Chapter 35

My Cheating Mate

Jeremy pov

The bed was soft. Too soft. When had my bed gotten this soft?

I tried to remember the last time I'd actually slept in it. Days? A week? Everything was blurring together—intelligence briefings, tracking rogue movements, coordinating with allied packs.

Emma's words echoed in my mind: *You're killing yourself. Again.*

She was right. I knew she was right. But how was I supposed to rest when there were still rogues out there planning to hurt her?

I should get up. Should check the latest reports. Should—

My body had other ideas. The moment my head hit the pillow, exhaustion crashed over me like a wave. Not the kind you could fight through. The kind that pulled you under whether you wanted to go or not.

I was asleep before I could finish the thought.

---

Darkness. Deep, dreamless darkness. The kind of sleep that comes when your body finally overrides your mind's protests and just shuts down.

No dreams of Vanessa. No nightmares of rogues attacking Emma. No guilt-fueled scenarios playing on repeat.

Just... nothing.

Peace, maybe. Or just complete exhaustion finally winning.

---

Something was buzzing. Persistent, annoying. I tried to ignore it, burrowing deeper into the pillow.

The buzzing stopped. Then started again.

Go away, I thought. Let me sleep.

More buzzing. Then silence.

Then—was that my door opening?

Footsteps. Light, cautious. Someone was in my house.

I should wake up. Should check who it was. Could be a threat, could be—

"Jeremy?"

Emma's voice. Emma was here.

I tried to open my eyes, but they felt glued shut. Tried to speak, but my mouth wouldn't cooperate.

"Jeremy, wake up." Her voice was closer now, worried. "Come on, please wake up."

Her hand touched my shoulder, shaking gently. "Jeremy!"

I finally managed to crack my eyes open. Bright sunlight streaming through the window made me wince. How long had I been asleep?

Emma's face swam into focus above me—beautiful, worried, very much not supposed to be in my bedroom.

"Emma?" My voice came out rough, unused. "What—what time is it?"

"Two in the afternoon." She sat on the edge of the bed, her hand still on my shoulder. "You weren't answering your phone. Your father was worried. I was worried."

"Two in the afternoon?" I tried to sit up, my body protesting the movement. "What day?"

"Friday. You've been asleep for almost twenty hours."

Twenty hours. I'd slept for twenty hours straight.

"I missed—" Panic started to rise. "The briefing. The intelligence reports. I was supposed to—"

"Your father handled it," Emma interrupted. "Jeremy, you needed this. Your body literally shut down because you've been running on fumes for weeks."

I slumped back against the pillows, reality settling over me. Twenty hours. When was the last time I'd slept that long?

"I texted you," Emma continued. "Multiple times. When you didn't answer, I got scared. Thought maybe—" Her voice caught. "Thought maybe you'd gone back out hunting despite what you promised."

"No. I came home. Lay down for just a minute and—" I gestured vaguely at the evidence of how that had gone. "Apparently my body had other plans."

"Good plans," she said firmly. "You needed sleep, Jeremy. Real, actual sleep. Not whatever you've been doing—passing out from exhaustion for a few hours then dragging yourself back to work."

She was still here. In my bedroom. Sitting on my bed. Looking at me with concern instead of the disgust I'd seen so often lately.

"You came to check on me," I said, the realization warming something in my chest.

"Of course I did. I told you—I love you. Even when I'm angry at you, even when you're being an idiot about self-care, I still love you." She paused. "I was terrified something had happened. That you'd collapsed somewhere, or gotten hurt, or—"

"I'm okay," I said quickly. "Just apparently more exhausted than I realized."

"Twenty hours, Jeremy. Your body shut down for twenty hours. That's not 'a little tired.' That's complete system failure."

She wasn't wrong. Now that I was awake, I could feel how much my body had needed that sleep. How I'd been running on nothing but adrenaline and guilt for weeks.

"I'm sorry," I said. "For worrying you. For not answering my phone."

"Your phone's dead, by the way. Has been since sometime last night." She pulled it from her pocket and handed it to me. "I plugged it in, but you should probably check your messages. Your father called about six times."

I took the phone but didn't look at it. Just looked at her. "Thank you. For checking on me. For caring enough to worry."

"Of course I care." Her voice softened. "Jeremy, just because we're working through things doesn't mean I've stopped caring about your wellbeing."

"I know. I just—" I struggled to find the words. "Sometimes I forget that you might still want me alive."

"Jeremy." She took my hand, her expression serious. "Listen to me very carefully. I want you alive. Healthy. Actually healing. Do I wish you hadn't betrayed me? Obviously. Do I still hurt from what happened? Every day. But do I want you to destroy yourself over it? Never."

"Even after everything I did?"

"Even after everything." She squeezed my hand. "Because you're more than your worst mistakes. And I still believe you can be better than who you were."

The words broke something open in my chest. Permission I hadn't known I needed—to believe I was worth saving, worth healing, worth more than endless punishment.

"I don't deserve you," I whispered.

"Probably not," she agreed, but her tone was gentle. "But Jeremy, stop thinking about what you deserve and start thinking about what you need to do to heal. For yourself, not for me."

"What if I don't know how?"

"Then we figure it out. Together. In therapy. With your father's help. With the pack's support." She brushed hair off my forehead—an unconsciously intimate gesture that made my heart ache. "You don't have to do this alone."

"I've been alone for so long," I admitted. "Even before everything fell apart. I was alone in my lies, alone in my guilt, alone in thinking I could handle everything by myself."

"Well, you can't. Handle everything alone, I mean." She stood. "Now get up. Shower. You smell like someone who's been hunting rogues for three weeks straight."

Despite everything, I laughed. "Romantic."

"I'm not here to be romantic. I'm here to make sure you're alive and functioning." But there was warmth in her voice. "Come on. Up. I'll make you something to eat while you shower."

"Emma, you don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to. I want to." She moved toward the door, then paused. "And Jeremy? After you eat, we're going to talk. Really talk. About the rogue hunt, about your health, about how we move forward from here."

"Okay." I slowly pushed myself out of bed, my body protesting but functioning. "Thank you. For coming. For checking on me."

"That's what people who care about each other do," she said simply. "Now shower. You really do smell terrible."

After she left, I stood in my bedroom for a moment, processing. Emma had come to check on me. Had been worried enough to break into my house when I didn't answer. Had sat on my bed and held my hand and told me she still wanted me alive.

It wasn't forgiveness. Wasn't reconciliation. But it was something.

Something real and hopeful and terrifying in its kindness.

I showered quickly, washing away weeks of grime and exhaustion. Put on clean clothes that actually fit instead of hanging off my too-thin frame.

By the time I made it to the kitchen, Emma had made scrambled eggs, toast, bacon. A full meal that made my stomach growl despite my nerves.

"Sit," she commanded, setting a plate in front of me. "Eat. All of it. I'll know if you don't."

I obeyed, realizing as I took the first bite how hungry I actually was. When had I last eaten a real meal? Days ago, probably.

Emma sat across from me with her own coffee, watching to make sure I actually ate.

"Your father wants to see you later," she said after a few minutes. "About the rogue situation. But he agreed to wait until after we talk."

"What do we need to talk about?" I asked, though I had a pretty good idea.

"Your role in the hunt moving forward. Your health. Our therapy. How to balance protecting the pack with actually taking care of yourself." She paused. "And whether you're ready to actually do this—actually commit to healing instead of just surviving."

"I am ready," I said immediately. "Emma, yesterday—what you said about me drowning in action instead of inaction—you were right. I've been using the hunt as another form of self-punishment. Another way to avoid actually dealing with my guilt and trauma."

"And?"

"And I can't keep doing that. Can't keep destroying myself and calling it protection." I set down my fork. "So I'm going to talk to my father about delegating more of the intelligence work. About only taking point on missions I'm actually needed for. About letting the pack handle this as a pack instead of a one-man crusade."

"Good." She sipped her coffee. "What about therapy? Can you commit to showing up ready to actually engage?"

"Yes. I'll even do the homework Dr. Chen assigns instead of ignoring it."

"The journal exercises?"

"Those too." I paused. "I know I've been going through the motions. Showing up but not really being present. That changes now."

Emma studied me for a long moment. "What's different? Why now?"

"Because I slept for twenty hours and woke up to you sitting on my bed looking terrified that I might be dead," I said honestly. "Because you came to check on me even though you have every reason to let me self-destruct. Because you still care, and I've been too buried in guilt to see it."

"I do still care," she confirmed quietly. "But Jeremy, I meant what I said yesterday. I can't watch you destroy yourself. If you go back to the hunt and fall into those same patterns—"

"I won't," I interrupted. "I promise, Emma. I'm done killing myself slowly. Done using guilt as a reason to avoid actually living."

"Okay." She nodded. "Then we move forward. One day at a time. One therapy session at a time. With you actually present and doing the work."

"One day at a time," I agreed.

We sat in comfortable silence while I finished eating. It felt normal, almost. Like the early days of our mating before everything went wrong.

"Emma?" I said after a while. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Why did you come? Really? You could have just called my father, let him check on me. But you came yourself."

She was quiet for a moment, her hands wrapped around her coffee mug. "Because despite everything—the betrayal, the hurt, the months of therapy—I still love you. And when someone you love doesn't answer their phone for twelve hours after promising to rest, you go make sure they're not dead in a ditch somewhere."

"Even though I don't deserve it?"

"Stop measuring everything by what you deserve." Her voice was gentle but firm. "Start measuring it by what you need to heal. And Jeremy, you need people who care about you to actually check in. To make sure you're okay. To remind you that you're worth taking care of."

"Thank you," I said, my voice rough with emotion. "For reminding me. For caring enough to break into my house."

"I didn't break in. I have a key." She pulled a familiar keychain from her pocket. "Never gave it back after I left. Kept meaning to, but—"

"But?"

"But some part of me wasn't ready to let go completely." She set the key on the table. "I should probably return it now. Since I'm not living here anymore."

I looked at the key—small, ordinary, but it felt like so much more. A symbol of what we'd had, what we'd lost, what we might be building again.

"Keep it," I heard myself say. "Please. Not because I expect you to move back in or anything like that. But because—" I paused, trying to find the right words. "Because I want you to know you're always welcome here. That this was your home first, before I ruined it."

Emma's eyes glistened with tears. "Jeremy—"

"I mean it. Keep the key. Use it whenever you need to. Even if it's just to check that I'm not being an idiot about self-care."

She laughed wetly, picking up the key and putting it back in her pocket. "Okay. I'll keep it. But only because someone needs to make sure you're eating and sleeping like a normal person."

"Deal."

We smiled at each other across the table, and for the first time in months, it felt like maybe—just maybe—we were going to be okay.

Not perfect. Not fixed. But okay.

And right now, okay was more than enough.