Page 92 of Pack Plus One

She catches my expression and stiffens. “What?”

“Nothing,” I lie, turning back to the counter to hide whatever my face might be revealing. “It suits you.”

She makes a noise that might be a laugh or a scoff. “It smells like you.”

I don’t answer, not trusting my voice. Instead, I move to the stove, pulling out a pan and the ingredients for pancakes. Blueberry, because I remember that’s what she went to buy at that cafe when she was weak from pre-heat.

The silence stretches as I measure flour, baking powder, sugar. I can feel her watching me, her gaze a physical weight between my shoulder blades as I crack eggs and pour milk. I’ve made this recipe hundreds of times, could do it blindfolded, yet somehow her presence makes me acutely aware of every movement.

“You’re overmixing it,” she says suddenly.

I pause, whisk suspended over the bowl. “What?”

“The batter.” She slides off the stool and approaches, peering into the bowl. “You’re overworking the gluten. It’ll make them tough.”

I blink, momentarily thrown by the professional critique. Of course—she’s a baker. This is her domain, not mine.

“Old habits,” I admit. “I tend to be... methodical.”

“I’ve noticed,” she says dryly, and there’s a hint of color in her cheeks that suggests she’s remembering exactly how methodical I can be.

She clears her throat, then gestures to the bowl. “Here. Let me show you.”

Before I can react, her hand covers mine on the whisk, guiding it in a gentler motion. Her fingers are warm against my skin, her body close enough that I can feel the heat radiating through the sweater. My sweater. On her.

“Like this,” she murmurs, demonstrating the proper technique. “Just until the dry ingredients are incorporated. A few lumps are fine—they’ll cook out.”

I swallow hard, hyperaware of the point where our skin touches. “Noted.”

She doesn’t pull away immediately. Just stands there, our hands still tangled together, her gaze fixed on the batter as if it holds the secrets of the universe. I can hear her heartbeat, slightly elevated, smell the subtle shift in her scent from sleepy contentment to something warmer, spicier.

“You fit here,” I say, the words escaping before I can stop them.

She freezes.

“In this kitchen,” I continue, my voice low. “With us.”

For a long moment, she doesn’t move. Then, carefully, she extracts her hand, taking a small step back. Not fleeing, but creating distance.

“That’s what scares me,” she whispers.

The admission hangs between us, raw and honest in a way that makes my chest ache. I want to reassure her, to tell her that what happened wasn’t just heat-induced madness, that what’sgrowing between us is real and rare and worth exploring. I want to promise her that we’d never cage her, never try to change the fierce independence that drew us to her in the first place.

But before I can find the right words, the moment shatters with the unmistakable sound of Jude stumbling into the kitchen, his bare feet slapping against the tile.

“Where is she? Is she—” He skids to a halt when he sees Leah at the counter, his hair standing in twelve different directions, wearing nothing but hastily pulled-on sweatpants. “You’re up? And... vertical?”

I suppress a sigh. “As you can see.”

Jude’s eyes scan Leah from head to toe, concern giving way to confusion, then approval as he takes in her sweater-clad form. “Aren’t you supposed to be, I don’t know, incapacitated? Most omegas can’t even walk after—” He catches my warning glare and clears his throat. “I mean, post-heat recovery usually requires at least twenty-four hours of horizontal time.”

Leah’s eyebrows rise. “I bake for a living, Jude. I’m used to being on my feet.”

“Not after taking three kn?—”

“Coffee?” I interrupt loudly, turning to the machine. “It’ll be ready in approximately three minutes, assuming you can survive that long without saying something that gets you murdered.”

“Doubtful,” Jude sighs dramatically, flopping into a chair at the kitchen table. “I’m operating on about twelve brain cells at the moment, and all of them are dedicated to replaying last night’s greatest hits.” He waggles his eyebrows at Leah. “Speaking of which, doll, that thing you did with your?—”