“Like what?”
“Like…” He gestures vaguely. “Desperate.”
The word stings.
“I wasn’t trying to make a scene,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says, but his voice is brittle. “I just… I’m a Beta, Wren. I’ve never dated an Omega, not like you. I didn’t know it could get like that. Honestly, it scared the hell out of me.”
I nod slowly.
“And maybe…” He swallows. “Maybe we should take a break. Figure ourselves out. You’ve been different for a while. I think we’ve both felt it.”
I say nothing.
Two days later, I pack my things.
I leave the keys on the counter. Take Pancake in his carrier. Swallow my suppressants with coffee in a to-go mug. I don’t say goodbye.
I just drive.
The air changes the moment I leave the interstate. Oregon smells different—damp earth and pine needles. I roll down the window.
Pancake grumbles from the seat beside me, then quiets when he catches a whiff of something green.
By the time I turn off the winding county road and cross the old wooden bridge into Fox Hollow, my heart is pounding.
Not from fear. Fromrecognition.
The town hasn’t changed much. The old gas station still has hand-painted signage. The streetlights glow a little too orange at dusk.
I drive slowly through downtown, past the bakery, the smokehouse, the crooked rows of cottages with sagging porches and flowerbeds.
And then I see it.
The Fox and Fern Café.
My grandmother’s place.
The lace curtains are still in the windows. The sign is faded but still intact. The paint is peeling. The mailbox leans slightly left.
I pull up and park across the street, hands clenched on the steering wheel. Pancake stretches in his carrier and yawns.
I stare out the windshield, taking in the bones of the café.
And all I can feel is wreckage.
Wreckage under my sweater. Behind my ribs. In the hollow ache between my thighs. I’m a mess in designer denim and old mascara, showing up like a ghost in my own life.
But I’m here.
And this—this café—is the only place that ever really felt like home.
The key turns after a bit of resistance. It smells like rust, and for a second, I think I’ve broken it, but then the old wooden door groans open and I’m inside.
The Fox and Fern Café hasn’t changed.
Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
