of the parking lot. There's work to do. But right now, in this moment, driving through the cold December night with the scent of strawberries and honey still clinging to my clothes, I feel something I haven't felt in a long time.
Hope.
