Page 44 of Nesting With My Three Alphas
"Like how they're hard for you?"
I looked down at my daughter, surprised by her perceptiveness. "How do you know storms are hard for me?"
"Because you get tense and check all the windows like fifty times. And you smell worried." Charlie settled more comfortably against my side. "Mom used to smell scared during storms too. Before she got really sick."
The mention of Sarah brought the familiar ache, but it was gentler now. Less sharp-edged grief and more wistful sadness.
"Your mom had some bad experiences during storms when she was younger," I said quietly. "Sometimes when you've been hurt during certain weather, your body remembers even when your brain knows you're safe."
"Is that what's happening to Kit?"
Probably. Kit's anxiety tonight felt too specific, too targeted to be just about weather.
"Maybe. And if it is, the best thing we can do is let her know she's not alone."
"Should we go check on her?"
"I don't think so, buttercup. She might need to work through this on her own."
Even as I said it, I wasn't sure I believed it. Every instinct I possessed was telling me to go to Kit, to offer comfort and protection whether she wanted it or not. But respect for her autonomy had to come first, even when it went against every alpha impulse I had.
Another flash of lightning illuminated the room, followed immediately by thunder so loud it seemed to shake the foundation. Charlie flinched against my side, and from next doorcame a sound that was definitely not my imagination. A soft cry of distress that made my chest tight with sympathy.
"Dad," Charlie said quietly, "I think Kit needs us."
I think so too.
But before I could decide what to do about it, I heard footsteps outside. Quick, purposeful movement across the wet grass between our houses. Through my bedroom window, I could see a figure with a flashlight approaching Kit's back door.
Reed.
Of course. Reed wouldn't hesitate the way I was hesitating. He'd hear Kit in distress and go straight to the source, consequences be damned.
I watched through the rain-streaked glass as Reed knocked softly at Kit's door, saw the way she opened it immediately like she'd been waiting for someone to come. Even from this distance, I could see the relief in her posture as she let him inside.
"Reed's with her now," I told Charlie, trying to keep the complicated mix of emotions out of my voice.
"Good. Reed's good at fixing things when they're broken."
The phrase hit me harder than it should have. Was that how Charlie saw Kit? As something broken that needed fixing?
Or was that how I saw her?
"Kit's not broken, buttercup," I said quietly. "She's just... learning to trust again."
"Same thing, kinda. Mom used to say that trust was like a broken bone. It could heal stronger than before, but it took time and the right kind of care."
Sarah had been wise about things like that, understanding instinctively that healing couldn't be rushed or forced. Sometimes it surprised me how much Charlie remembered about her Mom, but it was impossible not to really. We all toldher stories so often that she sometimes remembered them as if she’d been there as well.
We lay in the dark, listening to the storm rage outside while I wrestled with my own instincts. Part of me wanted to march over there and insert myself into whatever comfort Reed was providing. But a bigger part, the part that had learned hard lessons about respecting boundaries, knew that Kit needed to choose her own path to healing.
Even if that path didn't include me.
"Dad?" Charlie's voice was getting drowsy. "Do you think Kit will stay? Like, forever?"
God, I hope so.
"I don't know, buttercup. That's up to her."
