“Right,” I agree, running a hand over the stubble on my jaw. “Let’s get cleaned up. Ten minutes to shower and dress, then we pack.”
We scatter to our respective corners. I grab a quick shower, scrubbing away the last of the sleep and the lingering scent of the nest, though I know it’s permanently etched into mymemory. When I pull on jeans and a fresh t-shirt, I feel a little more human, if no less reluctant.
I meet Sierra in the hallway. She’s dressed now too, in leggings and a soft oversized sweater, her hair brushed back from her face. She looks beautiful. And ready to leave.
“I’ll help you pack,” I offer.
She nods, giving me a soft smile. “Thanks.”
We head to the bedroom together, and the moment we step inside, I’m hit with the scent. All of us, layered together. The nest has been thoroughly lived in, thoroughly loved, and the combined pack scent is so strong it makes my chest ache.
Sierra stops in the doorway, breathing it in.
“It smells like all of us,” she says softly.
“Yeah.” I move to her bag, which is still sitting in the corner where we put it days ago. It feels like a lifetime ago now. “It does.”
I start gathering her things from around the room. Her sleep shirts, the soft pajama pants. Each item carries our combined scent now, evidence of the week we spent tangled together.
Sierra moves to the remains of the nest, gathering the few blankets we hadn't stolen for the fort and begins folding them. I watch her hands smooth over the fabric, lingering on the spots where our scents are strongest.
“Keep some,” I say before I can stop myself.
She looks up at me, surprised. “What?”
“The blankets. The pillows. Whatever you want from the nest. Keep some of it.” I swallow hard. “So you have something that smells like...” I swallow hard. “Like us.”
Her eyes go bright with emotion, and she blinks rapidly. “Cole?—”
“Just in case you want to remember,” I continue, the words tumbling out now. I run a hand through my hair. “What this week was like. What we were like. Together.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, her fingers still smoothingover a soft blue blanket that’s saturated with my cinnamon-glazed scent. Then she nods.
“Okay,” she whispers. “I’ll keep some.”
We work in silence after that, both of us folding and packing and trying not to think too hard about what we’re doing. About what it means.
I find one of my t-shirts mixed in with her clothes, somehow ending up in the nest during one of our many tangles. The fabric is saturated with her and my scent combined.
“That one is yours,” Sierra says, noticing what I’m holding.
“Keep it,” I hear myself say. “If you want.”
She takes it from me, pressing it to her face and breathing in. When she lowers it, her eyes are definitely wet.
“Okay,” she says again. “I’ll keep it.”
Sierra’s toiletries are in the en-suite, mixed in with ours. Her shampoo next to Jalen’s conditioner. Her toothbrush beside Dax’s. The intimacy of it makes my throat tight.
“I think that’s everything,” she says eventually, surveying the room.
But it’s not everything. It’s just stuff. Just objects. It doesn’t capture what this room means now. What happened here beyond the heat and the storm.
This is where we became something.
The question is whether that something survives outside these walls.
We carry her bags to the living room, where the others are already gathering their own things. The pillow fort still dominates the space, and none of us seem ready to dismantle it yet.
