Chapter Five
1380 Words
Ten minutes.
That’s how long I sat in the supply closet after Tristan left, just…thinking. Okay, maybe panicking. My dress was still a sparkly prison of regret, my makeup was probably halfway down my face, and my dignity? On life support.
But my stomach had other priorities.
No, it growled. Loud enough to make a mop tremble.
Laura perked up like it was a call to arms.
Food. You need food. We are wolves, not emotionally constipated squirrels.
I blinked. “That’s oddly specific.”
Still, she was right. No point in hiding now. He already found me like a sad raccoon hoarding glitter.
So I stood up, smoothed my wrinkled dress (pointless), and marched back into the arena like I hadn’t just fled.
The party was still going strong. Music. Laughter. The scent of roasted meat so intoxicating that my brain went momentarily offline.
I made a beeline for the food table with the grace of a possessed penguin, trying not to look at anyone. Especially not any tall, intense Alphas.
Spoiler: I failed.
Because the moment I picked up a plate, he was watching me.
Across the room, leaning casually against a pillar, Tristan looked like a dark promise in a suit. One brow lifted, arms crossed, that usual unreadable expression plastered across his face. He didn’t blink. Didn’t waver.
His gaze didn’t just watch me—it unraveled me.
And I, being the absolute champion of emotional regulation that I am, choked on a meatball.
Coughing. Spluttering. Entire soul trying to evacuate through my lungs.
I grabbed a napkin and attempted a casual dab of the mouth like I hadn’t just nearly died in front of 300 werewolves and the guy fate was practically carving my name into.
Chris—good old Chris—noticed.
He was standing with the Alpha twins, deep in conversation, when his eyes slid to me, then to Tristan. His eyebrows went on a small but meaningful hike.
One of the twins leaned in. “You good?”
Chris tilted his head toward Tristan. “He’s been staring at her since she came back.”
I pretended I didn’t hear that and shoved a brownie into my mouth for emotional support.
It didn’t help.
Eventually, after exhausting my internal cringe supply, I slinked out of the party and up the stairs to my room.
I shut the door behind me and leaned against it like I’d just escaped a heist gone wrong.
After changing into something less…sparkly and betrayal-adjacent (read: oversized hoodie and leggings), I flopped onto my bed and whispered to no one, “Please. No more drama today.”
The universe laughed.
Because two seconds later, my door opened.
As in, no knock. No hesitation. Just a bold, blatant door handle-turn and enter like he paid rent here.
“Excuse you!” I sat up, hair half-tied, hoodie mildly crooked. “Ever heard of knocking?”
Tristan paused in the doorway. “I did knock.”
“You did not.”
“I knocked emotionally.”
“What does that even mean!?”
“It means I figured you’d hear the approach of destiny and prepare accordingly.”
I blinked at him. “Is this what you do to all your mates? Just walk into their bedrooms uninvited with metaphors and arrogance?”
He tilted his head. “You’re my first mate. Lucky you.”
“You say that like it’s a compliment.”
He looked around my room, brow arching. “It’s small.”
I narrowed my eyes. “It’s cozy.”
“And your stuff,” he said quietly, “is already packed.”
I blinked. “Packed?”
His eyes met mine, steady. “For moving. You're coming with me.”
The silence dropped like a pin in a crypt.
“Excuse me?” I laughed, brittle and confused. “I am not going anywhere.”
“You are,” he said, voice low but certain. “You're my mate.”
I stepped back, instinctive. “I don’t remember signing a magical lease agreement.”
“You didn’t have to,” he said, gaze unwavering. It's fated.”
I snapped, arms folding over my chest. “Take your fate talk and swipe it somewhere else.”
He stood at the door, arms folded, eyes locked on me like I was some puzzle he couldn’t solve fast enough.
“But you've already packed,” he said. Not a question, just a quiet fact.
I didn’t look up from my shoes. “Yeah, well... I was cleaning.”
“Cleaning?” His tone tightened. “You folded every shirt like you were about to ship it off.”
I forced a laugh. “Maybe I’ve been watching too many organizing reels.”
He didn’t laugh.
“Stop pretending,” he said. “You were ready to go before I even asked.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were,” he cut in, stepping forward. “So why are you acting like staying is some kind of victory?”
My throat tightened. I shook my head, tried to pass it off with a shrug. “Because it’s safer. Easier.”
“For who? You?” His voice rose,not loud, but cracked with something raw. “You're pretending like this is about practicality. About packing. But it's not. So just say what it really is.”
I looked away. “You don’t get it.”
“Then make me get it.” His voice dropped, hoarse now. “Because I’m standing here asking you to come with me. And you keep refusing and trying to push me away. Why?”
My chest rose and fell, shallow and uneven. “Because if I go with you, it means this is real.”
“It is real.”
“No,” I whispered. “It means I’ll get hurt again.”
His expression shifted. “Lily…”
I closed my eyes. “I once believed in something fated and beautiful. But he…he walked away without looking back. So yeah, maybe I packed. Maybe I wanted to believe in a new beginning. But I'm also prepared to leave and eventually be hurt by someone else again.”
Silence.
Then, quietly:
“I’m not him.”
“I know,” I breathed. “But I’m still me.”
“Why me?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper. “You could have anyone. Why pick me?”
He didn’t flinch. “Because you're real. And honest. And stronger than anyone’s ever given you credit for.”
I swallowed hard, eyes darting away. “You don’t know me.”
“I know enough,” he said gently. “And I’m willing to learn the rest.”
The silence swelled. My throat burned.
“I’m scared,” I admitted again. Rawer this time. “I don’t know how to live as anything but a shadow.”
He stepped closer. “Then stay in the light with me. I’ll walk with you.”
“I might run.”
“Then I’ll catch up.”
I looked up at him, this Alpha who wasn’t trying to fix me, just see me. My voice cracked when I spoke again.
“I don’t want to disappoint you.”
“You couldn’t,” he said without missing a beat.
The air between us felt heavy—not with fear, but with something that almost felt like possibility.
“I’ll need time,” I said.
“You’ve got it.”
“I’ll need space.”
He nodded. “But not distance.”
“You don’t have to be ready. Just don’t walk away.” He added.
The silence between us stretched, full of everything unspoken.
And then I said, almost too quietly, “Fine. But I’m not promising anything.”
“Good,” he said, and there was that almost-smile again. “I’m not asking for a promise.”
He turned to leave, then paused in the doorway.
“And next time, I am knocking.”
I snorted. “Emotionally?”
“Physically. Just to surprise you.”
He left, and I flopped backward onto my bed, staring at the ceiling like it owed me answers.
Laura stirred gently.
You like him.
“I tolerate him,” I muttered.
Liar.
- Writer
