“Things have changed. In the last few days, everything has?—”
“Changed. Yeah.”
“And I need to know if you’re okay with that. Not just the sex part. All of it. Sharing me. Being here with Damon and Silas. Because if you’re not?—”
“I’m in love with you.”
The words hang in the air between us. Plain. Simple. No fanfare, no buildup, no dramatic pause. Just the truth, laid out like he’s been holding it behind his back for years and finally decided to show me.
“I’ve been in love with you since we were seventeen,” he says. “I didn’t stop when I left. I didn’t stop when you wouldn’t come with me. I didn’t stop when I tried to move on and couldn’t. Every woman I’ve been with since you has been a poor substitute, and I knew it, and I did it anyway because I thought maybe if I kept trying, I’d eventually find someone who made me feel the way you do.”
My hand has stopped moving on the counter. The dish towel hangs limp in my fingers.
“Griff—”
“I’m not saying this to pressure you. I’m not saying it because I think it changes anything between us right now. I’m saying it because you asked how I am, and that’s the answer. I’m in love with you, and being here with you these past few days—that’s the closest I’ve felt to whole since I left Willowbrook. Even with two other men in the room.”
I set the dish towel down. My throat feels tight, my eyes stinging, and I have to look away for a moment because I don’t want to cry in my kitchen at ten o’clock at night.
“Caroline.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re crying.”
“I’m not. I’m just… processing.”
He pushes off the counter and crosses the small space between us. He doesn’t touch me. He just stands there, closeenough that I can smell him—smoke and cedar and something underneath that’s just him.
“Take your time,” he says.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and laugh, shaky and wet. “God. I’m a mess.”
“You’re beautiful.”
“You’re biased.”
“Extremely.”
I look up at him. His face is open, unguarded in a way I haven’t seen since we were young. Before life got complicated. Before I broke his heart, and he broke mine right back.
“Go on a date with me,” I say.
His eyebrows rise. “What?”
“A date. You and me. Dinner somewhere that isn’t my living room. No heat, no other Alphas, no four-day orgies. Just us. Like normal people.”
“Normal people,” he repeats, and there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Or as close to normal as we can manage.”
“Caroline. Are you asking me out?”
“Yes. I am. Right now. Officially.”
He laughs. A real laugh, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him look his age instead of like he’s been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Then he cups my face in his hands and kisses me.
It’s soft. Not desperate, not hungry, not fueled by pheromones or biology or the frantic energy of a heat. Just his mouth on mine, warm and unhurried, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones. I lean into it, my hands finding the front of his shirt—my shirt—curling into the fabric.
