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"Perfect reading posture." He demonstrates by leaning back with his hands behind his head, looking entirely too appealing for someone conducting a furniture evaluation. "Good lumbar support, arms at the right height for holding a book, footrest option for maximum relaxation."

"You've given this a lot of thought."

"I believe in doing things right." He stands up and gestures for me to try it. "Go ahead. See if it fits."

I settle into the chair and immediately understand what he means. The proportions are perfect, the cushioning firm but yielding, clearly designed by someone who actually reads.

"Oh," I breathe, sinking deeper into well-designed comfort. "This is perfect."

"Told you." Dean's smile is warm with satisfaction, like my comfort is a personal victory. "You look like you belong there."

The observation hits deeper than it should, carrying implications about belonging that extend beyond furniture placement.

We arrange delivery for Tuesday afternoon, and I pay for the purchases, surprised by the little thrill of independence that comes from making these choices myself. But as we're heading toward the exit, I catch sight of the mattress section.

"Actually," I say, trying to keep my voice casual, "I should probably look at mattresses too. For the guest room."

Dean follows my gaze toward the display area. "Good thinking. Can't have visitors sleeping on the floor."

The sales associate perks up at the mention of another potential sale. "Any particular size or firmness preference?"

"Something comfortable," I say vaguely, walking toward a display that catches my eye. The sign reads "Comfort Dreams Nesting Collection - Designed for Ultimate Relaxation and Support."

Buying a "guest mattress" from the nesting collection. Sure, Lila. Keep telling yourself that .

"This one looks nice," I say, sitting down on the edge and testing the give. It's perfect—soft enough to burrow into, firm enough to provide real support, with a surface that would hold scent beautifully.

Dean sits down beside me, testing the mattress with his usual thoroughness. "Yeah, this is really comfortable. Great choice for guests."

His easy acceptance, the way he treats it as a perfectly normal purchase without any knowing looks, makes something warm settle in my chest.

We add the mattress to my purchases and Dean insists on loading everything into his truck, handling the furniture with careful attention.

"Success," he declares, wiping his hands on his jeans. "One furniture expedition complete."

"Thank you," I say, meaning it more than the simple words can convey. "For all of this. The drive, the testing, the heavy lifting..."

"Hey." Dean's expression turns serious. "This was fun. I like helping people find things they need."

The drive back is quieter, both of us settled into comfortable tiredness. Dean keeps up gentle conversation, but there's an easiness to the silence that speaks to growing familiarity.

We pull into my driveway as the afternoon heat reaches its peak. Dean parks and immediately starts unloading, his movements efficient despite the oppressive temperature. I can see sweat already forming on his forehead.

"It's hot," he says, reaching for the hem of his t-shirt. He glances at me with something that might be mischief in his eyes. "Hope you don't mind if I..."

He pulls the shirt over his head in one fluid motion, and my world narrows to the sight of golden skin and flexing muscle.

Dean shirtless during his morning run was one thing—distant enough to maintain plausible deniability. But Dean shirtless three feet away from me, close enough to see the fine sheen of sweat on his chest, close enough to watch his muscles move as he reaches for boxes...

That's something else entirely.

My mouth goes dry. The broad expanse of his chest, the definition in his shoulders that speaks to functional strength rather than gym vanity, the trail of hair that disappears beneath his jeans. My brain temporarily forgets how to process anything except the visual feast in front of me.

And then his scent hits me properly.

Without the barrier of cotton, Dean's natural alpha scent fills the space between us like a physical presence. Toasted marshmallow and amber, but now with undertones I couldn't detect before, something warm and clean and indefinably male that bypasses rational thought.

My body responds before my mind can stop it.

Fire spreads through my veins, starting low and radiating outward with embarrassing speed. My scent immediately begins to shift, green apple and white musk taking on telltale sweetness. And beneath that, something I haven't felt in years... the subtle, unmistakable beginning of slick.

My thighs clench involuntarily.

Oh no.

"You okay?" Dean asks, pausing with the lamp box in his hands. "You look flushed."

I am flushed. I'm also aroused and slicking and entirely too aware of every detail of his half-naked presence.

"Just the heat," I manage, hoping my voice sounds more normal than it feels. "I should get inside, maybe start some iced tea."

"Good idea." Dean's smile is warm and uncomplicated, completely unaware of the minor biological crisis happening three feet away. "This shouldn't take long."

I retreat into the house with as much dignity as I can muster, immediately leaning against the front door for support. My heart is hammering, and I can feel the warm dampness between my thighs.

I'm slicking for Dean Maddox.

Not full-blown arousal, but definitely present. Definitely the kind of biological response that would have sent my former pack into possessive overdrive.

But Dean doesn't know. Won't know if I handle this correctly.

I busy myself making iced tea, focusing on the routine while trying to calm my racing pulse. I can hear Dean moving between the truck and the front porch, and every sound sends another spike of heat through my system.

This is ridiculous. I'm a grown woman, not a teenager experiencing her first crush.

But it's been less than a month since I've been off suppressants, and even longer since I've been around an alpha who affects me like this. Dustin and his pack were calculated attraction. Political, strategic, based on mutual benefit rather than raw chemistry.

This thing with Dean feels entirely different. Honest. Immediate. Dangerous in ways I'm not prepared to handle.

The front door opens and closes, followed by the sound of Dean's boots on the hardwood floor.

"Where do you want this side table?" he calls.

"Living room is fine," I call back, not trusting myself to turn around yet. "Anywhere is good."

I hear him moving around, positioning furniture, then his voice comes from directly behind me.

"Tea smells good."

I turn around and immediately regret it. Dean is standing in my kitchen doorway, still shirtless, slight sheen of sweat making his skin catch the afternoon light. He's closer than I expected, close enough that his scent wraps around me.

"Almost ready," I say, proud of how steady my voice sounds.

"Take your time." Dean moves to the sink and starts washing his hands, completely unconscious of the view he's providing. "I've got one more load to bring in, then I'll get out of your hair."

"You don't have to rush," I say before I can stop myself. "I mean, if you want some tea when you're done..."

"I'd like that." Dean's smile is warm and genuine as he dries his hands. "Been working up a thirst out there."

"Want me to bring that mattress up to the guest room?" he asks, gesturing toward the wrapped package. "Get it out of your way?"

I feel a spike of panic at the thought of him discovering my nest upstairs. "No! I mean—I can handle it myself. It's fine down here for now."

Dean raises an eyebrow at my sharp response. "It's pretty heavy, even compressed like that. How about I just carry it up to the landing? Then you can move it wherever you want when you're ready."

That's... actually reasonable. And keeps him away from the blue room. "Okay, yes. That would be helpful."

While he's upstairs, I move without thinking. His shirt is lying on the side table, warm and saturated with his scent. I snatch it up and quickly hide it behind my back just as his footsteps start coming back down.

"All set," Dean says, appearing in the doorway. "That landing's perfect."

"Thank you," I manage, the stolen shirt burning against my back.

Dean looks around with confusion. "Huh. I could've sworn I left my shirt right here..."

"Maybe it fell?" I suggest helplessly.

"Maybe," he says, still looking puzzled. "I guess I'll look for it later. I should probably head out anyway."

There's a moment of awkward silence while we both pretend that missing shirts are normal, then Dean finishes his tea and gathers his keys.

"Well," he says, heading toward the front door, "this was fun. We should do it again sometime."

"Definitely," I agree, following him and trying not to think about what "it" might encompass.

"Enjoy your new stuff," Dean says, pausing on the front porch. "And don't worry about the shirt. I've got plenty."

After Dean leaves, I pull his shirt from behind my back and press it against my face, breathing deeply. His concentrated scent makes my knees weak and sends another rush of slick between my thighs.

I stole Dean Maddox's shirt.

Not borrowed. Not accidentally misplaced. Stole. With full knowledge and absolutely no intention of giving it back.

So much for my sophisticated independence era.

I carry the shirt to the small blue room where my nest waits in the afternoon sunlight. I don't make a big production of incorporating it—just tuck it along the edge, where its scent can mingle with the green apple that's already claimed this space.

Then I remember the mattress waiting on the landing upstairs.

It takes me twenty minutes to wrestle the compressed mattress into the blue room, and another ten to get the packaging off and watch it expand. The "nesting collection" wasn't lying about the comfort, it's perfect.

I arrange the sheets over it, then layer the blankets and pillows with more care than I want to admit. And Dean's shirt... Dean's shirt gets tucked against what will obviously be where my head rests, close enough that his scent will surround me while I sleep.

I settle into the nest—because that's what it is now, unmistakably and completely—with Dean's shirt pressed against my cheek. The mattress cradles me perfectly, everything smelling like green apple and white musk and that warm, protective scent of Dean.

I should be worried about what this means.

Instead, I find myself thinking about Tuesday afternoon, when new furniture will be delivered and I'll have another excuse to see Dean again.

When I'll have to pretend I haven't spent the weekend sleeping with his stolen shirt, breathing in his scent and imagining what it would feel like to have the alpha himself in this space.

The thought should terrify me.

Instead, it makes me burrow deeper into my nest, Dean's shirt pressed against my skin, and wonder if independence might be overrated after all.