Page 10 of Ethan (Pecan Pines #7)

Ethan

I liked routines. I liked knowing what to expect, having certain habits in place and seeing them fulfilled. It grounded me, gave me something to measure the day against.

When something disrupted that rhythm, it was usually nothing more than a mild inconvenience, an itch I could scratch by figuring out how to work my way around it and settle things back into order.

Sometimes I even liked the challenge. But this?

It’s been two days now. No, three. Three mornings without seeing that infuriating face at eight sharp.

For almost a week, Dean had shown up like clockwork: a smile tugging at his lips, a scrape or bruise he wanted checked, and a cup of coffee in hand.

I tried not to notice anything else, but it was hard to ignore the sharp jaw, the warm eyes that gave away more than they should. Annoyingly handsome. Distractingly so.

Sure, the coffee was always sweeter than I liked, but I’d gotten used to it. Somewhere along the way, I’d even started to look forward to it. To him.

The morning didn’t feel right anymore if I didn’t have that small exchange first—the teasing, the banter, that stupidly sweet coffee warming my hands before I buried myself in the endless pile of paperwork.

But now, now I’d walk into the clinic to find a cup from Vanilla Bean waiting on my desk. Three days in a row.

Micah would leave it there before darting out again, counting a suspicious stack of bills in his hand. I didn’t ask.

I didn’t want to know how or where he got the money, though I had a nagging suspicion who was behind it.

I tapped my pen against the desk, staring at the same journal article on advanced healing techniques I’d opened this morning. Hours later, and I hadn’t absorbed a single word.

Yeah, this particular change in my morning routine, I did not like. Not one bit.

I bit my lip, leaning back in my chair. Enough.

Pulling up the pack’s shared calendar, I scrolled until I found the enforcers’ schedule. All the names, assignments, and patrol rotations were there.

But nothing for the trainees. No listed schedule for them, apparently.

Fine. Then maybe Griffin. If I knew where Griffin was assigned, I’d know where Dean would be.

But Griffin’s name showed as “off-duty,” which was a lie, because I’d seen him driving into the pack house parking lot this morning.

I muttered a curse at whoever was responsible for updating the calendar in Cooper’s office. It was about as useful as a blank page.

With a sigh, I closed the tab and pulled up the login screen for Devon’s account. Head healer meant more access to the system. I didn’t know his password but after a few tries, I finally got in.

There it was. Griffin and Dean were listed as returning from patrol by lunch, then heading straight into hand-to-hand combat training at the gym that afternoon.

I checked my own schedule and couldn’t help the small flicker of satisfaction. It lined up perfectly. I was free to make my healer rounds at the training grounds and gyms during that window.

Convenient. Perfectly professional. It wasn’t like I was purposefully carving out time to corner Dean and give him a piece of my mind.

…Though maybe I should.

Not about the fact that my mornings had turned into a mess without him, or that I couldn’t focus even with my favourite coffee from Vanilla Bean.

It tasted fine. Great, even. But lately, it seemed different. Almost too sharp, too bitter. Strange, because now I found myself missing the cafeteria mocha Dean used to bring.

Had my taste buds actually changed? Or had I just gotten used to him?

I shook my head. No. Absolutely not. I wasn’t about to tell Dean any of that.

Besides, the last time I saw him, he’d been injured. He needed a checkup, whether he admitted it or not. That was reason enough to “happen” to be there.

Feeling oddly vindicated, I set the reminder on my schedule for later and pulled the journal article back up on my computer.

I told myself I’d finally finish reading it before my first patient arrived, but once again, my eyes skimmed the same paragraph without absorbing a single word.

My mind kept drifting back to the afternoon, counting down until I could make rounds. Slowly, the hours crawled by.

Finally, it was time. I made my way out of the clinic, choosing to start at the indoor gym first. The training square outside or the obstacle course by the woods could wait.

The gym was where Dean would be.

Sure enough, I found Dean and Griffin in their usual corner sparring on the mats. Dean looked different. His stance was sharper, his movements more controlled.

The wild recklessness I remembered had been carved into something more deliberate. His strikes landed with precision, and there was a determined glint in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

Griffin even smiled when Dean delivered a particularly solid kick, though the expression vanished quickly as he barked a correction. “Straighten your shoulders more.”

I braced myself for Dean’s usual comeback, some smart remark or stubborn pushback. But instead, Dean only nodded, adjusted his shoulders, and tried the kick again.

This time, Griffin let out a sharp “oof,” the sound echoing across the gym as he staggered back a step, rubbing his forearm where he’d blocked the hit.

I had to bite back a laugh.

Griffin muttered something about taking a break, but I caught the way his hand flexed like it actually stung.

Dean finally noticed me. His voice sounded calm, but his eyes couldn’t hide his excitement. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

I frowned. For some reason, it annoyed me more than it should—his eyes clearly said one thing, his voice another. Why bother hiding it?

Before I could stop myself, the words slipped out. “Surprised I didn’t see you at the clinic the past few days. No paper cuts, scraped knuckles… not even a stubbed toe?”

Dean’s reply came quick. “Why? Did you miss me?”

I blinked, thrown again. “I’m the healer.

The only one in the pack right now. It’s my job to keep track of injuries, especially for the enforcers and trainees.

And since you haven’t come in for a follow-up, I can’t exactly check how your ribs and leg are healing, can I?

I can’t be running all over the place looking for you. ”

His mouth curved, just slightly. “So… you did miss me stopping by the clinic?”

I scowled. “No.”

“You’ve mentioned me not stopping by the clinic twice since you got here.”

Damn it. He wasn’t wrong.

Before I could fire back, Dean closed the distance between us in a few easy steps. My breath caught as he tugged his shirt up, baring a stretch of golden skin and the sharp ridge of his abdomen.

A fresh bandage was wrapped around his ribcage.

He stood close enough now that I could see the sheen of sweat clinging to his collarbone, smell the tang of exertion mixed with something sharper, like cedarwood and smoke.

My wolf stirred, ears pricking, curious. Interested.

I wanted to retort, to shove the words back at him, but instead I found myself leaning in, focusing on the bandage. “May I?” I asked.

He nodded.

Carefully, I peeled back the bandage. The wound looked much better. The angry red had faded, though the skin around it still stretched tight and fragile, like it could split open again with one hard hit.

A knot of frustration twisted in my chest. I hated seeing the limits of my healing, that I hadn’t been able to close it completely when he first came in. I should have done better.

But he was obviously taking care of it. The bandages were clean, changed regularly, the edges of the wound knit tighter than I’d expected.

My fingers brushed along his ribs as I checked the area. The skin was hot under my touch, the hard planes of muscle shifting with each shallow breath.

A drop of sweat slid down, tracing the cut of his abs before disappearing into his navel.

I tried to focus on the scabs forming along the smaller scratches, coaxing a little extra healing into them with each pass of my fingertips.

Still, my attention betrayed me, lingering on the goosebumps that rose wherever my fingers passed.

“Enjoying yourself?” I nearly jolted at Griffin’s voice.

He’d wandered back from the water cooler, smirking like he’d caught me red-handed.

“What are you even doing here, Ethan? Who’s manning the clinic? If Devon were still around, he’d bury you in paperwork for abandoning your post. You’re the only healer here now, and you’re lurking in the gym?”

I knew he was teasing me. Griffin never missed a chance, but the words landed heavier than usual. A nagging feeling of not doing enough pressed tight against my chest.

I huffed. “Like I said, part of my job is making rounds, checking for injuries before they get worse.” I pointed at his forearm, where the beginnings of a bruise were starting to form. “Case in point.”

“It’s fine,” Griffin said immediately, dismissive. “Dean’s kick wasn’t that hard.”

“Griffin.” My tone sharpened. “Let me do my job, or I’ll tell Michael you’re skipping healer checks again.”

His smile faltered. With a sigh, Griffin held his arm out. “You’re such a pain,” he muttered.

“Mm-hm.” I pressed my palm lightly on his arm, coaxing away the heat before it could set deeper.

“Thanks,” he grumbled, then turned back to Dean. “Break’s over. Back on your feet.”

I moved along the gym, tending to a few minor cuts and bruises from other enforcers. But even as I worked, I couldn’t keep my eyes from drifting back to Dean.

The first time it happened, he caught me watching just as he went in for a sweep. His focus wavered, and Griffin took him down in one clean motion.

“Eyes forward,” Griffin barked.

The second time, I looked over while wrapping a bandage around another enforcer’s hand. Dean was resetting his stance, but the moment our eyes met, he stumbled mid-step.

Griffin groaned like he was running out of patience.

By the third, I didn’t even mean to look. Dean’s gaze dragged mine across the room, and the second I gave in, he misjudged a block and nearly tripped over his own feet.