Page 18 of Mating With My Grumpy Alphas
I stared at him, struck by the simple clarity of that distinction. "I'm not sure I know the difference anymore."
"That's okay. Learning to trust your own judgment again takes time, especially after someone has convinced you that your instincts are unreliable."
"How do you know so much about this stuff?"
"Omega wellness is part of my training," he said simply. "But also, I've seen a lot of people trying to rebuild their sense of self after someone else tore it down. It's more common than you might think."
"Is it possible? To rebuild, I mean."
"Absolutely. But it requires patience with yourself, and the willingness to trust your own experience over someone else's opinions about your experience."
I picked up the tea blend he'd brought, turning it over in my hands while I processed what he'd said. "This is for the photography anxiety, isn't it?"
"This is for whatever you need it to be for."
"Thank you. For the tea and for... not telling me I should just pick up a camera and get over it."
"Healing doesn't work that way. And anyone who tells you it does is trying to rush you for their own comfort, not yours."
After he left, I made the tea and found myself thinking about the difference between trusting someone and thinking you should trust someone. About whether it was possible to rebuild a sense of self that had been systematically dismantled by someone who claimed to love you.
About whether I'd ever be brave enough to unwrap that camera bag and find out if there was anything left of the photographer I used to be.
The thought terrified me. But for the first time since leaving Sterling, it also felt like a possibility rather than an impossibility.
Maybe that was progress. Maybe that was enough for now.
Chapter 8
Wes
Days had passed since the owl rescue, and I’d been carrying Willa’s request for updates around like a stone in my pocket.Let me know how she does.The words had been simple enough, but the way she’d said them, like she needed to know this one broken thing would be okay, had stayed with me through two routine wildlife calls and one sleepless night of telling myself I was overthinking a casual request.
Dr. Martinez had called this morning with good news. The owl’s wing was healing ahead of schedule, and they were optimistic about a full recovery. Professional protocol said I should file the update in my weekly report and move on to the next case. But professional protocol didn’t account for the way someone could ask a question that sounded like it meant more than the words themselves.
I found myself standing outside Pine & Pages at two in the afternoon, holding a printed photo of the owl and telling myself this was just thorough follow-up. The bookstore’s windows werewarm with afternoon light, and I could see Willa behind the counter, helping a customer select something from the nature section. Her dark hair was loose today, falling in waves past her shoulders, and she was wearing a soft blue cardigan that made her look approachable in a way that immediately put my alpha instincts on alert.
The customer left as I pushed through the door, and Willa looked up with a smile that faltered slightly when she recognized me. Not unfriendly, exactly, but careful. Like she was weighing whether my presence here was professional or something else entirely.
“Wes,” she said, and I caught the faint hitch in her breathing that suggested her suppressants weren’t quite as effective as they’d been the last time we’d spoke. “Is everything okay?”
“Good news, actually.” I held up the photo, keeping my distance from the counter. “Thought you’d want to know how she’s doing.”
Her eyes immediately locked onto the image, and I watched her expression shift from wariness to genuine joy. The change was like watching sunrise after a long night. Whatever walls she kept between herself and the world, they didn’t extend to injured animals making recoveries.
“She looks amazing,” Willa said softly, reaching for the photo before catching herself and pulling her hand back. “May I?”
I slid the print across the counter, careful not to let our fingers touch. Even so, I caught a fuller hit of her scent when she leaned forward. Jasmine, but warmer now, more complex. Like the suppressants were losing their grip.
“Dr. Martinez says her wing is healing ahead of schedule,” I said, watching her study the image with the kind of focused attention I’d learned to associate with people who understood the technical aspects of photography. “Should be ready for release in four to five weeks instead of the original eight.”
“That’s wonderful.” She traced the edge of the photo with one finger, careful not to touch the surface. “She looks alert. Strong.”
“Getting stronger every day.” I hesitated, then added, “We’re planning her release back in the same area where we found her. Late November, probably. If you’d like to be there.”
The offer surprised me as much as it clearly surprised her. Wildlife releases weren’t public events. We kept them small and controlled to minimize stress on the animals. But something about the way she’d asked for updates, the way she was looking at this photo like it mattered personally, made me want to include her in the ending of this story.
“You do that?” she asked. “Invite people to releases?”
