Page 122 of Found by the Pack

The door creaks open and Millie peeks her head in, a paper cup balanced in her hands. Her smile is small but bright, the kind that feels like it belongs in the sunshine, not the dusty corners of a library office.

“I brought you coffee,” she says.

I glance at the cup, then at her. She’s got her hair pulled back in a ponytail, cheeks flushed from the cold outside, eyes earnest in a way that makes me feel too damn old.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.” She crosses the room and sets the cup down on my desk, then lingers, fingers brushing the rim. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say automatically, too quickly. “Just distracted.”

Her eyes soften. “You can talk to me, you know. If you want.”

I force a smile, the kind meant to deflect. “Thank you, Millie. Really. But I’m fine. Just need a little time alone.”

Something flickers in her expression—disappointment she tries to hide. She nods and straightens. “Okay. I’ll let you work.”

“Thank you for the coffee,” I add as she leaves, because it’s the least I can give her.

The door clicks shut behind her, and the silence swells again.

The truth is, I’m not fine. Haven’t been for three days. Not since… everything.

I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. I can still hear her moans. Still feel her lips under mine. The smell of her skin clings to me even when I scrub myself raw in the shower.

I wake up hard and aching every morning, like my body hasn’t caught up to my mind’s refusal.

And Boone?—

The text from him still sits unread on my phone, mocking me. Drinks. To talk. I have no idea what he’d even want to say to me now, after the way things unraveled. After the fight with Gabe, after what happened in that bedroom.

The tension between us has been a taut wire for days, and now it’s frayed to breaking.

I haven’t made a move to speak to Gabe, either. Cowardice, maybe. Or just the knowledge that whatever words we try will sound hollow.

Everything is complicated now. Too complicated.

The door opens again, slow, hinges squeaking.

“Shepard?”

“Marjorie,” I say, shooting to my feet as I spot the stack of files in her arms. “What are you doing? Let me.”

I rush to her, pulling the files from her grip before she can protest. She huffs, amused but stubborn, her silver hair a halo under the fluorescent light.

“I just wanted these reviewed,” she says.

“I told you, you don’t carry loads like this. I’m here to help. That’s my job.”

“You’re not here to be the muscle boy. You’re job is to figure out how to primp this space—something you have yet to do, bythe way,” she corrects with a sly look. “What’s really going on, hmm? You look distracted.”

“I’ve just been busy.” I set the files on the desk, straightening them compulsively.

She hums. “Busy, yes. But not just that.”

I shake my head, forcing a chuckle. “I’m thinking about ways to fix this place up. New shelving, maybe fresh paint.”

She doesn’t look convinced.