"Of losing everything again," I said quietly, my fingers tightening on the bread. "Of letting people in and then watching them leave. Of being chosen and then being unchosen. Of being the person everyone thought was worth something until they realized I wasn't."
Micah was quiet for a long moment, his green eyes fixed on me with that same measuring intensity. But underneath it, I thought I saw something softer. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition.
"My family disowned me," he said after a moment of silence, making me snap back to his face in surprise. "When I chose to join this pack instead of taking over the family business. Told me I was throwing away everything they'd built, that I was selfish and ungrateful and not worth the investment they'd made in raising me."
The confession hung in the fog-thick air between us. I hadn't expected that—hadn't expected him to offer his own damage in exchange for mine.
"I'm sorry," I managed, not knowing what to say to that kind of confession from someone I just met.
"Don't be. They were wrong." He said it with such certainty that I almost believed him. "They wanted me to be something I wasn't. Wanted me to fit into a role that would have slowly killed everything that makes me who I am. Choosing my pack over their expectations was the best decision I ever made."
"But it still hurts," I said, reading between the lines.
"It still hurts," he agreed. "Being unchosen—being told you're not worth keeping—it leaves scars. I get that. But Daphne, here's what I've learned: the people who choose you conditionally, who only want you when you fit their expectations, those peopleweren't really choosing you at all. They were choosing a version of you that never existed."
The words resonated in a way I wasn't prepared for, striking some chord deep inside that I'd tried to silence. My mother, who'd chosen me only as a tool to trap an Alpha. The orphanage, where children were chosen or passed over based on arbitrary factors we couldn't control. Even Margaret and Tom's biological children, who'd chosen their convenience over any acknowledgment of the relationship I'd had with their parents.
None of them had chosen me. Not really. Not the actual person I was.
"So how do you know when someone's actually choosing you?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "How do you trust it?"
Micah straightened from the railing, taking a step closer. I didn't retreat this time. "You watch what they do when it's hard. When you're difficult, when you're scared, when you're not your best self. Do they leave, or do they stay? Do they try to change you, or do they work with who you actually are?"
"And if they stay?" I asked, even though I wasn't sure I wanted the answer.
"Then maybe they're actually choosing you. Not some idea of you, not what you could be if you just changed enough. You." His eyes held mine, unwavering. "That's what pack means, Daphne. Choosing each other, flaws and all. Staying even when it's hard."
The fog was starting to lift slightly, morning sun burning through in patches. In the growing light, I could see the design shaved into the side of Micah's head more clearly—geometric lines that formed an intricate pattern, almost Celtic in its complexity. It suited him somehow, this precise artistry combined with the suggestion of something ancient and untamed.
"You're very good at saying exactly what you're thinking," I observed, deflecting from the intensity of the moment.
"Someone has to be. The others are all too busy being patient and gentle." He smirked slightly. "Don't get me wrong—that's good. You need that. But you also need someone who's going to be honest with you, even when that honesty is uncomfortable."
"Is that your role in the pack?" I asked, genuinely curious. "The brutally honest one?"
"Among other things." He tilted his head, studying me. "I'm the one who plans ahead, who sees the potential problems before they become real problems. Who makes sure we're not all just operating on emotion and hope."
"And what potential problems do you see with me?" The question hurt to ask, but I needed to know. Needed to hear what someone who looked at situations strategically would say about the mess I was.
Micah didn't answer immediately. He took his time, his gaze moving from my face to the garden behind me, to the cabin with its tidy porch and carefully maintained order. When he finally spoke, his voice was thoughtful.
"The obvious one is that you're used to being alone. That's not a problem in itself, but it means integrating into a pack structure would be a significant adjustment. You'd have to learn to share space, share decisions, share yourself in ways you haven't had to for years, if ever."
I nodded. I'd already thought of that.
"The less obvious problem," he continued, "is that you don't trust easily. Which again, not inherently bad—trust should be earned. But it means we'd be working uphill the whole way. Every time something goes wrong, every time there's a misunderstanding, you'll probably assume we're leaving. That we've realized you're too much work and we're done."
"That doesn't sound like something you'd want to deal with," I said, my voice flat.
"I didn't say that." Micah's expression was unreadable. "I said it's a potential problem. Problems can be managed if everyone's aware of them and willing to do the work."
"And are you?" The question came out more vulnerable than I'd intended. "Willing to do the work?"
He was quiet for so long I thought he might not answer. The fog continued to lift, revealing more of the morning—the garden with its neat rows, the greenhouse glinting in patches of sunlight, the trees beyond marking the boundary of my carefully controlled world.
"I don't know yet," Micah said finally, and the honesty of it was somehow more reassuring than an immediate yes would have been. "That's why I'm here. To figure out if the potential reward outweighs the definite complications. To see if you're actually interested in being courted, or if you're just too polite to tell us to back off."
"I'm not polite," I said automatically.
