Page 117 of Pack Plus One

“Exactly.” I open the app, pulling up the security feed. The camera shows the front of the bakery, the “GRAND OPENING SOON” sign clearly visible in the window. Standing on the sidewalk, looking like a man who’s just lost his most valuable possession, is Mason.

He’s alone, his normally impeccable appearance slightly disheveled, as he peers through the darkened windows of my future bakery. A messenger bag is slung over his shoulder, and he’s holding what looks like a takeout coffee cup—probably checking if I came here for refuge.

“Well, well, well,” Zoe says, peering over my shoulder at the screen. “Looks like someone dispatched the responsible one.”

“He shouldn’t be there,” I mutter, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the security feed. From the way Mason’s shoulders slump slightly when he confirms the place is empty. From the careful way he examines the building, as if ensuring its safety even in my absence.

“No,” Zoe agrees, “he should be here. Because that’s where you are.”

I watch as Mason takes out his phone, presumably to report back to the others that I’m not at the bakery. His expression is calm but his movements betray his concern—the slight fidget of his fingers against the screen, the way he keeps glancing back at the door as if I might materialize if he checks one more time.

“They’ve split up to look for you,” Zoe observes. “That’s... actually kind of sweet. In a slightly stalkerish way.”

“What am I supposed to do?” I ask, not really expecting an answer.

Zoe takes the phone from my hands, setting it face down on the coffee table. “First, finish your wine. Then take a shower—no offense, but you smell like a combination of alpha pheromones and emotional crisis. Then we’ll figure out your next move.”

I nod, grateful for the practical advice, for the way she doesn’t push me to make a decision right now.

“And Leah?” she adds as I stand to head for the bathroom. “For what it’s worth, I think they might actually care about you. The real you—not some idealized omega version of you.”

“How can you possibly know that?” I ask, pausing in the doorway.

She gestures to my phone, which is lighting up with yet another notification. “Because they’re still looking for you. And because you stole that mug for a reason.”

I don’t have a response to that. Because she’s right—I did take Mason’s mug for a reason. Not just because it reminded me of him, but because it reminded me of how I felt when he handed it to me each morning. Seen. Valued. Understood.

As I step into the shower, letting hot water wash away the physical traces of my hasty exit if not the emotional ones, I can’t help but wonder: What if they don’t want me to change? What if, when they said “We need to accept that’s not who she is,” theymeant they needed to accept my independence rather than try to make me fit some traditional omega mold?

What if I’ve been running from the wrong thing all along?

The thought follows me as I wash my hair, as I borrow Zoe’s clean clothes, as I emerge from the bathroom feeling marginally more human. It clings to me as I check my phone again to find eight missed calls and sixteen new text messages.

And it’s still with me when I finally, reluctantly, type a response to Caleb’s simpleTalk to me.

I stare at the blinking cursor for a long moment. Then I take a deep breath and type:

I’m safe. I’m at Zoe’s. I need some time to think.

I hit send before I can second-guess myself, then immediately follow it with Zoe’s address—because no matter how much I value my independence, making them search the city for me feels unnecessarily cruel.

Three dots appear immediately—Caleb typing a response. Then they disappear. Reappear. Disappear again.

Finally, a single message:

On our way.

“Well,” I say aloud to no one in particular, “I guess that settles that.”

I’m still not sure what I’m going to say when they arrive. I’m not sure what I want or what they want or if those things can possibly align.

But one thing I do know: I’m done running. At least for today.

I pick up Mason’s mug, running my finger along the familiar chip in the handle, and settle in to wait.

23

CALEB

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