She smiles.
Not sweetly, not timidly. A bold, deliberate smile that belongs to a woman who refuses to be shamed. She turns toward Levi, catches him by the collar, and kisses him hard enough that the crowd gasps.
Then she breaks away, spins, and kisses Beau the same way—deep, hungry, unapologetic.
I know she is simply making a statement, and I have never been prouder of her.
By the time she reaches me, my lungs are useless. Her hand fists my shirt, dragging me down into her. Her mouth is warm, sugar-sweet, filled with the taste of apples and spice. She doesn’t care who’s watching. Doesn’t care about the whispers that ripple through the square. She kisses me like she’s claiming me right back, her tongue stroking mine until my vision blurs.
When she pulls away, her green eyes flash. “I’m fine,” she says, breathless but certain.
I can’t even form words. My throat is raw with something I can’t name.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Norah leaning against the counter, smirking, and—God help me—winking at her friend.
The cruel Omega is gone, slinking into the crowd, but the energy lingers. And then something extraordinary happens.
The line doubles.
It’s as if the entire town has decided that whatever they thought before, whatever doubts they had, they want a piece of whatever Wren just gave them.
By the end of the second hour, every slice, every tray, every crumb is gone. Sold.
The sight of her laughing as she flips the last empty pan over, cheeks glowing with victory, makes my chest ache.
“We did it,” she whispers, like she’s afraid saying it too loud might undo it.
“You did it,” I correct.
Beau swoops in, swinging her off her feet again, both laughing as if they don’t care who sees. Levi leans in and kisses her temple, murmuring something against her hair that makes her flush.
I stand there, heart in my throat, overwhelmed with the quiet certainty that I don’t deserve her, but I’m not letting go either.
Norah claps her hands. “Booth closed, pies sold, time to actually enjoy this damn festival.”
She loops her arm through Wren’s, tugging her out from behind the counter. Wren goes easily, glancing back at us, her smile soft and disbelieving.
I follow a few steps behind, Beau and Levi at my side. I take in the sight of the two women walking ahead—Norah with her bold stride, Wren with her ribbon still pinned crookedly to her apron. Their heads are bent together, hair brushing, laughter spilling out like a melody.
Something warm blooms in my chest, spreading until it’s almost painful.
I love this.
Not just Wren’s laugh, not just the thrill of touching her, not just the way she makes me forget every scar my past left behind. I love this—this pack, this messy, ridiculous, extraordinary life we’re building together in the middle of a town that I made a home out of.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Beau
I’m sofull I think I might burst—too much pie, too much festival food, too much laughter. My stomach is stretched, but my chest feels worse—too much happiness crammed into one body.
We’re lying across Wren’s bed, limbs tangled, the festival dust still clinging to our boots. The air smells like her shampoo, lavender, and something sweeter.
The window is cracked, and I can hear the faint noise of the town still celebrating down the street, but in here it’s quiet, soft, ours.
Wren lies between us, barefoot, hair falling in loose curls down her shoulders. She tips her head toward me, green eyes catching the lamp glow.
“Did you have fun?”
