Page 21 of Found by the Pack

Boone

My alarm hasn’t even buzzed when my eyes crack open. Habit. Muscle memory. Or maybe just my bladder yelling at me.

I groan, swing my legs off the bed, and pad barefoot to the bathroom. Cold tiles. Early light. Silence.

Coffee first.

I brew a strong cup, splash in oat milk, and take the first scalding sip while stretching one arm over my head, then the other. My body’s still sore from drills yesterday, but nothing a good run won’t fix.

After dressing—track pants, old department hoodie, sneakers with one frayed lace—I head out the door and jog downstairs to Gabe’s unit.

The man sleeps like a goddamn corpse.

I knock.

Nothing.

I knock again.

Still nothing.

“Rise and shine, asshole,” I call through the door. “Five miles. Let’s go.”

From inside: “Fuck off.”

I grin. “Love you too, sunshine.”

I leave him to whatever grumpy fire captain dreams he’s having and head out. Naturally, Shepard’s already outside, unlocking the lobby doors.

“Morning,” he says.

“Coffee’s kicking in,” I reply.

“I was gonna make bacon. I’ll leave it in the microwave if you want some later.”

“You’re a saint, man.”

We walk a bit, shoes crunching on damp pavement. Air’s still cool, sky just starting to brighten.

“That steak last night,” I say. “Grill might’ve been a solid choice after all.”

“Don’t let Gabe hear you or he’ll be encouraged to get even more stuff he definitely doesn’t need.”

I laugh, sip again, then clear my throat. “Hey. Yesterday, when I brought up Camilla. I wasn’t trying to be a dick.”

Shepard slows a step. “I know.”

“I mean it. You know how I am.”

“I know,” he repeats. “It’s okay.”

And it is. He claps me on the shoulder and keeps walking.

I start running.

Headphones in. Legs finding rhythm. It’s still quiet out. Just me and the beat and the sound of my breath.

I flirt with a few regulars—Darla on Sycamore, always walking her Yorkie, that older guy with the retro headband who tries to keep up and never can.