Rooster's eyes softened as he read. "I should have explained it better," he said quietly. "I'm so sorry I scared you."
For several moments, we sat in silence as the last light faded from the sky. Stars began appearing overhead, pinpricks of silver against deepening blue. I could feel Rooster watching me, patient and steady, waiting for whatever came next without pushing.
The garden had fallen completely still, as if the plants themselves were holding their breath. This moment felt pivotal, though I wasn't entirely sure why.
Perhaps it was because I'd shared my deepest fears with someone and they hadn't rejected me. Perhaps it was because, for the first time in fifteen years, I was sitting beside another person without planning my escape route. Or perhaps it was simply that Rooster's steady presence had created a space where I felt something dangerously close to safe.
Whatever the reason, I found myself reaching for the edge of my hood. My fingers trembled as they curled around the worn fabric that had been my shield against the world for so long.
Rooster noticed the movement, his eyes widening slightly in recognition of what I was considering. "You don't have to," he said softly. "Not for me. Not for anyone."
But I needed to. If we were to be mates in any sense of the word—if I was going to take this leap of trust—he deserved to see exactly what he was getting.
With a deep breath, I pulled back my hood completely for the first time since entering the compound. The cool evening air brushed against my exposed skin, making me hyperaware of every scar, every mark that told the story of my years alone.
I kept my eyes downcast at first, not ready to see his reaction. The longest scar ran from just below my left ear to my jawline—a jagged line where a man with a knife had tried to "teach me a lesson" for stealing from his grocery store when I was ten.
Smaller scars dotted my right temple and cheek—remnants of being pushed through a window during my escape from those boys and their "initiation."
My hair fell past my shoulders in uneven lengths, dirty blonde strands that I'd cut myself with whatever sharp edge I could find when it grew long enough to be grabbed. And my eyes—my lynx eyes—glowed golden in the fading light, marking me as inhuman even in this form.
I waited for the grimace of disgust, the subtle shifting away that would tell me I'd made a mistake. My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my throat.
But when I finally found the courage to meet his gaze, Rooster was looking at me with an expression I couldn't immediately identify. Not pity, which would have sent me running. Not disgust, which would have broken something inside me. No—his eyes held something closer to reverence, as if he were witnessing something precious rather than damaged.
"Thank you," he said simply, his voice thick with emotion. "For trusting me enough to show me."
He didn't reach for me, didn't try to touch the scars or comment on them. He simply maintained eye contact, his warm brown eyes steady on my golden ones.
The moment stretched between us, fragile but unbroken. I felt naked without my hood, exposed in a way that had nothing to do with physical clothing. Yet somehow, the vulnerability wasn't as terrifying as I'd expected. Rooster's acceptance wrapped around me like a blanket, warmer and more substantial than any fabric could be.
"Liam," he said finally, my name sounding like a prayer on his lips. "I need you to know something."
I tilted my head slightly, waiting.
"Being mates doesn't have to follow anyone else's rules," he continued, his words careful and measured. "We can build our bond without the traditional claiming. There are other ways to honor what we are to each other without recreating something that holds such terrible memories for you."
My eyes widened slightly. After everything the omegas had told me about the importance of the claiming bite in shifter culture, I hadn't expected Rooster to suggest bypassing it entirely.
"The bite is just one tradition," he explained, as if reading my thoughts. "But not all traditions work for everyone. What matters is what happens here—" he touched his own chest over his heart "—not what marks we wear on our skin."
He shifted on the bench, angling his body toward me without crowding me. "We'll find our own way," he said softly. "I would never hurt you, Liam. Not for tradition, not for anything."
The conviction in his voice reached something deep inside me—a place that had been frozen for so long I'd forgotten it existed. A place where hope might someday grow, if given enough time and care.
I nodded slowly, my golden eyes never leaving his face. For the first time since I was seven years old, I allowed myself to consider the possibility that not all connections led to pain. That perhaps, with this red-haired cook with gentle hands and endless patience, I might find a kind of belonging I'd never dared to imagine.
Twilight had fully surrendered to evening, the last traces of sunset fading from the western horizon as stars claimed the darkening sky. I sat completely still, Rooster's words settling over me like a gentle rain after years of drought.
We'll find our own way. Not his way, not the traditional way, but our way—something new built between us that honored my boundaries while still acknowledging what fate had brought together.
The garden around us had changed as darkness fell. The plants' energy shifted from the busy productivity of daytime to something deeper, more contemplative. I felt their awareness like a soft hum beneath my skin, a chorus of silent witnesses to this moment between Rooster and me.
Near-friends, the clover whispered through subtle movements against my shoes.Good-for-you. Heart-opening.
I wouldn't have expected plants to understand human emotions, but they'd been my only companions for so long that perhaps they'd learned to interpret my feelings better than I could myself. They sensed the shift happening inside me—walls crumbling, possibilities emerging.
A memory surfaced—something Percy had shared during one of our quiet conversations in the kitchen. He'd been teaching me to use the journal he'd given me, showing me how to express complicated feelings through words and drawings when speaking felt impossible.
