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Snatching a shop rag to wipe my hands, I storm across the garage to my pack lead. Messy hair falls around his eyes and sunken cheeks. Dark shadows and tattoos standing out against too pale skin. His lean body lists like he hasn’t slept.

Connor looks like me years ago and I don’t appreciate the mirror moment.

The insane air filtration system we put in the shop is a godsend. Without it, I’d be choking on icicles with the stress wafting off him, instead of getting the faintest hint of frost.

“Which project?” I ask, knowing he’s in full creative block. There’s no other explanation.

“The Cheveau.”

Ahhhh. Moore Jr gives us creative control but refuses to back the fuck off and let us work. Plus, the theme’s still up in the air and we’ve only got two more projects to go.

“Let me see what you have.”

“It’s not right.”

“Got that already.” I wave at the destruction on the floor, an uncommon occurrence that my friend seems ashamed of, and hold my hand out for the sketchbook Connor’s guarding. “Let me look while you sort out the mess.”

He reluctantly hands it over and gets to work. Meanwhile, I’m in awe. The design is beautiful. Dark and moody with oil slick colors that fit our brand well. Yet, he’s right. Something’s off, even if I can’t put my finger on what it is.

“The vibe’s all wrong,” I finally say, hating that I can’t help. Connor groans, tossing his head onto the desk so fast I barely catch him in time. The last thing we need is our pack lead lobotomizing himself over AJ fucking Moore. “Have you shown Dez?”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with it either.” Our packmate stands in the doorway, coveralls rolled down to his hips. The paint studio’s hot, so he’s in a tank, splashes of electric blue stark against the deep brown skin of his muscled arms and chest. I’m huge, but Dez works out for fun. Pretty sure he can bench a car if he wants.

He glances at Connor reluctantly. “Deep water chopper’s done.”

Which means our schedule just got tighter.

Connor’s scent spikes. With a glare at the clock, he marches out of the shop. “Get changed. We’re going to Diamond’s and we’re not leaving until I figure this shit out.”

On the outskirts of Seaport, Diamond’s Fabric Emporium has it all. Lace from generational artisans, luxury fabrics that cost more than some cars and a warehouse you can get lost in. It’s the perfect reboot to Connor’s brain.

Already he’s calmed, quietly discussing new themes with Dez. Meanwhile, I’m crawling out of my skin.

There’s an itch beneath it, thisthingthat’s been there since my family died. Shouting that stopping is death.

It could be the shit from earlier,but this feels like more than my typical anxiety. Maybe it’s my fucked up instincts or maybe it’s something else clawing my chest apart, but I can’t just stand here. I need tomovebefore I lose my damn mind.

Fuck it. “I’m going for a walk.”

Connor doesn’t even look up from the fabric he’s considering. “Keep your phone on you.”

Sometimes, I think he forgets I’m nearly thirty and built like a brick shit house, but I placate him anyway, heading for the walkway and the rest of the store. “Yes, Dad.”

Observing is my strong suit, if only because I don’t know how to interact with the world anymore. My therapist says it’s expected when you lose nearly everyone you love in one awfulday. Things change,youchange, and the person you are now is your new normal.

But the person I am doesn’t have a clue what this thrum in my gut is, so I keep quiet and wander the aisles, searching for something I can’t explain. Enjoying the random snippets of life that circle but never touch.

Drag queens in full glam argue about the right type of buttons for a tearaway garment. Grandmas discuss tie options for their grandson’s wedding. A mother coos onesie options with her toothless toddler as they head out the door.

They look so happy together. What would it be like to have that bond with a child of my own? Not that I think that’ll happen. I’d have to find someone I’m interested in dating to have a kid, but the dream’s still there. Waiting in the wings for me to fulfill or let it go.

I’m deep in the maze of fabrics when something slides across my tongue, slipping down my throat. Sweet and decadent. Something instinct says ismine.Diamond’s has state-of-the-art scent filters running nonstop so people can shop without getting overstimulated by other scents, but sugar is so deep in my lungs I’m never getting it out.

What the fuck is happening?

Urgency pushing me on, I let my nose lead. Through the stacks of fabric and findings, past the sewing machines and embroidery thread, only to find my answer surrounded by silk and lace.

She’s wild strawberry blonde curls and matching furrowed brows. Her body stretches as she reaches for another bolt of fabric to add to the teetering stack in her arms. The move pulls the back of her tank top high, giving me an eyeful of itty-bitty freckles scattered along curves, and a view of her half-sleeve, a beautiful snake with flowers wound through the tail.