Anna's second regression, Alpha regrets it

Chapter 5 — The Test Dinner

I called it a dinner. Lina called it “the experiment.” The men called it whatever they wanted; I called it a way to see who had learned to be honest.

I set the table like a woman staging a small revolution: candles low enough to make people lean in, plates that caught the light, a playlist that made conversation feel like a dance. The rule was simple—one question each, one honest answer, no grandstanding. I wanted to see who could be brave without performing.

Rian arrived first, in a suit that fit like a promise. He carried himself with the measured confidence of someone used to negotiating outcomes. He kissed my cheek like a man who’d practiced tenderness and then sat down, folding himself into the evening like a well-tailored thought.

Mateo came in next, paint on his jeans and a grin that made my pulse stutter. He brought a bottle of wine that tasted like summer and apologies. He sat with his elbows on the table, leaning into the conversation like someone who believed in the heat of the moment.

Evan arrived last, carrying a bouquet of wildflowers that looked like they’d been picked from the side of a road. He set them in a jar and sat across from me with a quiet smile that made my heart unclench. He had the kind of presence that didn’t demand attention but earned it.

I started with Rian. “Why did you leave?” I asked, voice steady.

He inhaled, then spoke with the kind of clarity that comes from practice. “I left because I thought I needed to be more. I thought I could only be worthy if I built something that looked like success. I didn’t realize I was building it on the wrong foundation.”

It was the kind of answer that could have been rehearsed, but there was a tremor in it that made me believe him. He looked at me like he wanted to be forgiven and like he understood that forgiveness was not owed.

Mateo’s turn was rawer. “I left because I was afraid of being ordinary,” he said. “I thought leaving would make me more of who I wanted to be. It made me less. I’m sorry for being selfish.”

His apology was messy and immediate, and it landed with the weight of someone who’d finally named his cowardice. He reached for my hand across the table and I let him touch me—not because I needed to be soothed, but because I wanted to see how he handled the closeness.

Evan’s answer was quiet and steady. “I didn’t leave,” he said. “I stayed away because I thought you needed space. I thought you were choosing something else. I was wrong to assume. I should have been braver.”

His honesty felt like a warm blanket. It was not flashy. It was not dramatic. It was the kind of thing that builds a life.

When it was my turn, I told them the truth I’d been practicing: that I had been hurt, that I had learned to shrink, and that waking up younger had given me the chance to test what I wanted. I told them I wasn’t interested in being a prize. I wanted presence, not promises.

The men listened. Some of them flinched. Some of them leaned in. The night ended without fireworks but with something better: clarity. I left the table with my head high and my heart curious.

After dinner, we moved to the couch with coffee and the kind of conversation that makes you forget the clock. Rian talked about the building he’d bought and the people he wanted to bring into his life. Mateo talked about a series of paintings he wanted to create that would be about regret and redemption. Evan talked about a small house he’d been fixing up, a place with a garden and a porch swing.

I watched them and catalogued the differences. Rian’s ambition was intoxicating; Mateo’s vulnerability was a drug; Evan’s steadiness was a balm. Each offered something I wanted in different measures. Each required me to be brave in different ways.

When Mateo reached for me and kissed me, it was a test and a promise. When Rian asked if I’d consider seeing him again, it was a negotiation. When Evan offered to walk me home, it was a quiet, steady presence that felt like a harbor.

That night, I lay awake and thought about the rules I’d set for myself. Curiosity. Boundaries. Honesty. I had given them a chance to show up, and they had. Some had stumbled. Some had shone. None had been perfect. None had been entitled.

I liked that. I liked that they had to earn me. I liked that I had to choose.

The test dinner had not been a spectacle. It had been a crucible. It had shown me who could be brave without performing, who could be present without trying to own me, who could hold my past without trying to fix it. The knowledge made my pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with needing to be chosen and everything to do with being the author of my own desire.

I closed my eyes and smiled. The night had been a small victory. The men who had once walked away were circling back, but this time the rules were mine. I would test them. I would let them prove themselves. And when the time came, I would choose—not because I needed to be chosen, but because I wanted to be with someone who could hold all of me.