Pancake meows loudly from the rug as though adding his own opinion. Beau crouches one last time to scratch behind his ears before standing again, flowers in hand.
We all pause at the door. The night air waits on the other side, carrying me closer to Levi, to his parents, to whatever future awaits me with these men.
My palms are damp. My chest is tight.
I take in a deep breath, holding it until my ribs ache, then release it slowly.
It will be okay, I tell myself repeatedly, until the words are the only thing holding me upright.
It will be okay.
Simon reaches for my hand as we stand on the Maddoxes’ porch, his palm warm against mine. He squeezes lightly, grounding me, and I let out a breath.
In his other hand, he’s carrying the bottle of wine we picked out this afternoon. A safe, smooth red Beau swore would please anyone.
“Ready?” Beau asks from my other side, bouquet already delivered, chocolates tucked under his arm.
“Ready,” I whisper, though my pulse hammers loud in my ears.
Levi’s childhood is etched into this house. His laughter, his milestones, his teenage tantrums—all of it lives in these walls. And now I’m about to step into that history as… whatever I am.
Their son’s Omega. His pack’s Omega. My stomach somersaults.
Beau knocks, and the sound echoes like a drum in my chest. It takes only a few seconds, though it feels much longer, before the door swings open.
“Boys!” Mrs. Maddox exclaims, her face lighting up. She’s petite, hair silvering at the temples, her sweater soft and cream-colored.
Her eyes crinkle as she hugs Simon, then Beau, then Levi, who has just appeared from somewhere behind her. She collects the gifts from their hands with warm gratitude.
“These are from Wren,” Beau says, pointing at the flowers as she takes them. “Hope they brighten up the table.”
“They’re beautiful,” she says kindly. Then her gaze finds me, and I freeze.
“Hey,” I manage, lifting my hand in a small wave.
She doesn’t hesitate. She hands the chocolates and wine off to Levi and then steps right into my space, wrapping me in a hug.
For a heartbeat, I’m stiff as a board. No one’s mother has hugged me like this in years. Her scent is familiar and grounding—vanilla layered over laundry soap, and the faintest hint of rosewater.
Slowly, my arms come up. I hug her back, letting myself lean into her warmth. It takes everything in me not to cry from the simplicity of it.
When she pulls back, her eyes are kind, no judgment there, no suspicion. Just welcome. “We’re so glad you’re here, Wren.”
The house smells incredible. Garlic and herbs mingle with the buttery warmth of bread baking, something sweet caramelizing in the oven. My stomach growls, betraying me.
The living room, beyond the entryway, glows with lamplight, books stacked neatly on the coffee table, and a quilt draped across the couch. Cozy. Lived-in. The kind of home that feels like a hug.
Mr. Maddox appears, tongs in hand, an apron tied over his shirt. He has Levi’s broad shoulders and sharp jaw, though his hair is now more salt than pepper.
“You must be Wren,” he says, smiling as though he already knows me. He shakes my hand warmly, the tongs clinking against his thigh.
“Yes,” I say softly. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
Levi reappears, setting the flowers in a vase, wine on the counter. He moves with familiarity, clearly at home in thiskitchen where he grew up. The sight of it—the ease, the belonging—makes my chest ache with longing.
And then, before I can settle in, he’s at my side. His parents are distracted by something on the stove, and Levi dips his head, stealing a kiss.
His lips brush mine, soft but sure, and my knees nearly buckle. I push him off quickly, giggling under my breath.
