“The rescue that went wrong?” she asked quietly.
“Always that rescue.” I rubbed my face, trying to clear the images. “Three years, and it hasn’t gotten better. Some nights I don’t dream at all. Other nights I relive every second of being too slow.”
“You weren’t too slow. The current was too fast.”
“Captain Rhodes says the same thing. The accident report cleared me of any wrongdoing. Even the omega’s family sent me a letter saying they knew I’d done everything possible.” I looked up at her. “Doesn’t change the fact that I couldn’t save them.”
“No,” she agreed. “It doesn’t change that fact. But it also doesn’t change the fact that you saved three people yesterday. Amother and her two children who are alive because you didn’t let three-year-old trauma stop you from doing your job.”
“That was different. I had backup. Better equipment. And I had you telling me I could do it.”
“You could have had all that three years ago and still lost them to bad timing and physics.” She moved from the arm of the chair to my lap, settling in like she belonged there. Like pack was supposed to comfort each other through nightmares. “You’re carrying guilt that isn’t yours to carry, Beau.”
“I know that deep down. But, I’m still convinced that being faster, stronger, better would have made the difference.”
“Is that why you’ve been alone for so long?” she asked. “Punishing yourself by avoiding connection?”
The observation was too accurate. I’d thought I was being subtle about the isolation, but apparently the omega who coordinated emergency responses for a living could read people better than I’d given her credit for.
“Partially,” I admitted. “Also because I was convinced I didn’t deserve happiness when they were dead. That wanting pack was selfish when an omega and her kid would never have a pack because I’d failed them.”
“That’s not how life works, Beau. You can’t balance cosmic scales by making yourself miserable. Their deaths don’t become more meaningful if you suffer. They’re just gone, and you’re here, and you deserve to be happy despite the tragedy.”
“I want to believe that.” I wrapped my arms around her, needing the physical contact to ground me in present reality. “Some days I almost do. But then the nightmares come, and I’m back in the water, and I can feel myself failing again.”
She was quiet for a moment, and through the bond I could feel her thinking. Processing. Deciding how much honesty to risk.
“I have nightmares too,” she finally said. “About Nathan. About standing at that altar and hearing him tell two hundredpeople that I wasn’t enough. That I was too difficult, too strong-willed, more alpha than omega. That no pack would ever want someone like me.”
“He was wrong.”
“I know that now. But for five years, I believed him. Built my entire life around being independent because accepting that I needed people felt like proving he was right. That I was the problem.” She touched the claiming bite on my neck, her mark. “You’re not the only one who’s been punishing yourself.”
“What changed your mind?”
“You did. All three of you.” She pulled back enough to meet my eyes. “You kept showing up. Kept proving that my independence didn’t threaten you. Kept making it safe to be vulnerable without making me feel weak. You taught me that needing people doesn’t make me less capable. It just makes me human.”
“I’m glad we could do that for you.” I tucked a strand of her short black curls behind her ear. “But I don’t know how to let you do the same for me.”
“Then let me start small.” She settled more firmly into my lap, her head against my chest. “Right now, you’re having a nightmare response. Your body thinks you’re still in danger. But you’re not in the water. You’re in a safe place with pack who love you. With an omega who’s bonded to you. With people who will catch you if you fall.”
“I’m supposed to be the one catching you.”
“Says who?” She looked up at me with those dark amber eyes that saw too much. “Pack means we catch each other. Sometimes you save me. Sometimes I save you. Sometimes we just hold each other through the nightmares and trust that morning will come.”
“Is that what we’re doing now?”
“That’s exactly what we’re doing.” She yawned, exhaustion pulling at her despite the adrenaline from my nightmare. “I’mgoing to stay right here until you fall back asleep. And when you wake up, I’ll still be here. That’s what pack means, Beau. You’re never alone with the nightmares again.”
The simple promise hit harder than it should have. I’d spent three years convinced I needed to handle everything alone, that my guilt was mine to carry, that asking for help was weakness.
But through the bond, I could feel her certainty. Feel that she meant every word. Feel that staying with me through nightmares wasn’t obligation or pity, but genuine care.
“Thank you,” I managed.
“Don’t thank me. Just accept it.” She shifted slightly, getting comfortable. “We’re pack now. This is what we do.”
I held her while she dozed, feeling her warmth and her steady breathing and the bond that connected us permanently. The nightmare images were still there, lurking at the edges of my mind, waiting for the next time I let my guard down.
