“She wasn’t lucky,” Simon snaps. “She was desperate. Don’t twist it.”
I take another swallow of whiskey, the burn grounding me. The memory of her text tonight—her finally reaching out—feels heavier now. More complicated.
“Fine,” Beau concedes, lifting his hands. “Just saying, I had my own tree moment.”
My head jerks toward him. “Tree?”
He grins like the devil himself. “Cat got stuck. Guess who went up after it?”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Full sundress, sandals, halfway up the damn branches. I had to coax her down like a skittish kitten.” He chuckles into his beer. “She apologized the whole ride back.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Unbelievable.”
But inside, the image sears into me—Wren in a sundress, clinging to a tree. Beau’s hand steadying her. Simon’s hands steadying her in a clinic room.
All the ways she keeps finding herself in our orbit, no matter how we try to pull back.
Simon clears his throat. “Which brings us here.” He looks between us, sharp as always. “We need to decide what this is. For us. For her.”
Beau sobers, leaning forward, forearms braced on the table. “She texted us. First time since…” He trails off, eyes flicking between mine and Simon’s. “That has to mean something.”
“Or it just means she needs help,” I point out.
“Levi.” Simon’s voice is steady, no nonsense. “We can’t keep pretending this isn’t happening. We shared a heat. That doesn’t just disappear.”
I look down at my glass, swirl the amber liquid. He’s right. We’ve been circling the truth for days, avoiding it like saying it out loud would make it too real.
Finally, Beau says it. “We’re a pack. Always have been. And whether we admit it or not, we’ve started pulling her into it.”
Silence falls.
The truth hangs heavy, undeniable.
Simon adjusts his glasses. “Then we agree. If she chooses one of us—just one—we respect that. No jealousy. No fracture.”
“Right,” I echo, though my chest burns at the thought.
Beau exhales, softer this time. “But if she… wanted all of us?”
The table goes quiet again.
Simon’s jaw works, but he doesn’t dismiss it. Doesn’t laugh. “Then we’d have to decide what that means. How that would work.”
I lean back, running a hand over my jaw. The idea shouldn’t settle so easily. It should feel foreign. But it doesn’t. It feels like something that’s been there all along, just waiting to be named.
Finally, I nod. “Either way. Whatever she chooses—one of us, all of us, none of us—we respect it. That’s the pact.”
“Pact,” Beau agrees, clinking his glass against mine.
Simon doesn’t move right away, then finally lifts his own and clinks it too. “Pact.”
We drink, the weight of it sitting in my chest.
For years, we’ve run together, fought together, bled together. But this—this feels different.
For the first time, the pack isn’t just us. It could be her.
