Chapter 53 Patrick
Patrick
I watch Lottie walk stiffly out of my class, her posture tense, her movements controlled—deliberate.
She doesn’t even spare me a glance.
I try not to let that hurt.
After all… It’s what I asked for.
What I insisted on.
Pretend nothing ever happened.
Act like none of it was real.
But the way she avoids me—like even looking at me would cost her something—lands heavier than I expect. It settles somewhere deep inside my chest, sharp and unwelcome.
Because the truth is… that’s not what I want. Not really.
What I want is the exact opposite.
I want her to cross the room without hesitation, to close the distance I forced between us as if it never existed. I want her to pull me into her arms, hold me tight enough that I can’t pretend this connection isn’t real.
I want the certainty she carries—the way she looks at me like there’s no question, no doubt.
Like I’m already hers. Her omega.
I want to feel that again.
Her warmth. Her presence.
The quiet intensity in the way she touches me, like she understands something about me that I’ve spent years ignoring.
I want her to tell me there’s a way through this. That we can figure it out. That this doesn’t have to end before it even begins.
But I’m the adult.
I’m the one who’s supposed to know better.
She’s following my lead—even now.
And the worst part is…
I don’t even know where I’m leading us.
I force myself to move, gathering my things slowly, methodically. Papers get stacked, aligned, and slid into my bag with more care than necessary.
As if focusing on something this simple will quiet everything else.
It doesn’t.
If anything, the silence makes it louder.
I still can’t believe I said those words to her.
That I told her to forget.
When I’m the one who can’t.
I don’t want to.
I want her. As my alpha.
Plain and simple.
I want her presence in my life, in my space. I want the push and pull between us, the way she challenges me just by existing.
I want to belong to her in a way that feels terrifyingly natural.
The thought makes my chest tighten.
I shake my head quickly, as if I can physically dislodge it.
It doesn’t work.
She’s still there. She’s everywhere.
By the time I finish packing up, the classroom is empty. The quiet feels too loud, too suffocating, so I sling my bag over my shoulder and head out.
My steps are slow, unhurried, like I’m delaying something I can’t quite name.
Down the hall. Out of the building.
The moment I step outside, the cold hits me hard—sharp enough to steal the breath out of my lungs. I pause, gasping slightly as I pull in a deep breath, the frigid air burning on the way down.
I shiver, but not entirely from the cold.
There’s a different kind of chill settling under my skin.
An absence.
A lack of something I shouldn’t miss this quickly.
But I do.
Because no matter how much I try to push it away…
My body remembers.
The heat. The closeness.
The way she held me like she wasn’t afraid of any of this—like she wanted it.
My grip tightens on my bag as I force myself toward my car, each step mechanical.
I exhale slowly, trying to steady myself.
Trying not to think.
But it’s useless.
She’s still the only thing on my mind.
I make my way home with the same thoughts circling endlessly in my mind, thick and inescapable.
Because, as has become routine since meeting Lottie…
She’s all I can think about.
There hasn’t been a single day since that fateful afternoon in November when she hasn’t existed somewhere in my thoughts—lingering at the edges or sitting front and center, impossible to ignore.
At this point, I’m used to it.
Used to waking up with her already there, like she slipped into my dreams and never fully left.
Used to her being the last thing I think about before sleep finally takes me.
She’s… ingrained.
Not just a passing thought or fleeting distraction, but something deeper. Something rooted.
A part of me.
And no matter how much I try to deny it, to push it away, to pretend it isn’t as significant as it feels…
It doesn’t change anything.
She’s not going anywhere.
Not from my mind. Not from whatever this is between us.
By the time I pull up to my house, I don’t even remember the drive.
It’s all a blur of red lights and turns taken on instinct.
I get out of the car and make my way inside, unlocking the door and stepping into a space that immediately feels… different.
Heavier.
Like it’s holding onto something.
The moment the door shuts behind me, the memories hit.
Not gently. Not gradually. All at once.
They crash over me in vivid flashes—the sound of her voice, the way she looked at me, the feeling of her body against mine in this very space.
Right here. In this house. In this room.
I shiver, a sharp breath catching in my throat as it all rushes back with overwhelming clarity. It’s like my mind refuses to let any of it fade, clinging to every detail as if it’s afraid I might try to forget.
As if forgetting is even an option.
Because it’s not.
Not when being with her felt like— Home.
The thought hits harder than I expect, knocking the breath from my lungs.
I drop my bag beside the sofa without really thinking about it and let myself fall forward onto the cushions, face down, as if the weight of everything has finally caught up to me.
The fabric muffles my voice as I speak, the words coming out low and rough.
“I don’t really know what I’m doing.”
The admission hangs there, swallowed by the quiet.
I let out a slow breath, turning my head slightly, pressing my cheek into the cushion.
“I bet you didn’t take this into consideration,” I add, a little more force in my tone now. “When you came up with fated mates.”
It’s ridiculous.
Talking to something that doesn’t exist in any real, tangible way.
But right now, it feels like the only place to direct the frustration building inside me.
Because who else is there to blame?
Fate doesn’t answer. Of course it doesn’t.
It never does. It just… decides.
Something as massive as who we’re meant to be with for the rest of our lives—and then leaves us to figure out the fallout on our own.
No instructions. No guidance.
No consideration for timing or circumstance, or the fact that sometimes…
Being “meant to be” isn’t convenient.
I huff out a quiet, humorless breath.
It would’ve been nice, though.
A guidebook. A set of rules. Something that explains how you’re supposed to navigate this kind of connection when you’re in a position where you can’t accept it.
Or shouldn’t.
I push myself onto my back, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer something—an answer, a sign, anything.
It doesn’t.
It’s just a ceiling. Still. Silent. Unhelpful.
And I’m left exactly where I started.
Alone with my thoughts.
Alone with the weight of something I don’t fully understand and can’t seem to escape.
I swallow, my chest tightening as the truth settles in again.
I still don’t know what to do.
And for the first time in a long time…
That uncertainty actually scares me.