~ROSEMARIE~
The morning is perfect.
That's my first thought as Julian's sleek black Audi purrs through the quiet streets of Oakridge Hollow, the early February sun casting everything in pale gold light.
Frost still clings to the edges of windows and rooftops, sparkling like scattered diamonds. The town is just starting to wake—shop owners unlocking doors, the first brave joggers braving the cold, the smell of fresh bread drifting from somewhere nearby.
Julian insisted on driving me to work this morning. Something about "not wanting me to walk in the cold" and "the sidewalks might be icy," which are both valid concerns but also completely transparent excuses to spend an extra fifteen minutes in my company. I didn't call him on it. Partly because I appreciate the gesture, and partly because watching Julian North try to be thoughtful without admitting he's being thoughtful is one of my new favorite forms of entertainment.
He's getting softer. Day by day, interaction by interaction, he's letting those walls come down. And I'm pretty sure he doesn't even realize he's doing it.
His scent fills the car—bergamot and sandalwood and that underlying hint of expensive cologne that I've come to associate with safety. With home. It mingles with the leather of the seats and the subtle warmth from the heating vents, creating a cocoon of comfort that makes me want to close my eyes and just... exist in this moment forever.
"You're staring," Julian says without taking his eyes off the road.
"I'm admiring," I correct. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Staring implies rudeness. Admiring implies appreciation for fine craftsmanship." I gesture at his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the silver hair pulled back in its usual low tail, the way his hands rest on the steering wheel with casual elegance. "You're basically a work of art. I'm just being a cultured observer."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. "Your flattery is noted and cataloged for future reference."
"Good. I expect it to be factored into my performance review."
"Your performance review?"
"As your Omega. I assume there's some sort of quarterly evaluation? Metrics to meet? KPIs for adequate snuggling and emotional support?"
He actually laughs at that—a short, surprised sound that makes my heart do a little flip. "I'll have my assistant draft the documentation."
"You don't have an assistant."
"Then I suppose you'll just have to trust that your performance is satisfactory."
Satisfactory. From Julian, that's basically a love declaration.
The bakery comes into view as we round the corner onto Main Street, and I'm already mentally preparing for the day ahead. We've got a big catering order for a Valentine's tea party this afternoon, plus the usual morning rush, plus I promised Hazel I'd experiment with some new drink recipes for the potential expansion. My mind is running through ingredient lists and timing schedules when Julian suddenly hits the brakes.
The car stops with a jolt that snaps me out of my planning.
"What—" I start, but then I see what he's already noticed.
Glass. There's glass on the sidewalk in front of the bakery. Shattered pieces catching the morning light, scattered across the pavement like jagged diamonds. And above them, where the front window should be displaying Hazel's carefully arranged pastries and my hand-lettered menu board?—
A gaping hole. Edges sharp and angry, the window frame empty except for a few stubborn shards still clinging to the frame.
No. No, no, no.
Julian is out of the car before I can fully process what I'm seeing. He moves with military precision—which makes sense, given how much time he spends with Tank—scanning the area, checking for threats, his entire demeanor shifting from relaxed to alert in the span of a heartbeat.
"Stay in the car," he says through the open door.
"Like hell," I mutter, unbuckling my seatbelt and climbing out after him.
The cold hits me immediately—February morning air biting at my exposed skin, carrying the smell of frost and something else underneath. Something acrid. Paint, maybe? I pick my way carefully around the broken glass, my heart hammering against my ribs, and finally get a clear view of the damage.
It's worse than I thought.
