I pulled out my phone, staring at it for a long moment before finally, slowly, adding Viola's number to my contacts. It was a small action, barely significant. But it felt huge, like I was committing to something I wasn't sure I was ready for.
One step at a time.
Chapter Eighteen
Daphne
The evening was settling in, painting the sky in shades of purple and gold, when I heard the third vehicle of the day coming down my road. I was sitting on the porch with a cup of tea, trying to process everything Viola had said, when the now-familiar sound of a truck engine broke through my thoughts.
Not Viola's sedan. Not Micah's darker truck from this morning. This was Garrett's blue pickup, and my heart did that stupid flutter thing it had been doing lately whenever I thought about any of them. I set down my tea, my hands suddenly unsteady, and watched as he pulled up near the porch.
He climbed out carrying something wrapped in cloth—similar to what Micah had brought this morning with the bread. For a moment, he just stood there by his truck, like he was giving me the chance to tell him to leave if I wanted. The consideration in that simple gesture made my chest ache.
"Hey," he called out, his voice warm and a little uncertain. "I know you've probably had enough visitors for one day. I can leave this and go if you want."
I should tell him to leave. Should protect what little energy I had left after the emotional gauntlet of today. But something about the way the setting sun caught in his dark hair, the way he held himself with that patient stillness I was starting to associate with him, made me want him to stay.
"You're already here," I said, standing slowly. "Might as well come up."
His smile was like sunrise—slow, warm, transforming his whole face. He climbed the porch steps, and I caught his scent on the evening breeze—cedar and something distinctly him that made my Omega instincts hum with interest.
"Levi sent this," he said, offering me the cloth-wrapped bundle. "He wanted to thank you for the sourdough advice. Apparently, the second loaf came out even better than the first."
I unwrapped it carefully, revealing what looked like cinnamon rolls, still slightly warm and smelling absolutely incredible. My stomach reminded me that I'd barely eaten today, too caught up in emotional conversations to think about food.
"He didn't have to do that," I said quietly, but I was already imagining how good these would taste with my morning coffee.
"He wanted to." Garrett leaned against the porch railing, putting himself at a comfortable distance—close enough to talk, far enough to not crowd. "Plus, I think he's trying to show off now that he's figured out the bread thing. You've created a monster."
Despite myself, I felt a smile tug at my lips. "A monster who bakes.Terrifying."
"The most dangerous kind." His eyes crinkled with humor, but then his expression grew more serious. "How are you doing? I heard Micah came by this morning. And that Viola was here this afternoon."
Of course he'd heard. Small town, gossip moving at the speed of light. I should have been annoyed by the lack of privacy, butinstead, I found myself oddly grateful that he'd checked in rather than just assuming I was fine.
"I'm..." I paused, trying to find the right word. Exhausted? Overwhelmed? Confused? "...processing."
"That's fair." He didn't push, didn't demand details. Just accepted my answer with a nod. "Did you eat dinner?"
The question caught me off guard. "What?"
"Dinner. Did you eat?" He gestured to the cinnamon rolls. "Because if you haven't, I could throw together something quick. Or we could just eat these and call it a meal. I'm not judging either way."
The casual offer, the easy way he suggested taking care of me without making it a big deal, made my throat tight. "I... I was going to make soup earlier. Never finished it."
"Want help finishing it?" He pushed off from the railing, moving slowly like he was still giving me the chance to refuse. "Or I can just keep you company while you cook. Or leave you alone entirely. Your call, Daphne."
Three options. He was always doing that—giving me choices, making sure I had control over the situation. It should have felt patronizing, but instead, it just felt... safe.
"Help would be good," I heard myself say, though I didn’t know where that came from. Maybe because his scent and just energy around him made me feel better, "The vegetables are already chopped."
His smile was reward enough for my bravery. "Lead the way."
We moved inside, and I was suddenly hyperaware of how intimate this was—letting someone into my kitchen, into my space, during the vulnerable evening hours. The cabin felt smaller with him in it, but not in a claustrophobic way. More like he filled up the empty spaces I'd gotten too used to.
"What kind of soup were we making?" he asked, washing his hands at my sink like he belonged there.
"Just vegetable. Nothing fancy." I pulled out the pot I'd abandoned earlier, along with the cutting board of half-prepared ingredients. "I'm not... I'm not good at fancy."
