Page 25 of Knot on the Market

Not because I need the skill, though it couldn't hurt. Not because it's logical, but because everything about her makes me want to be useful. Because it's something that matters to her, and increasingly, the things that matter to her are beginning to matter to me in ways that probably should worry me more than they do.

But first, I have quarterly reports to finish and a normal day of work to get through. I have the careful, ordered routine of my regular life to maintain while I figure out how to make room in it for someone who's turned my understanding of myself upside down with nothing more than a scent that lingers and a way of looking at me like I'm worth figuring out.

It's going to be a long day.

Chapter 9

Lila

I'm not nesting.

That's what I tell myself as I adjust the new throw pillows I got from the local store for the third time, arranging them on the old leather armchair until they look casually perfect instead of deliberately arranged. The vanilla candle from the grocery store and Julian's poetry book positioned just so on the built-in bookshelf? Pure coincidence. Nothing to do with any omega instincts I may or may not be experiencing.

The living room looks different in the late afternoon light. Warmer somehow, more like someone actually lives here instead of just camping out.

Definitely not a nest. Just... strategic decorating.

The poetry book sits open to Julian's marked page on the bookshelf, and I catch myself reading the same lines for the fourth time in an hour:

"From broken places, something beautiful grows. Not in spite of the cracks, but because of them. Light gets in where we least expect it, and what seems like ending becomes the space where beginning lives."

I snap the book shut like it's personally offended me, but my fingers linger on the cover. The fact that he chose this specific poem, marked this specific page, feels deliberate in a way that makes my chest tight with something I'm not ready to name.

Julian sees too much. That's the problem with analytical types, they notice things you're not ready to share, understand connections you haven't figured out yourself. The flowers were sweet, a gesture from someone who understood what it's like to start over. But this book, these words about transformation and healing... it's like he looked straight through my carefully constructed independence and saw the omega underneath who's been pretending she doesn't need anyone.

Dangerous territory.

I check my phone. Dean said he'd be here around six, which means he'll probably show up ten minutes early because he seems like the punctual type who doesn't want to keep people waiting. The thought makes me smile despite my poetry-induced brooding.

Dean is safe. Dean is uncomplicated warmth and easy smiles and the kind of alpha who asks if you're okay instead of assuming he knows what you need. Dean doesn't send mysterious book deliveries or look at you like you're an equation he's trying to solve.

Dean is exactly what I should want right now.

So why am I thinking about the way Julian's voice sounded when he said, "some things are worth taking your time with." And why can I still feel the ghost of Callum's thumb on my cheek, the way his quiet competence made chaos feel manageable?

I push those thoughts aside and head upstairs to change. The jeans and sweater I wore to town are fine, but they feel too casual for... whatever this is. Not a date. Dean was very clear about that, which is exactly what I need. Just neighbors being neighborly. Friends sharing a meal. Nothing complicated.

But I still find myself debating between the soft green dress that brings out my eyes and the safer option of clean jeans and a nicer blouse.

The dress wins, which is probably overthinking it but feels right. It's not fancy, just a simple wrap dress in fabric that feels good against my skin. The kind of thing that says "I'm making an effort to be a good host," without suggesting anything more complicated.

I'm applying mascara when I hear a car pull up outside. Early, as predicted. I take one last look in the mirror, hair down and wavy, minimal makeup, the dress that makes me look like I actually live here instead of camping out and decide this is as good as it's going to get.

The knock comes as I'm heading downstairs, and I open the door to find Dean standing on my front porch with a grocery bag in one hand and that devastatingly warm smile of his.

"Hi," he says, and there's something in his voice that makes heat creep up my neck. "You look... wow."

"It's just a dress," I say, stepping back to let him in.

"Yeah, well." He follows me inside, and I catch his scent, toasted marshmallow and that hint of campfire that makes my omega instincts sit up and take notice. "That dress looks amazing on you."

The compliment is simple, genuine, delivered without the calculating undertone I got used to with my ex-pack. Dean means it without wanting anything in return, which is so refreshing it makes my chest tight with unexpected emotion.

"What's in the bag?" I ask, partly to change the subject and partly because I'm genuinely curious.

"Stir-fry ingredients," Dean says, following me toward the kitchen. "Nothing too complicated, but I make a decent sauce." He pauses, looking around the living room. "This place looks great, by the way. Really cozy."

I definitely don't preen at the compliment, and I absolutely don't think about how the vanilla candle is probably masking my scent. Or how, for the first time in years, I actually have a scent to mask. The realization catches me off guard. I'd almost forgotten what it feels like to exist in my own skin without chemical suppression.

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