His smile was soft, almost awed. "Good. Because we want that too. So much, Daphne. More than you know." Another meteor streaked overhead, bright and brilliant, and this time neither of us looked away from each other.
"Tell me about the constellations," I said eventually, my voice a little rough. "Show me what you see when you look up." So he did. For the next hour, he traced patterns in the sky with his words, painting pictures of ancient myths and modern science, of distant suns and cosmic distances I couldn't quitecomprehend. He showed me Cassiopeia, the vain queen, and Cepheus, her husband. He pointed out the Summer Triangle and explained how to use it to find the Milky Way. He told me about light-years and how the stars we were seeing might not even exist anymore, their light having traveled millions of years just to reach our eyes.
And through it all, he held my hand. Never once letting go. When the temperature dropped and I shivered despite my layers, he produced the promised hot chocolate, rich and warm, with a hint of cinnamon I hadn't expected. We sat up to drink it, our shoulders touching, the blanket pulled around us both, and talked about everything and nothing. His childhood fascination with space. My grandmother's garden, where I'd first learned to love growing things. The pack's plans for the property. My hopes for expanding my business.
It was easy in a way I hadn't expected. Comfortable. Like we'd been doing this for years instead of hours.
"It's late," Micah said eventually, glancing at his watch. "Almost two. I should get you home." I didn't want to go. Didn't want this night to end, this bubble of warmth and connection and starlight to pop. But I nodded, because he was right, and because I was learning that some things were worth waiting for. We packed up together, moving in silent coordination, and the drive back to my cabin was quiet but not uncomfortable. His hand found mine on the console between us, and I watched the dark trees slip past the window, feeling something settle in my chest.
Peace, maybe. Or the beginning of it. At my door, he walked me up the porch steps and stood there in the soft glow of my porch light, looking at me like I was something precious. Something worth waiting for.
"Thank you," I said. "For tonight. For the stars. For... everything." I told him, my chest fluttering and content. Thishad been a wonderful night…something I never thought I would do till these Alpha’s showed up in my life.
"Thank you for coming. For trusting me with your time." He reached out, tucking that same strand of hair behind my ear. "Daphne?"
"Yes?" I whispered feeling my heart skip a beat at the look in his eyes.
"I know you're still figuring things out. We all are. But I want you to know—" He paused, that careful precision with words even now. "Whatever you need, whatever pace feels right, we'll match it. You're worth waiting for. Worth being patient for. I hope you're starting to believe that."
The tears that pricked my eyes weren't sad ones. They were the overwhelmed, grateful kind that came from being seen and accepted and cherished exactly as you were.
"I'm starting to," I whispered. "You're all helping me start to." He smiled—that rare, full smile—and leaned in to press a kiss to my cheek, close to the side of my lips. Soft and brief and impossibly tender.
"Goodnight, Daphne. Sweet dreams." He whispered pulling back and looking at me with such raw emotion I felt like I would cry.
"Goodnight, Micah." I watched him drive away, the taillights disappearing down the dark road, and stood on my porch for a long time after. The stars were still out, still wheeling overhead in their ancient patterns, and somewhere up there, meteors were still falling, brief and brilliant and beautiful.
I'd made a wish on one of them. A secret wish, just for me…and standing there in the quiet dark, wrapped in the lingering warmth of the evening, I let myself believe it might actually come true.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Daphne
The alarm went off at four-thirty, and for the first time in years, I didn't resent it. I lay there for a moment in the gray pre-dawn light, my body heavy with the pleasant exhaustion of too little sleep and my mind still drifting through memories of last night. The stars. The meteors. Micah's hand warm in mine, his voice low and close as he traced constellations across the sky.
The kiss he'd pressed to my cheek before leaving. A smile tugged at my lips—unbidden, unstoppable, and I let it happen. Let myself feel the giddy warmth of it, the teenage flutter that seemed ridiculous at my age but was too lovely to suppress. Then I hauled myself out of bed, because the market wouldn't wait for lovesick daydreaming.
The morning routine was so ingrained it required almost no thought: shower, dress, braid my hair back to keep it out of my face. I pulled on my usual market clothes—worn jeans, a soft long-sleeved shirt, my favorite canvas apron with the deep pockets. Practical. Familiar. The same uniform I'd worn every Saturday for five years.
The herbs were already bundled and waiting in the cool darkness of my drying shed—lavender and rosemary and sage, thyme and oregano and basil. I'd prepared most of them earlier in the week, tying them with twine in careful bunches, but there were always last-minute additions. Fresh-cut flowers from the garden, their petals still wet with dew. Vegetables pulled from the earth just hours ago, dirt still clinging to their roots. Jars of preserves lined up like jewels, their contents glowing amber and ruby in the light of my headlamp.
Loading the truck was meditative work, each crate placed with care to prevent shifting during the drive. The familiar weight of the baskets, the earthy smell of fresh produce, the soft rustle of herbs, these were the textures of my life, the sensations that had anchored me through five years of solitude.
They felt different now. Richer, somehow. Like I was experiencing them for the first time instead of the five hundredth. The drive to Haven's Rest was quiet, the roads empty in the pale morning light. Mist hung low over the fields, the sky was that particular shade of lavender-gray that existed only in the moments before sunrise. I drove with the windows cracked despite the chill, breathing in the smell of damp earth and green growing things.
My phone sat on the passenger seat, and I found my eyes drifting to it more often than they should. No messages yet, it was barely five in the morning, but some silly part of me hoped to see any of the guys name on the screen. Just a good morning…or anything really.
Stop it, I told myself firmly.You're a grown woman, not a teenager with a crush….But the smile came back anyway, and I didn't try to fight it.
The market square was already stirring when I arrived, vendors setting up their stalls in the soft gray light. I spotted Eleanor three spaces down, arranging her needlework displayswith the same meticulous care she brought to everything. Mrs. Chen was setting out her legendary pies, the smell of cinnamon and apple drifting across the square.
Home. This was home, in a way I'd never let myself fully acknowledge. Not just the cabin in the woods, not just the garden I'd built with my own hands, but this, the community, the familiar faces, the weekly ritual of gathering and selling and connecting. I'd been part of it for five years without ever really beingpartof it. Holding myself separate, maintaining distance, participating without engaging. But this morning, as I unloaded my truck and began setting up my stall, I felt something different. A belonging that went deeper than geography.
"Morning, Daphne!" Eleanor called, her voice warm despite the early hour. "You're glowing this morning. Good night?"
I felt my cheeks heat and busied myself with arranging my herb bundles. "It was nice. Went stargazing."
"Stargazing." Eleanor's tone was knowing, and I didn't have to look up to know she was smiling. "With that handsome one that is all serious?"
