Chapter 10: The Name on His Lips
1148 Words
(Camila's POV)
February arrived with a thaw that turned Willow Creek’s streets into slush and the creek behind my apartment into a rushing song. My due date was only six weeks away now, and every part of me felt heavy—my belly, my breasts, even my heart when I let myself think too long about what came next.
Mateo was still here.
He had become as constant as the sunrise: breakfast at the diner, quiet help when I needed it, evenings spent in careful proximity. He never pushed, never demanded more than I offered, but his presence wrapped around me like a blanket I hadn’t realized I was cold without.
And I was starting to let him in.
Little by little.
One quiet Tuesday evening, the diner closed early because of a power outage from the melting snow weighing down lines. Rosie sent me home with a bag of leftover pie and strict orders to put my feet up. I trudged up the stairs to my apartment, key fumbling in the lock, when I noticed the soft glow of light coming from under my door.
I froze.
No one had a key except me.
My heart pounded as I pushed the door open slowly.
Mateo was inside.
He stood in the small kitchen area, sleeves rolled up, stirring something on the hot plate. The apartment smelled of garlic, tomatoes, and warm bread. Candles—battery-powered, safe ones—flickered on the table, which was set for two. The crib in the corner now had a finished mobile hanging above it: hand-carved wooden wolves and stars, painted silver and white, spinning gently in the draft.
He turned when he heard me, golden eyes cautious.
“I hope this is okay,” he said quickly. “Mrs. Alvarez downstairs let me in—she’s been watching out for you. I can leave if—”
“No,” I said, surprising myself. “It’s… it’s okay.”
Relief softened his features. He pulled out a chair for me. “Sit. You’ve been on your feet all day.”
I did, too tired to argue. He served dinner: spaghetti with meat sauce, garlic bread, a simple salad—nothing fancy, but made with care. He’d even remembered I couldn’t have too much salt anymore.
We ate in comfortable silence at first, the only sounds the clink of forks and Luca’s occasional kick.
“This is good,” I said finally. “Really good.”
He smiled—small, genuine. “I’ve been practicing. The internet has recipes.”
I laughed softly. “YouTube chef now?”
“Whatever it takes.”
After dinner, he cleared the plates while I settled on the couch, feet propped on a pillow he’d insisted on. He brought me a mug of herbal tea—raspberry leaf, good for late pregnancy—and sat on the floor near me, back against the couch, giving me space.
We talked about small things: the diner regulars, the truck he was restoring at the shop, the way Luca seemed to kick hardest when Mateo spoke.
Then the conversation drifted deeper.
“I never told you about my parents,” I said quietly, staring into my tea.
He turned his head to look up at me. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to.” I took a breath. “They died when I was twelve. Rogue attack on a supply run. The pack took me in, but… I was always the orphan omega after that. No family. No status. I think that’s why the rejection hurt so much. You weren’t just rejecting me—you were confirming what I’d always believed. That I wasn’t enough.”
His expression darkened with pain. “Camila…”
“I know you didn’t mean it that way,” I continued. “But that’s how it felt.”
He was quiet for a long moment. “My mother left when I was seven,” he said finally, voice low. “Ran off with a human. My father never forgave her. He raised me to believe weakness was betrayal. That emotion made you vulnerable. I thought choosing Isabella—choosing alliance—was strength. I was wrong. The strongest thing I’ve ever seen is you, raising our son alone, building a life from nothing.”
Tears pricked my eyes. I reached out without thinking, fingers brushing his hair.
He stilled under my touch, then leaned into it slightly, eyes closing.
We stayed like that for a while—my hand in his hair, his head resting against the couch near my knee.
Eventually, he spoke again, voice barely above a whisper.
“Can I… can I talk to him?”
I knew what he meant. I nodded.
He shifted to face my belly, hands gentle as he placed them on either side.
“Hey, Luca,” he said softly. “It’s your dad again.”
The baby kicked immediately—hard, right against Mateo’s palm.
He laughed, a broken, awed sound. “You know my voice, don’t you?”
Another kick.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner,” Mateo continued, voice thick. “I made mistakes. Big ones. But I’m here now. And I’m never leaving again. I promise you that, little man. I’ll be the father you deserve. The mate your mother deserves.”
He pressed his forehead lightly to my belly. “I love you already. So much.”
Tears slipped down my cheeks. I didn’t wipe them away.
When he looked up, his own eyes were wet.
“I love you too, Camila,” he said, raw and unguarded. “I never stopped. Even when I was too stupid to admit it. I love you.”
The words hung in the candlelight, heavy and beautiful.
I wasn’t ready to say them back. Not yet.
But I didn’t pull away when he reached for my hand.
I threaded my fingers through his instead.
We sat like that until the candles burned low—hands clasped, his head near my belly, Luca kicking happily between us.
Later, when he stood to leave, he paused at the door.
“I’ll be at the shop tomorrow if you need anything. Or the diner. Or just… here.”
I nodded. “Goodnight, Mateo.”
“Goodnight, Camila.”
After he left, I touched the spot where his hand had been.
The walls around my heart didn’t fall.
But another few bricks crumbled.
And for the first time, I let myself imagine a future where he was part of it.
Not as the Alpha.
Not as the man who rejected me.
But as the man who stayed.
Who cooked dinner.
Who carved wolves and stars for our son’s crib.
Who said my name like a prayer.
I fell asleep with his “I love you” echoing in my mind.
And I didn’t cry.
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