The same thing Tank said—that no omega has ever liked his dog. And now this: that the dog doesn't typically like anyone. What does it mean that Sasha made an exception for me?
I shrug, returning my attention to the pancakes. "Well, he tackled me. Full-on knocked me to the ground and licked my face like I was covered in peanut butter. It was either the most enthusiastic greeting or a failed assassination attempt—jury's still out."
The firefighter laughs—full and genuine, the sound warming the kitchen like a secondary heat source. "Okay, I officially like you. Anyone who can joke about being attacked by a horse-sized dog is good in my book."
Something in my chest loosens at the approval. It shouldn't matter—this man is a stranger, and I'll probably never see him again after this morning—but there's something about his easy acceptance that makes me feel... welcome. Like I haven't overstayed a welcome that was only ever supposed to last one night.
"Would you like eggs and bacon?" I offer, gesturing to the spread I've been preparing. "Obviously no salt or pepper on Sasha's portion, but I figured he'd appreciate the protein."
The firefighter's eyes widen. "You made some for the dog?"
"I made way too much in general," I admit. "But yes, I was planning to set aside some plain stuff for him. Seemed only fair after he gave me such a warm welcome."
He stares at me for a long moment—long enough that I start to wonder if I've done something wrong. Then his face splits into a grin so wide it transforms his features entirely. The sharp angles soften. The easy charm becomes something warmer, more genuine.
"Wow," he says, and there's wonder in his voice. "Cooking breakfastandincluding Sasha in it. Do we have a winning omega?"
The question is teasing—clearly not meant to be taken seriously—but something about the way he says it makes heat rise to my cheeks.Winning omega. Like I'm a prize to be claimed. Like I'm something worth winning.
Dial it back, Rosemarie. This isn't anything more than it is. Don't read into things that aren't there.
I laugh, keeping my voice light. "Well, I'm more of a temporary Valentine's Day swing." I throw in a wink for good measure, playing up the casual, no-strings-attached vibe. "Nothing permanent. Just a fun night that happened to include excellent sex and mediocre pancake-flipping skills."
His expression flickers—something crosses his face too quickly for me to identify before it's smoothed away. But his smile doesn't falter.
"Valentine's Day swing, huh?" He tilts his head, studying me with those striking hazel-green eyes. "Interesting choice of words."
There's something in his tone—curiosity, maybe, or something deeper that I can't quite identify. Like he's filing away information. Like he's assessing me for something I don't understand.
Before I can respond—before I can deflect or change the subject or make another joke to diffuse the sudden tension in the air—I turn fully to face him, plate in hand. The bacon is perfectly crispy, the eggs fluffy, the slightly-too-dark pancakes arranged to hide their flaws. It's not my best work, but it's respectable.
"Breakfast?" I offer, extending the plate toward him like a peace offering. Like an invitation. Like something I can't quite name.
He looks at the plate. Then at me. Then at the plate again. His stomach chooses that exact moment to growl—loud and insistent and impossible to ignore.
His smirk returns, softer now. Infinitely warmer.
"I'm famished."
CHAPTER 12
Latte Art And Wagers
~ELIAS~
Iknew something was different the moment I stepped out of my truck.
The January morning was crisp—that particular brand of cold that seeps into your bones despite the layers of firefighter gear still clinging to my frame. I'd just finished a twelve-hour on-call shift that had been mercifully quiet, nothing but drills and equipment checks and the kind of busy work that keeps the mind occupied without actually being dangerous. The kind of shift that leaves you restless rather than exhausted, itching for something you can't quite name.
But the cold wasn't what caught my attention as I climbed down from the cab.
It was the scent.
Female. Unmistakably, undeniably female—and not just any female. This wasn't the generic omega fragrance that wafts through every social gathering, pleasant but forgettable. This was somethingelse. Something that cut through the winter air like a blade, sharp and sweet and absolutely intoxicating.
Cinnamon sugar and roasted coffee and dark vanilla. Soft amber undertones that wrapped around the sharper notes like silk around steel. It was the kind of scent that made you stop mid-stride and breathe deeper, trying to catch more of it, trying to identify where it was coming from and who it belonged to.
What the hell?
