Page 45 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

MORNING REVELATIONS

~JUNIPER~

I wake up cocooned in my nest, surrounded by the softest blankets I've ever experienced and the lingering scents of three very different Alphas who have somehow become the center of my world again.

The transition from sleep to consciousness is gradual, peaceful in a way I'm still not used to.

No jarring alarm clock, no immediate spike of anxiety about the day ahead, just the gentle awakening that comes from being exactly where you're supposed to be.

The room is filled with golden morning light filtering through the curtains they installed— sheer fabric that provides privacy while still allowing the natural brightness to create patterns on the walls.

Everything about this space speaks to careful attention and genuine care, from the position of the furniture to catch the best light throughout the day, to the way the color palette promotes calm and restfulness.

I must have fallen asleep watching the stars again.

Last night was with Callum, which was unexpected because he's never struck me as someone who appreciates quiet moments of contemplation.

But around eleven, just as I was settling into my usual spot on the log in the back field, he'd appeared with two steaming mugs of coffee and a gruff comment about wanting to stay up to do some research anyway.

The memory makes me smile as I stretch against the luxurious sheets.

I'd teased him mercilessly about his sudden interest in astronomy, pointing out constellations with made-up names and completely fabricated mythology.

He'd grumbled between sips of his coffee, calling me a smartass and threatening to leave me to freeze under the stars alone.

But he hadn't left.

He'd stayed, drinking his coffee in companionable silence while I pointed out real constellations and shared the stories Aunt Lil used to tell about them.

The silence that followed my impromptu astronomy lesson had been comfortable, peaceful in a way that felt natural despite all the complicated history between us.

Like we were teenagers again, before everything got twisted up with fear and miscommunication and the kind of protective instincts that destroy what they're trying to save.

Callum must have carried me inside when I inevitably succumbed to exhaustion, somehow managing to navigate the house and get me settled in the nest without waking me.

The fact that he brought me here instead of to my old bedroom speaks to how well he's been paying attention— he knows I've started preferring this cozy paradise to the sparse functionality of the room I'd originally claimed.

The thoughtfulness of the gesture makes my chest warm with feelings I'm not ready to examine too closely.

I sit up slowly, taking in the additional upgrades that seem to appear every few days.

The reading nook has been enhanced with a small side table perfect for holding a book and cup of tea.

There's a soft throw draped over the reading chair that wasn't there yesterday, in a shade of sage green that complements the room's color scheme perfectly.

But what really catches my attention is the massive oak dresser that's been added to the far wall.

It's gorgeous—clearly antique, with brass hardware that's been lovingly restored and wood that gleams with the kind of patina that only comes with age and care.

And it's full of clothes.

Curiosity wins out over morning grogginess, and I pad over to investigate. The drawers slide open smoothly, revealing a collection that makes my heart skip several beats.

T-shirts.

The guys' t-shirts.

Particularly flannel ones in every color imaginable.

It's like someone has been systematically collecting them for years, creating a wardrobe that's equal parts practical and sentimental.

There are work shirts that smell faintly of motor oil and sawdust— clearly Callum's.

Soft cotton tees that carry the lingering scent of flour and vanilla— obviously Beckett's.

And several pieces that smell like hay and antiseptic and that particular combination of scents that can only belong to Wes.

They've been leaving their clothes for me.

Building a collection of comfort items that carry their scents, creating a kind of portable security blanket that speaks to deeper instincts than I'm comfortable acknowledging.

The domesticity of it should probably concern me.

Instead, it makes me feel cherished in a way I've never experienced before.

I select a soft flannel in deep blue— one of Callum's, based on the scent and the fact that it's large enough to serve as a dress on my smaller frame —and head for the en-suite bathroom that still feels like a miracle every time I use it.

The shower is another luxury I'm still adjusting to.

Hot water that doesn't run out after five minutes, water pressure that actually works, tiles that aren't cracked or stained with years of neglect.

It's the kind of bathroom that makes you want to linger, to take time with the simple pleasure of getting clean.

But as the hot water cascades over my skin, I become acutely aware that I'm feeling... different this morning.

Warmer than usual.

More sensitive.

Like every nerve ending has been dialed up to maximum sensitivity.

It could be related to how close I've been getting with the guys lately.

Physical proximity to Alphas affects Omega biology in ways that most people don't talk about in polite company, but that every unmated Omega learns to navigate through trial and error.

I'm not used to being around Alphas 24/7, especially not Alphas whose scents call to something primal and instinctive in my hindbrain. Most of my adult life has been spent carefully managing my exposure, maintaining enough distance to keep my biology stable and predictable.

But there's nothing stable or predictable about living with Callum, Wes, and Beckett.

Their scents are everywhere, their presence a constant reminder of everything my body thinks it wants and my brain insists is too complicated to consider.

Maybe I should see that Omega doctor from the town over.

Ask about heat suppressants or hormone regulation or whatever other medical interventions might help me maintain some semblance of control over my own biology.

I'm definitely on birth control—have been for years, despite my less-than-active sex life—but I can feel the effects of their constant presence building in my system like pressure in a closed container.

And despite my determination to take things slow, I can't help but feel needy when I'm around them.

Like I'm addicted to pushing boundaries, testing limits, seeing exactly how much I can get away with before one of them snaps and gives me what some traitorous part of me actually wants.

The thought should probably alarm me...but it sends a thrill of anticipation through my entire body.

I finish my shower quickly, towel off, and slip into Callum's flannel. It hangs to mid-thigh, the sleeves long enough that I have to roll them up several times, and it smells like pine forests and morning coffee and something that's uniquely him.

Wearing his clothes feels like a declaration.

Or maybe a challenge.

Definitely something that will get a reaction when he sees me.

Downstairs, I expect to have to figure out breakfast for myself— maybe toast and whatever fruit hasn't gone bad, or cereal if I can find any that isn't stale. But when I reach the kitchen, I discover that Beckett has once again anticipated my needs.

There's a plate waiting in the microwave with a note stuck to the front:

"Scrambled eggs with herbs from the garden, turkey sausage, and hash browns. Heat for 90 seconds. Coffee's fresh. Try to eat before noon this time. - B"

The fact that he's been paying attention to my terrible eating habits makes my chest tight with gratitude.

And something deeper that I'm not ready to name.

The coffee pot is indeed fresh and hot, which means Callum must have been here earlier to start a new batch. The kitchen still carries faint traces of his scent, mixed with the lingering aromas of whatever Beckett made for breakfast.

It's domestic in a way that feels both foreign and perfectly natural.

Like this is how mornings are supposed to be—surrounded by evidence that people care enough to make sure you're fed and caffeinated and taken care of.

Wes is at the clinic today, so I don't expect to see him until evening. Which is probably for the best, considering what happened in that alley yesterday and the way my body is responding to Alpha proximity this morning.

I need some space to process everything that's been happening.

Some time to figure out what I actually want versus what my biology is demanding.

After heating up breakfast and pouring a generous cup of coffee, I decide to check on Pickles and collect the mail. The morning air is crisp and clean, carrying the scents of blooming wildflowers and the promise of another beautiful day.

Pickles is in fine form, eyeing me with his usual combination of judgment and grudging affection.

He approves of the flannel shirt, apparently, because he doesn't try to bite me when I scratch behind his ears.

Progress.

The walk to the mailbox gives me time to appreciate how much the property has improved in just the past few days. The guys have been busy— fences repaired, debris cleared, the barn looking less like a disaster zone and more like an actual functional building.

It's starting to look like the sanctuary Aunt Lil always dreamed it could be.

The kind of place that could actually help animals and serve the community in meaningful ways .

I'm hoping to see Piper's mail truck, but she's not due for another day or two. The woman has become a bright spot in my week— someone to talk to who doesn't have a decade of complicated history with me, someone who understands the particular challenges of being an unmated Omega in a small town.

Maybe next week we can actually sit down for coffee and a real conversation.