"Some of them, that one included," I confirm, heading to the kitchen to start the coffee. "Some are vintage pieces I've modified or upcycled."
He follows me, leaning against the doorframe as I measure coffee grounds.
"So," I say, focusing on the task at hand rather than the man watching me. "You wanted to talk."
"Yeah." He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "About what happened at The Terrace. About us."
Us. Such a small word to carry so much meaning.
"There isn't an 'us,' Darren," I say quietly, pouring water into the coffee maker. "There can't be."
"Why not?" The question is simple, direct. Typical Darren.
I turn to face him, forcing myself to meet his eyes. "Because your pack made it very clear they're not comfortable with me being in the picture."
"I don't care what they think," he says, the words fierce and low. "I want to keep seeing you, Lexie. See where this goes. If they don't get on board, then I'll just have more of you to myself."
The intensity in his voice, in his eyes, makes my breath catch. "It's not that simple."
"It can be," he insists, taking a step closer. "If we want it to be."
"Your pack?—"
"Is important to me," he acknowledges. "But so are you. And I'm tired of letting other people dictate my life, my choices. First it was coaches and scouts telling me I'd never make it as a beta in an alpha's game. Then it was doctors telling me my career was over because I presented as an omega. Now it's my own packmates treating me like I'm suddenly made of glass."
He takes another step, close enough now that I can feel his heat. I'm not sure if all omegas are this warm, or if it's just him. "I'm done letting other people tell me what I can and can't have."
The coffee maker beeps, signaling it's finished brewing, but neither of us moves.
"What doyouwant, Lexie?" he asks, his voice softer now.
What do I want? The question replays in my head, deceptively simple yet impossibly complicated.
I want to not be hurt again. I want to not be someone's second choice, their consolation prize until something better comes along. I want to matter to someone the way they matter to me.
But more than any of that, I wanthim.
The realization hits me with startling clarity. Despite everything, the disastrous dinner, the pack complications, my own well-founded fears, I want Darren. Have wanted him since that first dinner when he looked at me like I was the most fascinating person he'd ever met.
"I want..." I start, then stop, the words catching in my throat.
Darren waits, patient, those blue eyes never leaving mine.
"I want to not be afraid," I admit finally. "I want to believe this could work."
His expression shifts with relief. "Then let me prove to you it can."
He closes the distance between us, one large hand coming up to cup my cheek. His touch is gentle, almost reverent, as his thumb traces the line of my jaw. I should step back. Should remind myself of all the reasons this is a bad idea.
Instead, I lean into his touch, my eyes fluttering closed.
The first brush of his lips against mine is soft, questioning. A request, not a demand. I answer by pressing closer, my hands finding purchase on his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him through his shirt.
The kiss deepens, transforms from gentle exploration to a hungrier, more urgent one. His hands slide down to my waist, lifting me easily onto the counter. I gasp at the display of strength, and he takes advantage, his tongue slipping past my lips to tangle with mine.
He tastes like mint and him, a flavor I could quickly become addicted to. And he smells like… like woodsmoke. My handsmove up to his shoulders, feeling the muscles shift beneath my palms as he pulls me closer, settling between my thighs.
"Lexie," he murmurs against my lips, the word a reverent growl.
