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"It's supposed to be ocean blue, but it looks more like sad blue." Charlie's nose scrunched in concentration. "Micah says there's a difference, but I can't figure out what I'm doing wrong."

"Sometimes paint changes color when it dries," I offered, the words coming easier than they had in months. "Or maybe the light in your room is different than the light on the color sample."

Charlie's eyes went wide. "You know about paint?"

I used to know about a lot of things. The thought came with a sharp pang of loss for the woman I'd been before Marcus convinced me that creativity was a waste of time, that art was a luxury I couldn't afford.

"A little," I said carefully.

"Dad, can Kit come see? Can she help figure out the blue?" Charlie bounced on her toes with excitement.

"You could," Jonah said quietly, and those two words hit me harder than they should have. His eyes met mine, and I saw understanding there. Recognition of the careful distance I was keeping, the way I held myself like I might need to run. "But no pressure. Rain check?"

There was something about the way he said it, like he meant it, like the offer would still be there tomorrow or next week or whenever I was ready, that made my chest tight with unfamiliar emotion.

"Rain check," I agreed, my voice softer than I intended.

Charlie tugged on Jonah's hand, already moving on with the resilience of childhood. "Come on, Dad. The painting's gonna dry weird if we don't finish soon."

"Go ahead, buttercup. I'll be right there." Jonah waited until Charlie had disappeared around the corner, then looked back at me. "If you need anything, and I mean anything, we're right next door. Charlie's usually in bed by eight, so it's quiet after that."

"Thank you." The words came out smaller than I intended, weighted with more gratitude than a simple neighborly offer deserved. "I appreciate it."

He nodded and started to turn away, then paused. "Kit?"

"Yeah?"

"Welcome home," he said, like he meant it, like this place could actually be home instead of just another temporary stop.

The way he said it made something crack open in my chest, something I'd been keeping locked down since the day I'd walked out of Marcus's apartment with nothing but two suitcases, a single cardboard box, and a broken heart. I watched him walk away, taking in the easy confidence in his stride. He moved like a man comfortable in his own skin.

Everything Marcus wasn't.

I shook that thought away and fumbled for my keys, suddenly desperate to get inside and away from the lingering scent of cedar and the promise of things I couldn't let myself want.

The duplex was small but clean, with hardwood floors that creaked pleasantly under my feet and windows that let in golden afternoon light. There was basic furniture and appliances, enough to get me on my feet, which was exactly what I'd wanted. A blank slate. A place to start over.

I set my box on the kitchen counter and pulled out the few things I'd need for tonight: toiletries, a change of clothes, the emergency stash of chocolate I always kept close. As I unpacked, my fingers brushed against something I'd almost forgotten: a small tin of watercolor pencils, carefully wrapped in tissue paper. My one indulgence, the single creative thing I'd allowed myself to keep.

I stared at the tin for a long moment, remembering the weight of a brush in my hand, the way colors could blend and flow and create something beautiful from nothing. Marcus had called it a waste of time, a distraction from "real" goals. But sitting in this empty duplex with afternoon light streaming through bare windows, I could almost imagine unwrapping those pencils. Almost imagine creating something again.

Another life. Another version of me.

I set the tin on the counter without opening it and continued unpacking. The suitcases could wait until tomorrow. I was too wiped out by the journey to worry about facing the depressingly few things I'd salvaged from my old life.

But as I moved through the space, my omega senses kept cataloging details that had nothing to do with the duplex itself. The way sound carried through the thin walls, I could hear Charlie's laughter from next door, muffled but warm. The draft under the front door that would need weatherstripping beforewinter really hit. The corner of the living room that got the best light, where the afternoon sun would be perfect for...

For what? I caught myself before the thought could finish. I wasn't building a nest here. I was building a life, yes, but not that kind of life. Not the kind that required soft things and safe spaces and alphas who smelled like home.

My phone buzzed with a calendar reminder: Suppressant refill due in 2 weeks. I stared at the notification, finger hovering over the dismiss button. What would it mean to feel again? To want? I wasn't ready to know. I dismissed the reminder and tried not to think about what it might mean if I let myself skip that appointment.

A knock at the front door interrupted my spiraling thoughts. I hesitated, then went to answer it, expecting to see Jonah again.

Instead, I found myself looking at a different alpha entirely. This one was leaner, with sandy hair and laugh lines around warm brown eyes. He wore jeans and a flannel shirt rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle, and he smelled like fresh bread and something warm that made my stomach growl.

"You must be Kit," he said with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I'm Micah. I run the bakery on Main Street." He held up a plate covered with a cheerful yellow towel. "Thought you might be hungry after the drive."

The simple kindness of the gesture, no expectations, no strings attached, made my throat tight. "That's incredibly thoughtful. Thank you."