Chapter 8: The First Step
1506 Words
The snow kept falling outside Rosie’s Diner, thick flakes drifting past the windows like silent witnesses. Inside, the only sounds were the soft tick of the wall clock and our breathing—mine shallow and quick, Mateo’s deep and carefully controlled.
I stood behind the counter, apron still tied, the crescent moon necklace clutched tightly in my fist. He stood on the other side, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him, far enough that I didn’t feel trapped.
Time. I had asked for time.
He was giving it to me.
But the look in his golden eyes said he would wait forever if that’s what I needed.
“I’m not going back to the pack,” I said again, voice steadier than I felt. “Not now. Maybe not ever.”
Mateo nodded once, no hesitation. “Then I stay here.”
My eyes widened. “You can’t. You’re the future Alpha. The rogues—”
“The rogues have been quieter since I left the territory,” he said quietly. “My father is handling things for now. He knows I’m looking for my mate. He doesn’t know about the baby yet, but when he does…” Mateo’s jaw tightened. “He’ll understand why I can’t return without you.”
I searched his face for any sign he was exaggerating, minimizing the consequences. There was none. Only resolve.
“You’d give up everything?” I asked. “Your title? Your home?”
“In a heartbeat,” he answered without blinking. “I already lost the only thing that matters when I let you walk away the first time.”
The sincerity in his voice made my chest ache. I looked down at the necklace in my hand, the tiny wolf charm glinting under the diner lights.
“I can’t just forgive you, Mateo. Not yet. Too much happened.”
“I know.” He took a slow breath. “I don’t expect forgiveness tonight. Or tomorrow. I just want the chance to earn it. One day at a time.”
I studied him for a long moment. The proud Alpha who once commanded entire rooms was standing in a small-town diner, snow melting in his hair, asking for nothing more than permission to try.
“What does that look like to you?” I asked finally.
Relief flickered across his face—small, but real.
“It looks like whatever you need it to,” he said. “I can rent a place nearby. I’ll get a job—human work, if that’s what it takes. I’ll be here for every doctor’s appointment, every craving, every time you need something heavy lifted or just someone to sit with you in silence. I’ll sleep on the floor outside your apartment door if that’s the only way you feel safe.”
A surprised laugh escaped me at the image. “You’d terrify my neighbors.”
A tiny smile tugged at his lips—the first I’d seen from him in months. “Then I’ll be discreet.”
I shook my head, still overwhelmed. “I have a life here, Mateo. A job. Friends. Routine. I’m not ready to upend it all again.”
“Then nothing changes for you,” he said firmly. “I fit into your life, not the other way around. You set the rules. You decide how close I get, when I get to touch you, when I meet our son. I follow.”
Our son.
The words hung warm in the air between us.
I felt the baby kick again, as if in agreement.
“I’m off shift in twenty minutes,” I said slowly. “I have to clean up, lock up, walk home. Alone.”
He nodded. “I’ll wait outside. Not to follow—just to make sure you get home safe. Then I’ll find a motel.”
I wanted to argue, but the memory of rogue teeth flashing in the forest stopped me. Having him nearby didn’t feel like surrender. It felt like caution.
“Fine,” I said. “But you keep your distance tonight.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The hint of teasing in his voice made something soft unfurl in my chest. I turned away quickly to hide it, busying myself with wiping down tables and stacking chairs.
True to his word, when I stepped out into the snow twenty minutes later, locking the diner door behind me, he was leaning against a lamppost across the street—far enough not to crowd, close enough to intervene if needed. He didn’t approach. Just fell into step on the opposite sidewalk as I walked the six blocks to my apartment above the hardware store.
The snow muffled everything. Our footsteps were the only sound.
When I reached my door, I paused under the awning, key in hand.
He stopped at the bottom of the exterior stairs, hands in his pockets, snowflakes settling on his dark hair.
“Goodnight, Camila,” he called softly.
I hesitated. “There’s a motel two blocks east. The Willow Inn. Clean, cheap.”
“Thank you.”
I nodded once, then climbed the stairs. Only when I was inside, curtains drawn, did I let out the breath I’d been holding.
I leaned against the door, hand on my belly.
Luca kicked again—strong, insistent.
“He’s really here,” I whispered to my son. “Your daddy.”
The word felt strange on my tongue. Daddy. Father. Mateo.
I didn’t sleep much that night.
The next morning, I opened the diner at six. Rosie was still out sick, so it was just me and the early regulars—truckers, farmers, the old man who always ordered the same eggs over easy.
At seven-thirty, the bell jingled.
Mateo walked in wearing a simple black thermal shirt, jeans, and work boots—clothes I’d never seen on him before. No expensive labels. No alpha aura on full display. Just a tall, unfairly handsome man who could have passed for any local laborer.
He slid into a booth near the window, gave me a small nod, and opened a newspaper he’d brought.
I approached with the coffee pot, hands steadier than I expected.
“Coffee?”
“Please. Black.”
I poured. “Hungry?”
“Starving.”
I wrote down his order—steak and eggs, rare, hash browns, extra bacon. He ate like a man who hadn’t had a proper meal in weeks.
When I brought the check, he left a fifty-dollar tip on a twelve-dollar meal.
“That’s too much,” I said quietly.
“It’s what the service deserves,” he replied, eyes warm.
Over the next days, a pattern emerged.
He came in every morning for breakfast, always the same booth, always polite, always generous tips that helped pad my savings.
He never lingered, never pushed for conversation beyond simple pleasantries.
But he was there.
When the snow turned to ice and I slipped on the steps, he was suddenly at my side—catching my elbow, steadying me without pulling me close.
When the diner’s ancient heater broke, he showed up after closing with tools and fixed it in under an hour, refusing payment.
When I had a midnight craving for pickles and ice cream, a bag appeared on my doorstep the next morning—no note, but I knew.
He rented a small room above the town’s auto shop, took a job there doing oil changes and repairs—work that left his hands stained with grease and his shirts smelling of motor oil.
The townspeople liked him. Called him “that nice new mechanic Matt.”
He never corrected them about his name.
One evening, after a long shift that left my feet swollen and my back aching, I found him waiting outside the diner again.
This time he held a paper bag.
“Dinner,” he said simply. “Rosie’s chicken soup recipe. I bribed her for it.”
I stared at him. “You cooked?”
“I followed instructions.” A sheepish half-smile. “It might be terrible.”
It wasn’t. It was perfect—warm, comforting, exactly what I needed.
We ate together on my tiny couch—first time he’d been inside my apartment. He sat on the far end, giving me space, eyes lingering on the half-painted crib in the corner.
“He’ll need a mobile,” he said quietly. “Stars and moons. Something he can watch when he can’t sleep.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I was thinking wolves.”
He smiled softly. “Even better.”
That night, when he left, I didn’t lock the door immediately.
Progress.
Slow, careful progress.
But every kind act, every respectful boundary, every glimpse of the man who put me and our son above pride… chipped away at the walls I’d built.
I wasn’t ready to forgive.
But for the first time, I started to believe he might actually earn it.
- Writer
