The throb between my legs is insistent now, a slow, heavy pull I haven’t felt in a long time that wasn’t tainted by fear or obligation. I press my thighs together and take a sharp breath, annoyed at my own body for reacting like this when it should know better.
Quickly, I take out the food. I’ve completely lost my appetite, my body hungry for something completely different now. I leave it on my counter to cool so I can refrigerate it later. My skin hums with anticipation as I walk out of my kitchen.
I shower to try to shake off my unease, standing under water so hot it fogs the mirror in seconds. My hands stay mostly busy—washing hair, scrubbing paint from my skin—but they keep threatening to wander, like they want to trace every inch Boone’s gaze lingered on tonight. I shut it down.
When I finally climb into bed, my hair damp and my skin warm from the heat of the shower, sleep doesn’t come easily.
The kiss replays in my head like a film loop. The look in his eyes when he told me I wasn’t drunk. The way he didn’t hesitate to tell me I was beautiful—no pause, no searching for a polite way to say it, just a truth he clearly believed.
I wonder what Max would think if he knew.
The thought cuts me open in an entirely different way.
Max, with his easy grin and reckless charm. Max, who was my safe place in a world that didn’t know what to do with an Omega like me. Max, who never saw the cracks in the walls because he was too busy holding up the roof.
Would he be hurt? Would he be glad? Would he tell me I deserved this after everything I’ve been through? Or would he say I’m moving too fast, trusting too soon?
The guilt hits like a slow, steady tide, soaking into my bones. It’s not even about Boone, not really. It’s about letting anyone this close again. About risking being known.
I roll over, pulling the blanket tighter around me, and stare at the half-finished canvas propped against the wall. The mural for Baxter’s Feed & Seed has been my focus, but that’s just work. I haven’t really painted—not in the way that makes me forget to eat, forget to breathe—in years.
Before I can think myself out of it, I get up.
The brushes are still in their jar on the windowsill. I drag them to my desk, flip on the lamp, and pull out the canvas that’s been collecting dust under the bed.
I start painting without sketching first, without worrying about whether it will be good. I let the color guide me—bold reds, deep blues, bright streaks of yellow that fight their way to the surface. It’s messy and unplanned, but it feels alive in a way I haven’t in too long.
Somewhere in the middle of it, the image starts to take shape. Not the careful, measured precision of a mural for a business, but something rawer. An explosion of color and movement, like the exact moment something is torn down and reborn in the same breath.
It feels like breathing again after holding my breath for years.
By the time I step back, the sky outside is starting to pale at the edges, a soft wash of pre-dawn light touching the tops of the houses. My shoulders ache. My fingers are stained with paint. And for the first time in months, I’ve actually made something for me.
I clean up slowly, careful not to ruin the half-dry work, and set the brushes in the sink. The mural will be fine. More than fine. But this—this is the piece I needed to make.
I’m halfway to bed when my phone buzzes against the counter.
Blocked Number.
I freeze.
The buzz stops, then starts again, the insistent vibration crawling under my skin. My throat goes dry.
It could be anyone, I tell myself.It could be the mayor. Or a wrong number. Or?—
The call cuts off. I stare at the screen until the voicemail notification pops up.
Every muscle in my body tenses.
I shouldn’t listen. I know I shouldn’t. But my thumb moves on its own, pressing play.
The voice that comes through is low and cold, carrying that drawl that used to make my stomach knot for entirely different reasons.
“You don’t get to run forever, sweetheart.”
The words hit harder than they should. I feel them in my chest, in my bones, in every scar no one can see.
I’m standing in my kitchen, barefoot, phone clutched so tight it might crack, and it’s like no time has passed at all. Memphis feels like it’s breathing down my neck again, the ghost of every lock clicking behind me.
