“I’ll see you around,” I murmur.
She blinks up at me, eyes wide, cheeks blooming red. Then she nods. “See you.”
As I leave, I catch sight of two women by the window, watching. One whispers something to the other, both smiling knowingly. Gossip is already brewing.
But for once, I find I don’t care.
Because pact or not, rules or not—walking out of that shop with her scent still clinging to me, I know exactly what I want.
And I can’t help but hope that when she makes her choice, she picks me.
The bell jingles as I step into the daylight, a container of pastries warm in my hands. And for the first time in years, I let myself imagine a life not just filled with work and obligations, but with her.
With us.
A pack.
Whole.
Even if I’m not ready to say it out loud just yet.
The day crawls and races all at once.
By the time the last patient leaves, my temples throb, and I’ve rewritten the same note three times because I can’t keep my eyes focused on the chart.
Hospital days can be like that—hours vanishing into a blur of consultations, stitches, injections, paperwork stacked like bricks waiting to crush me. Some days I thrive on the rhythm. Today, I’m running on fumes.
My shift started with an older beta farmer experiencing chest pains, a toddler with a fever, and a slip on ice that resulted in three cracked ribs.
Each case required something different of me—knowledge, patience, a steady hand. And each one drained a little more from the well I keep carefully filled.
By mid-afternoon, I’m moving on autopilot, peppermint vial tucked discreetly in my pocket. I take a breath here and there, let the cool sharpness cut through the haze, then press forward.
I’m in my office late, coat draped over my chair, when Becca knocks and steps inside. She’s efficient as always, her expression bright despite the hour.
“Long day?” she asks.
I huff a laugh, not bothering to deny it. “Something like that.”
She hesitates, then says, “I was going to mention—the medical conference in Seattle next month. Are you going?”
The word Seattle slams into me like a fist. The city is beautiful. I used to love conferences—catching up with colleagues, sharpening skills, getting out of town.
But Seattle isn’t just a conference city for me. It’s Marissa.
I picture her—sharp smile, sharper ambition. The Omega I once thought I could make a life with. The one who left me standing in the wreckage of everything I thought I knew about bonds.
I set my pen down too hard. “No.”
Becca tilts her head. “You’re sure? It’d be good networking. I can register you.”
“I said no.” My voice is sharper now, and she blinks. I soften it with a sigh. “I’ve got too much here. No time to disappear for a week.”
She studies me a beat, then nods. “Alright. Just thought I’d ask.”
When she’s gone, I slump back in my chair, rubbing my face. Seattle. No, I don’t need that ghost bleeding into my present.
Not when things are already complicated.
