Page 34 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

He catches my eye and smiles, the expression soft and inviting in a way that makes my chest warm.

It's not the calculated charm that Alphas sometimes use to get what they want, or the practiced politeness that keeps social interactions smooth.

It's just... genuine. Real. The kind of smile that says he's happy to see me, happy to share this moment, with no expectations beyond simple companionship.

I can't help but smile back.

It's an instinctive response, as natural as breathing. My lips curve upward without conscious thought, and I feel some of the tension I've been carrying in my shoulders finally release.

He extends one of the mugs toward me, and I accept it gratefully, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic and inhaling the fragrant steam.

The scent is even better up close— lavender and chamomile with hints of honey and something that might be mint .

It's the kind of tea blend that promises deep sleep and peaceful dreams, though I suspect sleep is the last thing on either of our minds right now.

The mug is familiar in my hands.

Hand-thrown pottery with a slightly irregular rim and a glaze that shows tiny imperfections in the moonlight.

These are the mugs from Aunt Lil's kitchen, the ones she used for special occasions or when she needed extra comfort.

The ones that probably carry their own set of memories—late night conversations, shared sorrows, moments of connection over warm drinks and honest words.

Beckett stands there for a moment, not saying anything, and I understand instinctively that he's trying to give me space while also wanting to be present.

It's a delicate balance, this dance we're all learning— how to be close without crowding, how to offer support without imposing, how to show care without demanding reciprocation.

I shift over on the log, making room, though I don't need to say anything. The invitation is clear in the movement, in the way I leave space beside me without looking directly at him.

Some communications don't require words.

He accepts the silent offer, settling onto the log next to me with the kind of careful grace that speaks to his awareness of the moment's fragility.

We're close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body, can smell his individual scent under the herbal tea, but there's still space between us.

Still the option to retreat if either of us needs it.

We sit in comfortable silence, drinking our tea and watching the stars.

The night sky is a masterpiece tonight, clear and endless and full of possibilities.

I can see the Big Dipper, Orion's Belt, the faint smudge of the Milky Way stretching across the darkness like a river of light.

It's the kind of view that makes you feel simultaneously insignificant and infinite, aware of your tiny place in the universe while also connected to something vast and eternal.

This is what I've been missing.

Not just the stars, though they're beautiful.

Not just the peace, though it's precious.

This feeling of being exactly where I belong, with exactly who I belong with.

The tea is warming me from the inside out, but it's more than the physical heat.

It's the gesture itself, the thoughtfulness, the way Beckett knew exactly what I needed without me having to ask for it.

It's the way he's sitting beside me without demanding conversation or explanation or anything beyond shared presence.

Eventually, slowly, carefully, I let my head drift to rest against his shoulder.

The movement is tentative at first, testing the waters, ready to pull back if he stiffens or shows any sign of discomfort. But he doesn't. If anything, he settles more solidly into position, becoming a more stable resting place for my weary head.

His scent is stronger here, this close.

Cinnamon and warmth and something fundamentally comforting that makes me want to burrow closer, to curl up against his side like a cat seeking the perfect sunbeam.

I take a deep inhale, letting his scent fill my lungs and settle into my bloodstream. It's intoxicating in the best possible way— not overwhelming or demanding, but soothing, grounding, like coming home after a long journey through foreign territory.

Neither of us speaks, and that's perfect.

There are no expectations here, no pressure to fill the silence with small talk or explanations or plans for the future.

Just tranquility in the midst of peace, just two people sharing a moment under stars that have witnessed countless similar scenes throughout history.

This is what I can enjoy.

This slow exploration, this careful rebuilding, this tentative return to intimacy that doesn't demand more than I'm ready to give.

This is what taking it at my own pace looks like.

And deep within my chest, in the place where I've kept my heart locked away for ten years, I can feel something stirring.

Something that might be hope.

Something that suggests my heart can open up to these men again, slowly and carefully and on my own terms.

Even if I'm still afraid of being broken.