The bacon starts sizzling in earnest, filling the kitchen with that unmistakable aroma that makes mouths water and morning people out of even the most dedicated night owls. I flip the strips carefully, watching the fat render out, the edges crisping to perfect golden brown.
I pull out plates from the cabinet—simple white ceramic, restaurant-quality—and arrange them on the island. I've made way too much food, I realize as I flip the first batch of pancakes. But I have no idea how much Tank eats, or if he's on some kind of calorie bulk or cut situation that bodybuilders do. Better to have too much than not enough.
Plus, Sasha probably wouldn't mind some bacon scraps. Dogs love bacon. Everyone loves bacon. Bacon is a universal language.
I'm pondering what kind of coffee Tank might prefer—does he seem like a latte person? An espresso purist? A straight-black-coffee-no-frills kind of man?—when the sound of the front door opening makes me freeze.
"You arealwaysso damn hard to reach, Tank," a male voice calls out, and it isnotTank's voice.
I pause mid-pancake flip, spatula suspended in the air, heart suddenly pounding. My first instinct is defensive—grab the nearest weapon, assess the threat, protect myself. But the voice doesn't sound aggressive. It sounds... exasperated. Familiar, even, with the easy cadence of someone who has every right to be walking into this house unannounced.
Footsteps approach. Heavy boots on hardwood. And then a man rounds the corner into the kitchen, and?—
Oh.
Oh, hello.
He's in full firefighter gear—the heavy jacket with reflective stripes, the thick pants designed to withstand insane temperatures, boots that look like they weigh approximately a thousand pounds each. The only thing missing is the helmet, which he must have left somewhere else, because his head is bare, revealing a mess of sun-streaked brown hair that looks like he's been running his hands through it all night.
He's tall—not quite Tank's height, but close enough that I have to look up to meet his eyes. And what eyes they are: a striking hazel-green that catches the morning light and seems to shift colors as I watch. They're framed by strong brows, set in a face that's all sharp angles and easy charm—high cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass, lips curved into the beginnings of what might become a devastating smile.
He's younger than Tank—late twenties, maybe, with the kind of boyish energy that suggests he doesn't take life too seriously. There's a playfulness in his features, a lightness that contrasts sharply with Tank's brooding intensity. Different, but complementary somehow. Like two notes that shouldn't harmonize but somehow do.
His scent hits me a second later, and I have to physically stop myself from leaning toward it.
Woodsmoke and pine needles and something sweet—maple, maybe, or honey. It's layered over the expected firefighter notes of ash and heat and adrenaline, but there's a warmth beneath it all that feels like coming home after a long journey. Like campfires and autumn leaves and the promise of cozy evenings wrapped in blankets.
It's different from Tank's scent—less intense, more inviting. Where Tank's aroma demands attention, this one welcomes it. Two very different flavors of Alpha, both equally devastating in their own ways.
And beneath all of that... Alpha. Unmistakably, undeniably Alpha. The kind of dominant presence that fills a room without trying, that makes your omega instincts sit up and take notice even when you've already spent the night with someone else's scent soaking into your skin.
He takes me in slowly—starting at my bare feet, traveling up my borrowed t-shirt, lingering on the shoulder that's slipped free of the oversized neckline, finally reaching my face. His expression shifts through several emotions in rapid succession: surprise, then assessment, then something that looks suspiciously like approval.
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Your pancakes are burning."
"Shit!" I curse, whipping back around to the stove where, yes, the pancakes have definitely passed "golden brown" and are venturing into "concerning char" territory. I flip them quickly, salvaging what I can, and lower the heat with more aggression than necessary. "Sorry for intruding!"
The words come out automatically—my default response when caught somewhere I'm not sure I belong. But even as I say them, I realize how ridiculous they sound.I'mapologizing forintruding? In the home of a man I spent the night with? To a stranger who just walked in without knocking?
The firefighter chuckles—a warm, easy sound that loosens something in my chest. "I feel likeI'mthe one intruding, honestly. Tank never brings anyone to his place." He shakes his head, amusement dancing in those hazel-green eyes. "Took me a whole three hundred sixty-five days to be worthy of an invitation, and here you are, cooking breakfast in his kitchen like you own the place."
Tank never brings anyone to his place. That's... interesting information. Information that makes last night feel even more significant than it already did.
I file that away for later examination and focus on the more immediate concern: the man in front of me who clearly knows Tank well enough to have access to his home.
"Did you meet Sasha?" he asks, leaning against the kitchen island with the kind of casual grace that suggests he's very comfortable in this space. Very comfortable in his own skin, too—there's no awkwardness in his posture, no tension in his shoulders. Just easy, relaxed confidence.
"Yes," I say, a smile tugging at my lips despite myself. "She surprisingly liked me."
"She?" He raises an eyebrow. "Sasha's a he, actually. But I appreciate the assumption—he does have very pretty eyes."
Oh. Oops. Gender assumptions about dogs—apparently a thing I do now.
"My mistake," I say, not particularly bothered. "He's gorgeous either way. And he tackled me the moment I walked in, so I'm taking that as approval."
"Tackled you?" The firefighter's eyebrows climb higher. "Sasha doesn't tackle. He barely acknowledges visitors exist. I've seen him actively ignore people Tank was trying to impress."
