Page 5 of Knotted By my Pack

This is not normal.

Something is very, very wrong.

I’ve known Noah forever.

Since I was ten and he was twelve, since the day he shoved a playground bully off me and got himself a black eye in the process.

Since we grew up in the same overcrowded foster home, looking out for each other when no one else would. Since he stole scraps from the kitchen when I was sick, since I patched up his scraped knees, since we made a pact to never let each other go hungry or alone.

And yeah, when I was younger, I might have had a crush on him. It was stupid, fleeting. A childish thing. But I outgrew it, just like he outgrew the lanky frame and soft edges of boyhood.

And as time passed, I watched him move on, watched him take other women home, watched enough meaningless hookups to know we were never going to be that.

But today...

Today, his scent clings to me, seeping into my skin even from downstairs. Sandalwood and fresh pine, but there are also hints of sawdust, leather, and earth after rain. It has always been there, always familiar, but now it’s too much.

The air is saturated with it, coiling around me, heady and invasive. My stomach twists. My fingers shake as I yank open the cabinet and grab my pills.

Two more heat suppressants. Straight to the back of my throat, swallowed dry.

Another shower. This time, it works.

By the time I step out, the fever has settled, and my body is back to normal. No more itch under my skin. No more burning tension. Just Cora again.

I dress quickly, tugging on jeans and a sweater before heading back downstairs. The smell of bacon and coffee lingers in the air, warm and inviting.

Noah is still at the table, arms folded, watching me with that easy patience he always has. His plate is empty, but mine sits there, untouched.

“Breakfast is cold,” he says.

I take my seat and dig in anyway. The bacon is crisp, the eggs slightly overcooked, but it all tastes like care. I chew slowly, stealing glances at him between bites.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

His lips twitch into a smile, that boyish, charming, completely unfair smile that makes something in my chest go soft.

“You never have to thank me,” he says, voice warm.

I love him. Not in the way people whisper about in coffee shops or write songs about, not in the way I’ve been thinking about him today, though I shouldn’t. But in the way you love a person who is part of your bones, who has been there for every scraped knee, every heartbreak, every god-awful decision.

He leans back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. “You get your car checked out yet?”

I shake my head. “I’ll do it this weekend.”

A beat of silence. A slow nod. He knows me too well to argue.

When I finish eating, I take our plates to the sink, rinsing them while he grabs his keys. We step outside into the crisp morning air, the sun barely peeking over the horizon, the town still waking up.

Noah’s truck waits in the driveway.

It’s his most prized possession, a 1968 Chevy, a relic from his late foster dad. Midnight blue, chrome trim gleaming despite the fine layer of dust from the job site yesterday. Bench seat, worn leather, a dashboard covered in small scratches and scuffs from years of use.

The engine rumbles as he starts it, smooth and strong, a sound that always reminds me of home.

I slide into the passenger seat, tucking my legs up comfortably. The cab smells like him, and I force myself to stare out the window as we pull out onto the road.

“There’s talk of a resort deal coming to town,” he says casually, drumming his fingers against the wheel.