Three Miles to Willow Street (#1)
Pairing: Alpha! Lumberjack! Bucky x Omega!Female Reader
Tags: Lumberjack AU. A/B/O AU. Slow Burn. Mutual Pining. Fluff. Smut.
Warnings: 18+ only. PTSD. A/B/O dynamics.
Summary: Three miles from town and a world away from the life she knew, she finds herself relying on a reclusive stranger whose measured distance and iron self-control may not be enough to resist the pull he feels toward her.
Word Count: 9.2k.
note: My first time writing a/b/o, let's see where this goes...
The bus stopped with a hiss of brakes and a cloud of diesel that made her nose wrinkle. Through the grimy half-open window, she could see nothing but forest on both sides of the cracked asphalt road.
"End of the line, miss," the driver called back, with a mix of sympathy and impatience that came from dealing with passengers who'd clearly made questionable life choices. "Town's about three miles up that way." He jerked his thumb toward what looked like a dirt path cutting through the trees.
She threw her backpack over her shoulder and grabbed the handle of her rolling suitcase. "Thank you," she nodded, giving him a tight smile that didnât quite reach her eyes.
The doors shut behind her with a wheeze, and she watched the bus disappear around a bend, leaving her alone with the sound of wind through pine needles and her own slightly elevated heartbeat. The scent blockers were doing their job, but they couldn't do anything about the anxiety crawling under her skin. Her body still wanted to broadcast her distress.
Pulling out her phone, she squinted at the screen. One bar of signal, which was better than she'd expected this far from civilization. The GPS showed a thin blue line winding through an expanse of green, with a tiny cluster of buildings marked ahead about three miles away. She'd known it would be remote when she'd applied for the resettlement program, but seeing it laid out in pixels somehow made it more real.
Rural community seeks new residents to revitalize local economy. Housing is provided for qualified applicants willing to commit to one-year residency trial.
The ad had appeared in her search results like a miracle after two weeks of looking over her shoulder every time she left her apartment, checking locks twice before bed, jumping at every unexpected knock on the door, or at every unfamiliar scent in the hallway. David had made perfectly clear that moving across town wasn't far enough. Her rejection wasn't final to him, it seemed. The restraining order was just a piece of paper, a minor inconvenience he'd already violated twice.
This, though, this was distance. Six hundred miles from the city, accessible only by a state highway that crumbled into gravel for the last twenty miles. The old railroad spur that once had been the town's lifeline had been abandoned decades ago, leaving it too remote for casual visitors and too inconvenient for anyone not serious about staying.
Perfect for an omega who needed to disappear.
She'd sent in her application the same night she'd found the listing, attaching her tutoring credentials and a brief explanation of her work-from-home ESL teaching business. The response had come within a week: a congratulatory email from someone at the Town Hall, along with an address for a house on Willow Street, noting her keys would be waiting at the local diner.
Now, standing on the side of a road that barely qualified as such, breathing air so clean it almost hurt, she wondered if she'd made a terrible mistake.
The rolling suitcase bumped and protested against the uneven ground as she started walking, following the dirt path that the GPS insisted would eventually lead to civilization. Pine trees towered on both sides, and their branches formed a canopy so thick that the afternoon sun came through in scattered patches.
It was quiet in a way that her city-trained ears found both beautiful and terrifying. No traffic, no sirens, no constant noise of human activity that had always annoyed her but now seemed like a safety net she'd taken for granted. Just the whisper of wind through the trees, the distant call of some bird she couldn't identify, and the crunch of her footsteps on the road that seemed to echo far too loudly.
Every shadow between the trees made her pulse quicken. Every rustle in the underbrush had her gripping the handle of her suitcase tighter. She should have asked more questions about transportation. Should have planned better. The bus driver's casual "three miles" had sounded manageable in theory, but walking alone down an isolated path felt like every safety lecture she'd ever received coming back to haunt her.
After what felt like hours but was probably only thirty minutes, she rounded a bend and nearly sobbed with relief. Ahead, placed into a small clearing beside the road, was a modest wooden building marked by a weather-faded government sign: Sheriff's Substation. There was a patrol car in the gravel lot, next to a well-worn pickup truck that looked like it had seen better decades.
Her steps quickened, and the wheels of her suitcase practically sang against the packed earth as she hurried toward the building. Whatever this was -a checkpoint, an outpost- it had to be safer than walking alone down an empty road.
The screen door protested with a rusted squeal as she pushed it open, stepping into the cool interior.
The conversation inside stopped abruptly.
Behind a simple wooden counter stood a woman in a sheriff's deputy uniform; her beta scent was clean, almost paper-dry. Across from her, leaning against the counter with his back to the door, was a man in work clothes: flannel shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows, worn jeans that had seen honest labor, and boots that looked like they'd walked through half the county. An alpha. His presence filled the cramped space in a way that was somehow unmistakable, but controlled, leashed.
Both had gone completely still when the door opened, turning toward her in perfect unison like she'd triggered some kind of alarm. The deputy's expression quickly shifted into something professionally welcoming, but the alpha looked like he'd been physically struck. His spine went rigid, and she caught the subtle flare of his nostrils as he breathed in involuntarily.
He was tall, with dark hair that fell over his shoulders and blue eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. When his gaze met hers, she caught a flash of something -surprise, wariness, hunger that was quickly crushed- before his expression went blank.
He cursed under his breath and angled himself away from her, as if he could block her scent from reaching him, but the damage was already done. Heâd already breathed her in.
She was definitely on blockers -good ones- but something had spiked her adrenaline and cracked the chemical seal. Tiny, treacherous threads of her real scent were bleeding through the synthetic mask, threading the air like a current only certain noses could catch.
âCan I help you, miss?â the deputy asked, stepping forward with a reassuring smile. The name tag on her uniform read 'Ross.'
"I'm sorry to interrupt," she said, suddenly very aware of how she must look, travel-rumpled and probably radiating anxiety. "I just got off the bus up the road, and I wasn't sure how to get to town from here. The driver said it was three miles, but I didn't realize when I bought the ticket that the bus doesn't actually go all the way to town."
The alpha straightened from the counter, his scent of oak and coffee fractured into something harsher -fresh-split bark and a metallic thread like iron- but didnât speak.
"You're walking to town?" Deputy Ross asked, raising her eyebrows. "Alone?"
The concern in her voice made it clear this wasn't a common occurrence there. And let's face it, it wasnât common almost anywhere. That was the kind of scenario that made headlines for all the wrong reasons.
She shrugged, trying to project more confidence than she felt. "What other option do I have?" She gestured vaguely toward the door. "But I have to admit, I'm relieved to have found this place so I could ask for directions.â
The deputy exchanged a quick glance with the alpha, something passing between them that she couldn't quite read. The man's jaw had clenched slightly, and his hands, she noticed, had closed into loose fists at his sides.
"The bus route changed about two years ago," Ross explained apologetically. "The county cut the funding, so now it just stops at the main road intersection. Most folks who come out this way have their own transportation or someone picking them up."
"I see." She shifted her weight, suddenly feeling every inch the clueless city outsider she was. "Well, is the walk to town... safe? I mean, it's just woods, right?"
The alpha's jaw clenched visibly, and she caught the way his hands flexed again at his sides, like he was restraining himself from reaching for something. When he spoke, his voice was low and rough, looking at her as if she had lost some marbles. "It's not the forest you need to worry about."
Ross shot him a look that seemed to say 'charming as always,' but he was already dragging a hand through his dark hair in what looked like a nervous habit, or maybe an attempt to disperse whatever pheromones he'd just released.
Because something had definitely changed in the room. Not just scent, but atmosphere. The air felt heavier, charged, and her pulse stuttered in response before her conscious mind could catch up. Her body recognized what was happening: an alpha bristling, protective, dangerous, but also holding himself in check.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, and some of that metallic edge in his scent eased back, though it didn't disappear entirely. "Look," he said, fixing his gaze on hers for just a moment before it slid to somewhere over her shoulder. "I was heading into town anyway. I can give you a ride."
The offer hung for a moment. She could see the tension in his posture, the way he seemed to be fighting some internal battle even as the words left his mouth. This wasn't someone who made casual offers to strangers; everything about his body language screamed solitary, guarded, reluctant. But something about her situation had pushed him past whatever boundaries he had for himself.
"That's very kind of you," she said carefully, studying his face. There was something almost grudging about his helpfulness, like the offer had been dragged out of him by instinct rather than logic. "Are you sure it's not too much trouble-?"
"No trouble," he replied, a beat too quickly. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Like I said, I was going that way anyway." His scent changed again, the harsh metallic edge fading as coffee and oak reasserted themselves, like he was deliberately putting himself back under control.
Ross watched the exchange with barely concealed fascination, her gaze ping-ponging between them like she was witnessing something they hadn't quite figured out yet. "Bucky's good people," she offered, apparently sensing the other woman's hesitation. "You'll be safe with him."
Bucky -so that was his name- shot Ross a look that might have been grateful or annoyed, it was hard to tell.
"I'm Deputy MarĂa Ross, by the way," the woman said, extending her hand with a professional smile. "And you are?"
She thanked her, shaking the offered hand and introducing herself by name.
"Nice to meet you," Ross said with a smile, then pointed her thumb toward the alpha. "And this charming specimen is James Barnes, but everyone calls him Bucky."
"Not everyone," Bucky muttered under his breath, though there was no real irritation in it.
Ross rolled her eyes. "Fine, everyone who actually talks to you calls you Bucky." She turned back to her with a grin. "He's particular about these things."
She caught the flush that crept up Bucky's neck at the gentle ribbing, the way his jaw flexed like he wasn't entirely sure how to handle being the center of attention. Something about that embarrassment made him seem less intimidating, despite the way his presence still dominated the small space.
"Truck's outside," he announced abruptly, gesturing toward the door like he was ready to escape this particular social interaction. "Just need to finish up here first." He glanced meaningfully at Ross, who immediately started patting down her uniform pockets.
"Right," she said, counting some bills and giving them to him. "Thanks for the delivery."
Bucky pocketed the cash and moved toward the door, pausing and resting one hand on the frame as he held it open for her. The gesture caught her off guard. In her experience, alphas typically expected others to walk behind them, not precede them. She glanced up doubtfully at him, but his expression was neutral; there was only patience in those blue eyes.
She nodded her thanks and stepped outside, blinking in the late afternoon sunlight.
Up close, his truck was exactly what it looked like: a working vehicle that had seen years of hard use, with scratched paint and a bed that showed evidence of hauling everything from lumber to tools. It was clean, though, and well-maintained despite its age.
He moved around to the passenger side and reached for the handle, and something almost sheepish crossed his features.
"Fair warning," he said, his voice carrying a hint of embarrassment that made her omega instincts perk with interest. "She's temperamental. The handle needs persuading."
She watched, transfixed, as his large hand wrapped around the chrome, giving it an upward twist. The muscles in his forearm flexed beneath the rolled sleeves of his flannel, and the door opened with a reluctant groan.
"Thank you," she said, accepting his help getting her suitcase positioned and climbing up into the cab.
The interior had the same vibe as the exterior, with a worn bench seat, a radio that looked original to the truck, and a faint smell of sawdust and something distinctly him.
The truck dipped as Bucky sat behind the wheel, and suddenly the space between them contracted to nothing. The bench seat that had seemed adequate now felt intimate, dangerous. His presence filled every corner of the cab, wrapping around her like smoke.
This was alpha, undeniably so, but not the brutal dominance she'd learned to fear. This was something far more treacherous, restrained power that ran beneath his skin, controlled but never truly tamed.
Her pulse hammered against her throat, and she pressed her fingers there instinctively, terrified that somehow the frantic rhythm might betray the effect he was having on her. The last thing she needed was for him to scent her body's traitorous response to his proximity.
The engine turned over with a rumble that spoke of good maintenance despite the truck's age. Bucky adjusted the rearview mirror, checked his blind spots, and pulled out of the gravel lot with the confidence of someone who'd been driving these mountain roads for years.
----
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the engine going and the crunch of gravel under the tires as they made their way back to the main path.
She found herself stealing glances at his profile when she thought he wasn't looking, the strong line of his jaw, the way his hands rested easily on the steering wheel, the slight tension in his shoulders that never seemed to fully relax. Her body reacted before her mind could: stuttering pulse, heat pooling low and insistently in her belly, the faint prickling along her back that screamed omega aware of alpha.
Bucky was acutely aware of every one of those glances, every subtle shift, every almost imperceptible inhale of hers, though he kept his eyes firmly on the road. The confined space of the truck cab was playing havoc with his concentration. Her scent was there, faint but present despite what she was using, and it was... distracting. Sweet, warm, like caramelized almonds with an undertone that was traveling directly to his groin, an instinct he'd spent years learning to ignore.
He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, jaw clenched as he inhaled carefully, trying to taste less, to control himself more.
This was exactly why he avoided situations like this. Why he lived alone, worked alone, and kept his distance from anyone who might trigger the part of him he'd spent decades learning to suppress. Because his body didn't give a damn about appropriate boundaries or the fact that she was a complete stranger who probably wanted nothing more than a ride to town. And he hated not being in control.
----
She wasn't sure if she should fill the quiet or let it be. In the city, silence in a car with a stranger -especially an alpha- would have felt like a threat waiting to materialize. But this felt different somehow. Not precisely uncomfortable, but... charged. Like the air before a thunderstorm.
The truck hit a small pothole, and she had to grip the door handle, sliding a fraction closer on the bench seat. The motion brought her a few inches closer to him, and she caught another wave of his scent that made her omega hindbrain purr with dangerous satisfaction.
Fuck.
Bucky's knuckles went white on the steering wheel as she shifted closer, and he had to force himself not to flinch visibly. Every instinct he possessed was howling at him to pull over, to crowd her against the door, and-
He cleared his throat roughly, more to give himself something to do than because he needed to. "Road gets better once we hit the main stretch," he muttered in a gruff tone.
She let out a soft chuckle, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. "Now I understand why the bus doesn't want to come down this road."
The sound of her laugh did something to the tight knot in his stomach, loosening it just enough that he could breathe a little easier. He glanced at her briefly, catching the hint of a smile on her lips before looking back at the road.
She saw the opening his comment had created as a chance to start a real conversation, but found herself at a loss for what to say. What did you talk about with a stranger who'd just rescued you from a three-mile walk through the woods? Especially when that stranger was an alpha whose presence was doing interesting things to her usually composed nature.
After a moment of internal debate, she reached into her backpack and pulled out a food container. "I made these for the trip," she said, opening it to reveal several neatly cut brownies. "Would you like one? Take it as a thank you."
The smell hit the cab immediately, rich chocolate and nuts, with a hint of something that might have been espresso. Homemade, definitely, and a thousand times better than anything that had ever crossed the threshold of his truck.
Bucky's hands pressed on the wheel again, but for a different reason this time. The gesture was so... domestic. Thoughtful. The kind of thing that spoke of someone who planned, who nurtured. It made his chest hurt with something close to homesickness, to long for things he'd convinced himself he didn't deserve to want. He was too tired, too broken for this.
"Not necessary," he said, and it came out harsher than he'd intended.
Her smile faltered slightly, and she closed the container with careful movements, making herself smaller against the passenger door like she was trying to disappear into the upholstery.
He caught her reaction from the corner of his eye, the way she slightly pulled back toward the far edge of the bench seat, and something twisted uncomfortably in his stomach. It wasnât her fault that he couldnât get his shit together long enough to accept a simple act of kindness without making it weird.
"âŠbut I want one," he added quickly, softer this time. "They smell good, thank you."
Her gaze widened and her smile returned, warmer this time, as she reopened the container and carefully selected one of the brownies. "I'm sorry, I don't have any napkins," she said, holding it out to him in her palm.
Bucky nearly huffed with amusement at the apology. As if he'd be bothered by the lack of a fucking napkin when he spent his days covered in sawdust and tree sap. The concern was so unnecessarily considerate that it was almost painful.
He took his eyes off the road for just a moment, reaching over to take the brownie from her outstretched hand. His fingers brushed briefly against her palm -warm, soft, inviting- before he pulled back and immediately took a bite.
The flavor was a revelation. Rich, dark chocolate with just enough sweetness, and there was definitely espresso in there. His eyes closed briefly, a small involuntary tilt of his head as he savored it, and he couldn't quite suppress the low sound of appreciation that rumbled in his chest. A faint trace of her scent reached him in the process, wrapped in sugar, testing his restraint like a whispered challenge.
"Fuck," he muttered around the bite, then caught himself. "Sorry. This is... really good." He glanced at her, something almost shy flashing across his features. "Give me a couple more of these and we'll call the ride even."
The praise hit her like a shot of dopamine. Something warm and bright bloomed in her chest. Not just satisfaction, but that deeper, more dangerous pride that made her want to preen, to bask in having pleased him, having provided something he genuinely enjoyed.
The realization made her stomach twist with irritation at herself. She knew what this was: her omega side rising to the surface, desperate to please and provide and earn approval through care and feeding.
The internal conflict must have shown on her face because Bucky shot her another glance, this one longer and more concerned. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," she said quickly, forcing a smile and pushing the container toward him. "Help yourself. I made way too many anyway."
----
The road improved as he'd promised, the packed dirt giving way to cracked but serviceable asphalt as they approached the outskirts of town. She could see buildings now through the trees, a water tower, the peaked roofs of houses, a church steeple rising above the canopy.
"So where are you staying?" he asked, taking another brownie from the container now balanced on the seat between them.
"One of the houses on Willow Street," she replied, pulling up the address on her phone. "Part of the resettlement program."
Bucky glanced sideways, but he didn't say anything. Just nodded and slightly worked his jaw as if he was chewing on words he wasn't sure he should say.
The ad hadn't exactly lied about the housing, but it had definitely been generous with the truth about the condition of those houses. Some of them were decent enough, livable with a little work. Others... well, others needed more than a little work.
He pulled up to a modest diner where her keys were waiting, its peeling paint and sun-faded sign somehow made welcoming by the rich scent of coffee and fresh bread drifting through the screen door. Inside, the place was empty except for a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and flour-dusted hands who handed over the keys with a smile that seemed genuinely warm.
Back in the truck, he navigated through the quiet streets until they reached her new neighborhood.
When they stopped in front of her new house, she stepped out first, taking in the small, weathered building. It wasnât terrible. Not a paradise, certainly, but with a little care it could be home. She turned back toward the truck, offering him a tentative smile. "Well, this is it."
But he was staring at the house with narrowed eyes, his expression darkening by the second. "They seriously expect an omega to settle in here?"
In the city, she'd been able to pass as beta without question, blending into crowds, her blockers working flawlessly to mask the telltale markers. How the hell had he-?
Bucky caught the change in her scent immediately -charged with panic now- and cursed under his breath.
"How..." she started, then had to clear her throat. "How did you know?"
He was quiet for a long moment, studying her face. "Whatever you were using back in the city probably worked fine," he said carefully, like he was picking his way through a minefield. "But out here? No crowds, no constant background noise of a hundred different scents mixing together. Everything stands out more clearly."
He paused, watching her shoulders tense. âAnd⊠well, being nervous about arriving somewhere new⊠that doesnât exactly help keep things hidden.â
Heat flooded her cheeks, embarrassment, and something dangerously close to panic. Her scent blockers had been military grade and expensive as hell. If they were failing her now...
She was going to need to find a local physician. Fast.
Bucky caught the way her fingers flexed on the strap of her backpack and felt the inexplicable urge to soothe her before he could stop himself.
âHey,â he said quietly, âYouâll be fine. Just- try not to get too worked up. The quiet out here, the clean air⊠that's part of why everything's more obvious. But the other part..." He hesitated, brushing his thumb over a callus on his palm like he was trying to wear it down. "It's me. I've been trained to pick up on things most people miss. Even if you were drowning in blockers, I'd probably still know."
âTrained for what?â
He glanced at her, then at the shabby house, then down at his hands, where his thumb kept working that same spot on his palm.
âRetired military,â he said at last, almost grudgingly, as though the words tasted bitter.
She took a small step closer, something shifting in her expression. Recognition, maybe respect. "Thank you for your service."
Buckyâs jaw clenched. He shook his head once, sharp and dismissive. âDonât. I donât deserve that.â
Then he looked away, focusing on a suddenly interesting weed on the sidewalk.
"I didn't mean to-" she started, her tone gentle. "Whatever you think you did wrong-"
"I'm not being modest." His voice was flat, final. The kind of tone that usually ended conversations.
âSorry. Wasnât my intention to upset you.â
That word -sorry- made his stomach sink. There she was, apologizing to him when he was the one being a complete asshole. Again. His social skills had never been great, but years of isolation had turned him into something that barely resembled functional.
He shifted his weight, his thumb finding its familiar groove in his palm, his mouth opening and closing like he was trying to find words that he couldnât reach.
"It's-" Nothing. He had nothing that wouldn't make this worse.
The silence stretched between them for a moment. He swallowed, glanced at her from under his lashes, and forced his attention back to the house. His hand came to rub the back of his neck.
"Did anyone check this place before you got here?" he asked, assessing the building with what looked like a professional eye. "Someone from the town or the program?"
âI donât think so.â She followed his gaze to the house.
âProbably not,â he muttered. âThe programâs bare-bones. They get the paperwork done, throw in some paint and make sure a keyâs waiting, butâŠâ His eyes traveled methodically up the roofline, cataloging loose shingles and sagging gutters, along windows that might not close properly, over steps that looked like they'd collapse under any real weight.
"But what?"
"Things like electricity, plumbing, heat⊠that's usually left for the new resident to figure out."
He cleared his throat. "Look, I-" He stopped, started again. "You mind if I- I mean, if you want, I could take a quick look around. Just to make sure the basics are working." The words came out awkwardly, like he wasn't sure he had the right to offer. "Won't take more than five minutes. But if you'd rather handle it yourself-"
She stared at the house while he talked, the words âelectricity, plumbing, heatâ unspooling a new list of worries in her head. From the outside, it looked manageable. Shabby but solid. But his tone suggested he'd seen enough of these program houses to know better than to trust appearances.
And then there was his offer.
Rationally, it made perfect sense. He obviously knew what he was looking at, and he'd already gone out of his way to help her. But the part of her that had survived years in the city by being cautious, by never letting her guard down completely, balked at the idea of inviting a strange alpha into what was supposed to be her sanctuary.
Her grasp on the strap tightened, fighting down the instinctive rush of caution. He hadnât crowded her once during the drive, hadnât used his size or his scent to push at her boundaries.
He caught her reaction instantly and exhaled slowly through his nose. He hadnât even thought about what it meant to offer.
In his head, it was just a practical thing: to make sure the wiring wasnât a death trap, or the pipes wouldnât burst, or if the locks actually latched. But to her, to an omega alone in a strange town, with an alpha she'd known for all of two hoursâŠ
His gaze flashed to hers, then away again. He eased his posture back a fraction, opening his hands at his sides in what he hoped was a non-threatening gesture. âIâm not-â he started, then stopped, searching for words. âI donât mean anything by it. Just⊠making sure youâre set up since Iâm already here. Thatâs all.â
She finally turned to look at him. The strap of her bag was still trapped in her fist, but she read his awkwardness as honesty, and that gave her enough footing to nod. âIf you donât mind,â she said at last, voice calmer than she felt. âIâd appreciate it.â
----
Inside, the house smelled of fresh paint layered over mustiness and years of abandonment. She dropped the bag just inside the door and stepped aside, giving him room to enter.
Bucky moved, assessing outlets, baseboards, locks, and the slight dip in the kitchen floor, where water might have warped it.
She watched him, trying to look like she wasnât. Some part of her -the practical, city-bred part- was relieved. Someone competent was checking the things she hadnât thought of examining. Another part, -the more treacherous one- was warmed by seeing him doing it.
Some primitive part of her brain recognized the gesture for what it was: protection. Care. Strong hands turning their attention toward her space, her safety, her well-being.
She shook her head, as though she could scatter the thought. But her eyes went back to him. To his broad shoulders under that flannel, the dark hair brushing his jaw, the way his thick thighs flexed when he crouched to check the heater with his big palm splayed across the ventâŠ
When he straightened, brushing dust from his fingers, she forced her gaze up to his eyes. âEverything⊠okay?â she asked, hoping her voice didnât betray the direction her thoughts had taken.
He gave a small nod, eyes still looking around the room. âLooks solid. Needs some airing out, but nothing dangerous I can see.â
He moved toward the kitchen sink and twisted the handle. The pipes groaned before a thin stream of brown water spluttered out, then cleared to something closer to drinkable. He let it run a moment, watching the color change. âLet the water flow a couple of minutes every morning,â he said, almost absently, wiping his damp hand on his jeans. âOld pipes. Clears the sediment before you use it for drinking or cooking."
She nodded, maybe too quickly. There was something about the casual authority in his tone, the way he didnât even look at her while saying it, that felt oddly intimate. Like a glimpse into some alternate reality where someone simply took care of things without needing to be asked.
Next, he tested the window latches, checking that they actually secured. "Keep these locked at night," he said, demonstrating the mechanism with those long fingers. "Country air's nice during the day, but you've got wildlife out here. Better safe than sorry."
Her pulse stuttered at the word safe. She hated how her body responded to the subtle care threading through his warning, how watching his hands work the latch sent that familiar heat to pool low in her stomach. Provider, whispered that traitorous voice in her brain. Protector. Mine.
When he turned back to her, his expression was neutral, almost wary. âSorry,â he muttered. âForce of habit.â
She shook her head quickly. âNo, thank you. I- I wouldnât have thought of half of that.â
He gave a small shrug, averting his eyes, like he didnât quite know what to do with gratitude. âYeah. Well. Someone should.â
She lingered near the counter while he checked the last window, fidgeting before she finally found the nerve to talk as he started walking toward the living room. âIf itâs not too much trouble,â she began carefully, âsince youâre here⊠I was wondering if I could ask you a few things about the town. Things only someone who lives here would know.â
âSure,â he said after a pause. The word came out low, neutral, but his jaw worked slightly.
Inside, he felt the familiar tug-of-war. Half of him was already calculating the fastest route to his truck, back to the safety of isolation and routine. But the other half -the part that had been buried under years of self-imposed exile- was reluctant to walk away from the soft warmth of her scent in the air, from being looked at like he had something useful to offer instead of something to fear.
He rubbed a palm against the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at her. âAsk away,â he muttered, softer this time.
She caught the flash of something conflicted in his expression. Not impatience exactly, but wariness. Like he wanted to stay and run in equal measure. That in-between quality made her braver somehow, like he wasnât untouchable as he seemed after all.
âThank you,â she said, smiling a little, trying to keep her voice light even as her pulse sped. âItâs just⊠everyday things like where to get groceries, or if thereâs a good coffee place. Stuff the brochures donât tell you.â
Bucky exhaled slowly and shifted his weight. âThereâs a market on Cedar, usually cheaper than the one on Main. But-â He hesitated, darting his eyes to hers, then away. âI use Grangerâs on Main. Costs more, but they deliver once a week.â
Her brows lifted. âThey deliver all the way up here?â
âYeah.â He rubbed a thumb along the windowsill. âGood people. All betas, so you donât have to worry about⊠complications. Groceries, cleaning supplies, pharmacy stuff. If you're not feeling up to going into town, they'll bring it right to your door.â
That relieved her in a way she hadnât known she needed. The thought of navigating a small town's social dynamics as an unmated omega had been one of those background anxieties she'd been trying not to think about.
She nodded, saving the information for later. âThatâs⊠actually really good to know. Thank you.â
Bucky shrugged, still avoiding her eyes. âFresh produce's better if you go yourself, though. And don't wait till late Saturday, the shelves'll be picked clean by then.â
âNoted,â she murmured, smiling despite herself.
He stood in the middle of her living room, scanning the walls and the old radiator one last time as though making sure everything heâd just checked was still holding. She felt lured to the oak scent he exuded as he tilted his head while turning the handle, the faint smell of coffee swimming over the dust of the almost empty house.
She could tell he was already mentally half-turned toward the door. That needy part of her -sly, almost hungry- wanted him to stay longer. To keep speaking, to keep standing there looking too large for the space. But her rational side knew better. She still had a house to make livable and belongings to unpack. And, he clearly had his own life to return to.
She cleared her throat softly. âI should let you go. Youâve probably got things waiting, and Iâve taken up enough of your time already.â She offered a small smile. âThank you for doing this. Youâre a good neighbor.â
He blinked, caught off guard. Color rose at the tops of his cheekbones, something raw and unprepared crossing his features. Compliments didnât seem to land easily on him; his eyes dropped to the floorboards, and his shoulders gave a tight, involuntary twitch, as if heâd been touched somewhere tender.
âI-â He stopped, gave the smallest shrug. âYeah. Sure.â
She hesitated a beat, then remembered the container in her backpack. âOh! before you go.â She pulled it out and held it toward him. âTake them, please.â
Surprise flashed on his features again. âYou donât have to-â His hand hovered over the container like he was afraid it might burn him.
âItâs the least I can do,â she said, pushing it gently toward him. âAfter driving me here and checking everything out.â
For a heartbeat, he seemed caught between instinct and politeness, darting his eyes between her face and the tupperware. Then he took it, carefully and almost awkwardly, brushing her fingers for an instant before retreating. âThanks,â he muttered, low enough that it barely reached her.
She smiled and stepped back, giving him room to breathe, letting him have his exit even as something selfish and desperate inside her wanted to find another reason to keep him there.
He paused by the door, then leaned slightly forward, almost murmuring. âWeather report said itâll get windy tonight⊠when you go to bed, make sure the windows stay locked.â
She nodded, caught off guard by the sudden, practical concern. âGot it. Thanks.â Her chest clenched, and before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out. âYou really are a goodâŠalpha.â
His head snapped up, eyes going wide for a fraction of a second before he blinked, swallowed, and forced a careful composure back onto his face. But she caught the brief flush that crept up his neck, the way his jaw flexed as he processed what she'd just said.
She hesitated, feeling her cheeks warm. âI mean⊠a good neighbor. I know I already said it, but really.â
He managed a stiff nod. His posture relaxed fractionally, though the faint flush remaining on his skin betrayed that her words had affected him more than either of them would care to admit.
----
She sat back on the edge of the old couch as the door closed behind him, pressing her palms to her knees to calm herself. Good alpha. Sheâd actually gone and said it.
Heat crept up her throat at the thought. In the city, she could pass for beta. In the city, she controlled the script. Here, somehow, heâd scented her, and worse, sheâd shown her hand.
The room held traces of his scent now, oak and coffee and something warm that was faint but unmistakably him. It shouldn't have been comforting, but it was. She could still picture the way heâd held the tupper in his hand and the small, unchecked pulse of pleasure he had exuded when accepting it.
She covered her face with both hands, caught between mortification and something dangerously close to excitement. Sheâd just wanted to thank him for being a good neighbor, for looking out for her. What came out instead had been something she hadnât even let herself think yet.
And now she was alone in a half-empty house, with the wind starting to rise against the windows, and the echo of coffee, oak, and something dangerous swirling like a promise in the air.
----
Bucky climbed into the truck, putting the container in the passenger seat. The cab still held her scent, warm, sweet, nervous, now threaded with the little pulse of pride heâd felt when sheâd handed him the brownies. And under it all, still ringing in his ears, the words sheâd actually said, not the polite correction: good alpha.
He shut the door a little too hard, then sat there for a second, breathing like heâd just run uphill. Good alpha. No one had called him that in years.
He dragged a hand down his face, then pinched the bridge of his nose hard enough to hurt. He wasnât even sure why it affected him so hard, maybe because it had just slipped out of her lips, unfiltered and honest. That honesty did things to him he didn't want to examine too closely.
The brownies sat there like an accusation. He shouldnât have taken them. He shouldnât have gone inside. He shouldnât have liked the shine of trust in her eyes. And yet he did.
But the words good alpha didnât just sit there; they hit a switch, dragging him back to places he'd spent years trying to forget.
He still could feel the chemical burn of the injection rushing through his bloodstream, a fever that stripped him of judgment and left only the instinct. A field tent stinking of blood and sweat, shadows of bodies moving, his hands gripping rough canvas, the taste of metal in his mouth. Theyâd called it a reward, a boost, a push for their finest specimen. The pinnacle of what an alpha soldier could be.
He didnât remember everything that had happened afterward, not in order, not clearly. The memories came in fragments, violent and disjointed. But he had a pretty good idea what he'd done while riding that chemical high they'd pumped through his veins.
And sitting there now, he couldnât stop the bitter thought: Good alpha. For what? For who?
His fingers dug into the muscle of his opposite forearm in a hard squeeze. The truck cab came back into focus, the brownies on the seat, her fading scent in the air. He exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing his shoulders to relax before he put the truck in gear.
----
A week slid by, quiet and strangely calm. The midday sun shone on the gravel drive as the delivery truck rumbled up, coughing diesel into the air. She stepped out onto the porch just as two men in gray shirts started unloading the stack of boxes: the new bed frame and mattress sheâd ordered, plus four padded dining chairs she'd chosen specifically for their comfort during long grading sessions. She liked spreading out her laptop and papers across the dining table, no cramped desk setup, no gaming chair aesthetic.
Since the encounter with Bucky, no one else had clocked her as an omega -No casual sniffing, no lingering looks, no uncomfortable conversation- which she privately filed under her small victories list.
Then came the fine print.
The men, polite but unmovable, explained that their contract only covered delivery to the property line; the liability insurance forbade them from carrying anything inside. She looked at the heap growing on her front yard -the cardboard-wrapped mattress, the slats of the bed frame, the bundled chairs stacked like dominoes- then back at their bland, apologetic faces.
âYouâre kidding,â she said flatly.
âCompany policy, maâam,â one replied, already scanning his clipboard. They put down the last box, took her signature, and were gone in a puff of gravel dust, leaving her alone with the mess.
She muttered a string of curses that would've made her city friends proud, but refused to be defeated. The padded chairs were light enough; she could start with those, then figure out later how to wrestle a queen mattress through the doorway without help.
----
Bucky sat in a corner booth at the diner, with a plate of steak and eggs cooling in front of him. Heâd already delivered three loads of domestic firewood and couldnât put off the errand any longer: he still had her tupperware in the passenger seat of the truck. A hint of red tinted his cheeks as he remembered eating all of them in one sitting when he came home, like a starved thing coming out of winter.
He finished his food, left cash on the table, and went back into the truck. As he rolled onto her street, he slowed down, frowning.
The front yard was littered with furniture: a mattress still in its protective wrap, lying in the grass like a stranded raft, chair cartons split at the corners, wooden rails stacked in haphazard pyramids. From a distance, it looked like a campsite after a storm.
He narrowed his eyes and pulled over, letting the engine idle. He didnât want to barge in, didnât want to assume she was alone with all that weight on her. For a moment, he stayed behind the wheel, tapping the food container with his thumb, observing.
Then she appeared through the doorway, unwrapped the last padded chair with a cutter, giving the empty carton a small kick, and disappeared back inside.
Buckyâs jaw clenched. He couldnât believe that Bill and Eric dumped everything in the yard like that. It would have taken them two fucking minutes to carry the boxes to the living room.
Before his brain could line up the reasons to stay in the truck and drive away, his body had already made the decision. The door swung open, and his boots hit the pavement. He slammed it shut with more force than necessary and started walking toward the house, scowling at the mess and clutching the container.
She stepped back onto the porch just as he was glaring at the mattress.
When she spotted him -tupperware in hand, eyes narrowed at the chaos in her yard- she felt a small shock of surprise, quick and pleasant, like static under her skin.
The blockers might be dulling her scent, but they did nothing for the rest of her body's reaction: pulse spiking, pupils dilating, her tongue darting out to wet suddenly dry lips before she could stop herself. She lifted a hand in what she hoped was a casual wave. "Hi, James."
He blinked, as if he'd been so absorbed in his silent fury at the delivery situation that he'd forgotten she existed. Now his gaze focused on her face and stayed there a beat too long. He registered every micro-change in her: the slight tremor at her throat, the fast rhythm at her pulse point, the catch of her lower lip.
Something prickled under the skin of his jaw, the old alpha reflex he hadnât asked stirring inside him like muscle memory. He straightened, brushing his thumb against the plastic container, and cleared his throat before answering her greeting.
âHey.â
He passed the container from one hand to the other. âI uh- came to give this back.â His voice was a touch too flat, like heâd rehearsed it on the way over. âSorry it took a while. Havenât been down to town much.â
She reached for it with a small laugh, the kind of stupid sound she immediately regretted but couldnât stop. âNo problem. I didnât think you were going to keep it hostage or anything.â
He let one corner of his mouth twitch. "Getting settled?" He jerked his chin toward the mattress and scattered boxes.
âTrying to.â She blew out a breath, placing a strand of hair behind her ear. âSold my old stuff in the city. With what I saved, Iâm⊠slowly filling the place.â
Silence stretched between them until he cleared his throat again, the sound rougher this time.
"Let me guess." His voice dropped to something dangerously close to a growl. "Bill and Eric had somewhere else to be."
She sighed. âCompany policy.â
He raised an eyebrow. Sure. Company policy probably meant they were running late for their standing poker game at Murphy's. He didnât say it out loud. Instead, he glanced at the mattress, at her hands, then back at her.
âLet me help you with that,â he said. A beat later, softer, almost grudging but unable to help himself: âSince Iâm already here.â
She felt that familiar flutter in her chest at his offer, the one that made her want to say yes immediately, and also made her wary of how much she wanted to say yes.
"You don't have to-"
"I know," he cut her off, already moving toward the mattress. "But you're not getting that thing inside by yourself."
She opened her mouth to protest again, but stopped when she saw him crouch to test the weight. The flannel stretched across his shoulders, the muscles in his forearms moved as he gripped the wrap, and she had to look away before her stare became obvious.
"Okay," she said, trying to sound casual. "Thank you."
----
Working together turned out easier than she expected. He let her guide corners and hold doors while he handled the actual lifting; she steadied the mattress as he angled it through the doorway, pressed herself flat against the frame as he pivoted it up the narrow hall. When it was clear she couldnât help with the heavier parts, he wordlessly took over. In two trips, the mattress and the disassembled rails were stacked neatly in the bedroom.
Once everything was inside, he stretched his back with a soft grunt and wiped his palm down his jeans, glancing at the scattered pieces of the bedframe. âYou got a toolbox?â
She laughed under her breath, a little embarrassed. âAt the moment? A screwdriver and a hammer. I assumed that whoever delivered the bed would also assemble it.â
Bucky threw her a look, one brow raised.
âThatâs how it works in the city,â she tried to excuse herself, placing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
He huffed out something that might have been a laugh, the corner of his lips twitched despite himself. âDonât worry about it.â He turned on his heel and disappeared out the door.
A moment later, she heard the truck door slam and his boots on the porch again. He reappeared with a well-worn leather toolbox in one hand and set it down beside the stacked bed rails. Metal clinked softly as he flipped it open and began pulling out what he needed.
âThis is getting more embarrassing by the minute,â she muttered, wrapping her arms around herself. âIâm sorry for making you lose your afternoon like this.â
He didnât look up right away, measuring a bolt between his fingers before answering. âI can afford to choose how I spend my time.â His voice was even, but there was something deliberate under it. âThis is how I'm choosing to spend it.".
She stood there for a beat, watching him kneel to fit two rails together, at the easy way his hands moved over tools and bolts. Outwardly, she kept her arms crossed, trying to project a polite neutrality. Inwardly, though, there was a traitorous spark of satisfaction seeing him handling her things, the patience in his movements, the way he seemed to fill the bedroom without even trying.
She bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep the pleased smile off her face.
Heâd told himself it was just the decent thing to do; no one should be left hauling a queen mattress alone, and that was true. It was in his nature to step in, shoulder the weight, solve the problem. He didnât plan anything beyond that. No ulterior motives.
But as he crouched to accommodate the frame, he felt a traitorous little pull. He could feel her presence behind him, quiet, watchful. He could smell the faintest ghost of her scent under the blockers.
And it felt⊠wrong, and at the same time dangerously right, to be the one putting her bed together, to be the hands that had carried her mattress, that had been trusted inside her space, moving her most intimate belongings.
He shifted on his heels, forcing himself to concentrate on the bolt in his hand instead of the way his pulse had kicked up. He hadnât come here to feel anything. Yet, with each turn of the wrench, it felt like something deeper than assembly, a kind of claim his body understood, even if his mind didnât.
He exhaled slowly, flexing his shoulders. This wasnât about him. It couldnât be about him. But there was a low, insistent thrum in his blood at being the center of her attention, at being the one she'd trusted to build the place where she'd sleep tonight. He hated how much it satisfied something primal in him. Hated how it made him feel, for one reckless moment, less like a neighbor lending a hand and more like a wolf marking the boundaries of his territory.
She wiped her palms on her jeans and nodded toward the kitchen. âSince you've got this under control, the least I can do is make some coffee. If you want some.â
He didnât look up from the frame he was tightening, just made a low sound of agreement in his chest. âCoffee sounds good.â
âApple pie or almond biscuits?â she asked lightly from the doorway.
He paused mid-turn of the screwdriver. Apple pie or almond biscuits. For a moment, he just stared, his brain slow to catch up, like she'd suddenly started speaking in tongues.
âIâŠâ His mouth quirked, caught between confusion and something that might have been the beginning of a smile. âUh.â
She shifted her weight, suddenly self-conscious, wiping her hands on her thighs. âI bake when Iâm bored,â she said, like it needed explaining.
He dropped his eyes back to the frame. The scent of wood, her voice offering pie, everything felt absurdly normal. He couldnât remember the last time anyone had offered him something baked that wasnât out of a plastic wrapper.
He gave the screw another turn until the metal protested with a small screech. âI donât even know what to pick,â he admitted, more to the wood than to her. âYou choose. Surprise me.â
----
He caught the smell of coffee almost at the same time he set the mattress on the slats, the scent threading through the room like a hook. One last glance at the bed -trying and spectacularly failing not to picture her curled up there later- and he made himself step away, heading toward the kitchen.
He paused in the doorway, big shoulders nearly filling the frame. âAll done.â
"Perfect timing," she said, glancing over her shoulder from where she stood at the counter. "Don't just hover there like you're afraid to sit down. Come on."
He nodded and complied. She placed a mug of coffee in front of him, then turned back to retrieve a plate that made him blink in surprise: a generous wedge of apple pie, alongside three almond biscuits arranged like an offering.
He stared at it longer than was probably polite. He'd told her to surprise him, but he didnât picture that sheâd give him both pie and biscuits, like some afternoon feast.
She caught his pause and the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. âWhat? You told me to surprise you,â she said lightly, picking up a biscuit for herself with a small shrug. "I aim to please."
He let his eyes linger on the plate a moment, the aroma of warm apples and cinnamon mingling with the faint undertone of hers. For just a second, he allowed himself the almost illicit luxury of being cared for, even in something as simple as too much dessert and fresh coffee.
Next Chapter
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