Page 72 of Found by the Pack

“Yeah, bud,” I mutter, running the towel through my hair. “Something’s definitely off.”

I toss the towel into the hamper, pull on an old T-shirt and sweats, and collapse onto the couch. The library work, the dog walk, the… other thing should’ve drained me enough for a nap.

But I just stare at the ceiling, replaying the curve of her smile when she hugged me, the spark in her eyes when she flipped through those books.

I am in trouble.

Big, stupid trouble.

And the worst part? I’m not sure I want out of it.

CHAPTER 18

Gabe

Iknew the bonfire was a dumb idea the moment I heard about it.

Cliffs, alcohol, an open flame—hell, even without the cliffs it was a bad combination. But try telling that to a bunch of locals who think it’s “tradition” just because it happened once last summer.

And sure enough, at three in the goddamn morning, my team is out there stomping out small grass fires and making sure the embers don’t catch on the wind and run straight into the tree line.

By the time we’ve got it contained, I’m running on fumes and a headache that feels like it’s drilling through the side of my skull. I give instructions to my crew—rest, be back for the noon equipment check, let dispatch know you’re clear—and finally head for home.

It’s that blissful moment where I’m imagining a shower, a greasy breakfast, and maybe two hours of sleep before I have to act like a functional human being again when I pull into my driveway and see Boone leaning against my front steps like a stray dog waiting to be let in.

His hair’s sticking up in every direction, eyes too bright for this hour, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket like he’s trying not to fidget.

“Whatever you want to talk about,” I call out as I get out of the truck, “you’d better do it after I’ve had breakfast.”

Boone pushes off the railing. “Shepard’s already got coffee.”

I blink at him. “And you’re telling me this why?”

“Because you’re coming with me,” he says, like it’s decided, and before I can tell him to shove it, he’s steering me toward Shepard’s place across the way.

Shepard answers his door looking like a man who’s already been up for hours—mug in hand, that calm, librarian composure that makes it seem like he’s immune to hangovers, bad mornings, and human chaos in general.

“You dragged him here?” Shepard asks Boone, stepping aside to let me in.

“Yes,” Boone says.

“No,” I say at the same time, because I still have no clue what this is about.

Inside smells like coffee and those cinnamon oat muffins Shepard buys from Marjorie’s bakery. Gus is curled on the couch like a loaf of bread, one eye half-open as we pass. Boone heads straight for the chair by the window, leaving me the couch across from Shepard’s spot.

“So what’s going on?” Shepard asks, settling in and taking a slow sip of his coffee. “And Boone, did you try drugs at the bonfire? Because you’re a paramedic, and if you’re experimenting now, that’s?—”

“I didn’t do drugs,” Boone cuts in, glaring at him. “Jesus.”

“Then what’s with the hair?” I mutter. “You look like you lost a fight with a ceiling fan.”

He ignores me. “I kissed Sadie.”

That wakes me up faster than any caffeine could. I look at him, then at Shepard, then back at him. “You—what?”

“Kissed her,” Boone repeats, like maybe we didn’t hear it the first time. “Last night. After the bonfire.”

I lean back against the couch, rubbing a hand over my face. A part of me—okay, more than a part—is surprised. And not just because Boone’s always been the cautious one about crossing lines with Omegas, especially ones who’ve been through hell.