Page 27 of Knotted By my Pack

The bakery is quiet, still dim from the early morning light. She doesn’t turn on all the overheads, just the ones above the prep area and the front counter.

The warm yellow glow softens the space, painting everything in gold and amber. My boots echo lightly across the tiled floor as I follow her in.

She moves around like she’s floating. Even in someone else’s shirt, even half-hungover, she has a rhythm.

She ties her hair up with a loose band from her wrist, revealing the slope of her neck, then wraps an apron around her waist, cinching it tight. I catch glimpses of her bare thighs where the shirt rides up and swallow a breath.

“I mixed the batter yesterday before I went out,” she says, pulling on gloves. “I’ll just prep them and pop them in the oven.”

“Can I watch?” The words leave before I think them through.

She turns, brows lifted in amusement. “You sure? It’s not glamorous.”

“I’m sure. I need to know how the sausage is made, or in this case, your fantastic muffins.”

She gives me a soft nod and waves me through the doorway into the back.

It smells incredible in here. Yeast, flour, a hint of citrus. The back of the bakery is warmer, filled with stainless steel counters, industrial mixers, racks lined with trays, and ingredients stacked in clear containers.

There’s a rhythm to this room, too. A quiet pulse.

We wash our hands side by side. She rolls her sleeves up to the elbows and checks the batter like it’s a sleeping baby. Her movements are precise. Methodical.

“Grab those muffin cups,” she says, pointing with her chin. I do, setting them into the tray. “Now the scoop. Like this.”

I mimic her. She nods approvingly, adjusting a few of my attempts.

Her scent is different today. Normally, it’s sugar and vanilla. Bright. Warm. Familiar. But that shirt? It carries Noah’s scent. Sharp. Alpha. Possessive. I try not to react to it, but I miss the way she usually smells. Miss the way her sweetness lingers even after she walks away.

We fill two trays, her giving soft instructions as I go. She brushes flour off my cheek once with her knuckles. It’s a small thing, but I feel the heat of it all the way down to my stomach.

“They won’t take long,” she says once we slide the trays into the oven.

Then she winces again, holding her head for a second.

“How much did you drink?”

She huffs out a laugh. “A lot. But I needed it.”

“Long week?”

“The longest,” she says. Then she leans against the counter and glances over. “You don’t go out much?”

“Not really. Not anymore.”

Her mouth tugs to the side. “Noah and I go out every once in a while. Blow off steam, drink too much, act stupid. You should come next time.”

I pause. “You’d want me there?”

“Why not?”

I study her face for a beat. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

We fall into an easy silence. She leans against the island. I take the stool across from her. There’s something soft about this moment.

It’s not charged or heavy… Just the low hum of the oven and her fingers tapping against the counter in time with her thoughts.

When the timer dings, she straightens and pulls on her mitts before opening the oven door and bending to retrieve the trays. The scent hits me immediately. Warmth, sugar, lemon zest. Heaven.