It’s soft. Worn from years of use, the fabric broken in until it feels like butter. Blue and gray plaid, a few threads loose at the cuffs. The kind of shirt someone wears when they’re not trying to impress anyone.
And it smells like him.
I should put it directly in the washing machine. That’s the plan. Wash it, dry it, fold it, return it Thursday when I pick up my car. Simple. Efficient.
Instead, I bring it to my face.
Just once. Just to see what the fuss is about. Why my omega biology has been losing its mind all day over leather and musk and?—
Oh.
Oh, that’s...
I breathe deeper before I can stop myself. The scent fills my lungs, warm and grounding and something else I can’t name. Something that makes my shoulders drop and my jaw unclench and my whole body go loose in a way it hasn’t in months. Maybe years.
I yank the shirt away from my face.
What am I doing?
This is Ben Wilson’s shirt. Ben Wilson, who hides from my clipboard. Who blasted his radio to avoid a simple conversation. Who is infuriating and confusing and definitely not someone I should be sniffing like some kind of?—
I march to the bathroom and shove the flannel into the laundry basket.
There. Done. I’ll wash it in the morning.
The rest of my evening passes in a blur of emails and spreadsheets and phone calls. I confirm the catering numbers with Maeve, follow up with the venue coordinator, send Theo his information packet, and add six more items to tomorrow’s to-do list. By the time I crawl into bed, I’m exhausted in that bone-deep way that usually means I’ll fall asleep the second my head hits the pillow.
I do.
And then I wake up.
Gray morning light filters through my curtains. My alarm hasn’t gone off yet, which means it’s early—too early. I’m warm and comfortable and wrapped around something soft, my face buried in fabric that smells like?—
My eyes snap open.
Ben’s flannel is clutched against my chest. I’m curled around it like a comma, my nose pressed into the collar, breathing him in with every inhale.
I don’t remember getting up. I don’t remember going to the bathroom. I don’t remember pulling this shirt out of the laundry basket and bringing it to bed like some kind of?—
Oh no.
No, no, no.
I sit up so fast the room spins. The flannel falls into my lap, and I stare at it like it’s personally betrayed me. Which it has. It definitely has.
My body did this. While I was sleeping, my omega instincts overrode every logical decision I’d made and went hunting for alpha scent to curl up with. Like I’m some kind of touch-starved disaster who can’t make it through one night without?—
I need my suppressants.
I scramble out of bed, leaving the flannel tangled in my sheets, and dig through my purse for the pharmacy bag I pickedup yesterday. The bottle is still sealed. I tear it open, shake out a pill, and swallow it dry.
Then I stand in my kitchen in my pajamas, breathing too fast, and try not to think about how good that shirt smelled. How warm I felt when I woke up. How some traitorous part of me had been genuinely happy, just for a second, before my brain came online and ruined everything.
I don’t nest. I don’t snuggle alpha clothing in my sleep. I don’t do any of this.
Except apparently, I do.
My phone buzzes on the counter. Calendar reminder: Venue walkthrough, 9 AM.
