Page 57 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

"You were supposed to be at the clinic tonight," I point out.

"Emergency call got resolved faster than expected," he explains, though something in his tone suggests there might be more to the story. "Figured my time was better spent here, making sure my favorite Omega gets some actual rest."

The possessive warmth in his voice when he calls me his favorite Omega sends heat spiraling through my system that has nothing to do with biological cycles and everything to do with the way he makes me feel cherished and protected.

"So what's the plan?" I ask, settling more comfortably into the cushions and trying to ignore the way my body responds to his proximity.

"Gaming therapy," he announces with mock seriousness. "Specifically, Stardew Valley, because I remember someone making me play for eight hours straight to get a golden chicken."

The memory makes me laugh, the sound coming out more genuine than anything I've managed in days.

Because I do remember that marathon gaming session from our teenage years, the way he'd patiently helped me optimize my farm layout and achieve completely arbitrary goals that seemed incredibly important at the time.

"I can't believe you remember that," I say, though warmth spreads through my chest at the evidence that he's held onto details from our shared past.

"I remember everything about you, Junebug," he says simply, handing me a controller and starting up a saved game that appears to be specifically created for this occasion. "Including the fact that you get obsessive about completion rates and will stay up all night to achieve perfect efficiency."

He's not wrong about my gaming tendencies, and the familiar mechanics of virtual farming provide exactly the kind of mindless distraction my overstimulated brain needs.

We fall into an easy rhythm of cooperative play, taking turns managing different aspects of the farm while maintaining a steady stream of conversation that flows between game strategy and more personal topics.

"I brought supplies," he says during a loading screen, producing a bottle of apple cider and what appears to be homemade cookies from somewhere within the pillow fort's depths.

"Did you bake these?" I ask, accepting the offered treat and trying not to melt at the thoughtfulness of the gesture.

"Beckett did, before he left for the bakery crisis," he admits. "But I had the foresight to steal some before they disappeared into the general cookie jar."

The cookies are perfect—soft and chewy with just the right amount of sweetness, clearly made with the kind of attention to detail that characterizes everything Beckett creates.

Paired with the crisp apple cider, they provide the perfect accompaniment to our virtual agricultural adventures.

"Tell me something I don't know about you," I say as we work together to redesign the farm's layout for maximum efficiency.

"Like what?"

"Anything. Childhood dreams, secret talents, embarrassing memories. Whatever you're willing to share."

He's quiet for a moment, considering the question with the kind of seriousness that suggests he's actually thinking about revealing something meaningful.

"I used to want to be a wildlife photographer," he says finally. "Before I decided on veterinary medicine, I had this whole fantasy about traveling the world documenting endangered species and remote ecosystems."

The admission surprises me, partly because it's so different from the path he ultimately chose, but mostly because I can picture it perfectly.

Wes with his patience and observational skills, spending hours waiting for the perfect shot, building the kind of trust with wild animals that allows for intimate documentation.

"What changed your mind?" I ask.

"Practicality, mostly," he says with a slight shrug. "Wildlife photography is incredibly competitive, and most photographers struggle to make a living wage. Veterinary medicine offered more stability and still let me work with animals."

"Do you ever regret it?"

"Not really," he says, though there's something wistful in his tone. "I love what I do, and it's made a real difference in this community. But sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I'd been brave enough to chase the dream instead of choosing the safe option."

The honesty in his admission makes my chest ache with sympathy, because I recognize the voice of someone who's made peace with practical choices while still carrying a torch for abandoned dreams.

"It's not too late," I point out. "You could start doing photography as a hobby, maybe work toward building a portfolio. Who says you can't do both?"

"Maybe," he says, though his tone suggests it's not something he's seriously considered.

"I'm serious," I insist, pausing the game to give him my full attention. "You've got the skills, the eye for detail, and the patience. Plus, your veterinary background would give you advantages other photographers don't have when it comes to understanding animal behavior."

He looks at me with surprise, like the possibility of pursuing old dreams alongside current responsibilities hadn't occurred to him.

"You really think I could do it?"

"I think you could do anything you set your mind to," I say, meaning every word. "And I think the world needs more people who are passionate about documenting and protecting wildlife."

The smile that spreads across his face is soft and genuine, transforming his features in a way that makes my heart skip several beats.

"What about you?" he asks. "Any abandoned dreams lurking in your past?"

The question makes me pause, because the honest answer is complicated and somewhat painful to examine.

"I used to want to be a teacher," I admit quietly. "Elementary school, maybe middle school. I loved the idea of helping kids discover things they're passionate about, creating the kind of classroom environment where everyone feels safe to ask questions and make mistakes."

"That's a beautiful dream," he says gently. "What happened?"

"Life happened," I say with a shrug that doesn't quite mask the disappointment underneath. "College was expensive, student teaching requirements conflicted with work schedules, and eventually I had to focus on survival rather than idealism."

"It's not too late for you either," he points out, echoing my earlier words back to me.

"Maybe," I say, though the idea feels both appealing and impossibly complicated. "Though right now I'm more focused on figuring out what I want to build here."

"Fair enough," he says, returning his attention to the game. "Though for what it's worth, I think you'd make an incredible teacher. You've got the patience and the instinct for helping people learn new things."

The compliment warms me more than it probably should, especially coming from someone whose opinion has become increasingly important to me.

We play in comfortable silence for a while, the repetitive tasks of virtual farming providing exactly the kind of meditative distraction my restless mind needs.

The combination of familiar activities, good company, and the security of being surrounded by their combined scents gradually begins to work its magic on my overactive nervous system.

"This is nice," I say during a quiet moment between game objectives.

"Yeah?" he asks, glancing over at me with obvious pleasure.

"Yeah. I feel more relaxed than I have in days."

"Good," he says, satisfaction evident in his tone. "That was the goal."

"Thank you," I say, meaning it more than he probably realizes. "For thinking of this, for taking the time to set it up, for... caring enough to notice I was struggling."

"Always," he says simply, the single word carrying more weight than entire speeches from other people.

As the night progresses, the combination of cider, comfortable seating, and the rhythmic nature of the game begins to take its toll on both of us.

I notice Wes's responses getting slower, his commentary less frequent, and when I glance over during a loading screen, his eyes are heavy with approaching sleep.

"You can take a break if you're tired," I offer, though the selfish part of me doesn't want this peaceful interlude to end.

"I'm good," he insists, though he shifts position to get more comfortable against the pillows.

Twenty minutes later, his head drops to rest against my shoulder, then gradually slides down until he's using my lap as a pillow. His breathing evens out into the slow, steady rhythm of genuine sleep, and I realize he's completely unconscious.

I should probably wake him up, suggest he move to a more comfortable position, maybe encourage him to head to his own bed for proper rest. But there's something deeply appealing about the weight of his head against my thighs, the trust implicit in his unconscious choice to use me as furniture.

Plus, the warmth of his body and the security of his presence is doing more to settle my restless energy than anything else I've tried.

So instead of waking him, I save our game progress and set the controller aside.

I run my fingers gently through his hair, marveling at the softness of the strands and the way he unconsciously leans into the touch even in sleep.

The pillow fort feels like its own little world, separate from all the complications and uncertainties that have been keeping me awake. Here, surrounded by soft textures and warm light, with Wes sleeping peacefully in my lap, everything feels simple and right in ways I haven't experienced in years.

For the first time in weeks, my mind stops racing through endless lists and possibilities and concerns.

The heat flare that's been making me restless fades to a manageable background sensation, overwhelmed by the comfort and security of the moment.

I let my own eyes drift closed, not quite sleeping but not fully awake either, existing in that peaceful space between consciousness and dreams where everything feels possible and nothing hurts.

This is what I've been missing without realizing it— not just physical comfort, but the deeper security that comes from being cared for by someone who notices your needs and takes action to address them.

The knowledge that you don't have to handle everything alone, that there are people in your life who will build pillow forts at midnight just to make sure you get some rest.

As I drift in that comfortable twilight state, I can hear the old house settling around us, but instead of feeling isolated, the sounds feel protective.

Like the building itself is watching over us, keeping us safe while we steal these quiet hours together.

When I finally do fall asleep, still sitting upright with Wes's head in my lap and my fingers tangled in his hair, it's the most peaceful rest I've had in longer than I care to remember.