I take a proper breath, finally allowing myself to fully appreciate her scent now that I can put a face to the fragrance.
Cinnamon sugar—warm and inviting, like fresh pastries in a bakery window. Roasted coffee beans—rich and complex, with notes of chocolate and caramel that suggest she's spent time around professional brewing. Dark vanilla—not the cheap synthetic kind but the real stuff, aged and nuanced. And beneath it all, soft amber that rounds out the sharper notes into something cohesive.
It's layered over Tank's scent now, the two aromas mingling in a way that tells me exactly how they spent their night. Shesmells like him and herself in equal measure—claimed but not possessed. Marked but still entirely her own.
Good for Tank. Good for fucking Tank. The man finally brought someone home, and somehow he managed to find the most intriguing omega I've encountered in years.
She's staring at me now—frozen mid-flip, spatula suspended in the air—and I realize I should probably say something instead of just standing here cataloging everything I find attractive about her.
The pancakes behind her are definitely burning.
"Your pancakes are burning," I point out, because I'm helpful like that.
"Shit!" She whips around, and I get a glimpse of her back where the shirt has ridden up—more tattoos, specifically what looks like the edge of a butterfly design spanning her shoulder blades. She flips the pancakes with practiced efficiency, salvaging what she can, and lowers the heat with more aggression than the stove probably deserves. "Sorry for intruding!"
She's apologizing for intruding? She's standing in her... whatever Tank is to her's... kitchen, cooking breakfast, and she thinks she's the one intruding?
I can't help the chuckle that escapes. "I feel likeI'mthe one intruding, honestly. Tank never brings anyone to his place." I shake my head, genuinely amused by the situation. "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."
Something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe, or a recalculation of whatever assumptions she'd been making. She files the information away visibly, processing it, and I find myself curious about what conclusions she's drawing.
"Did you meet Sasha?" I ask, because Sasha is the real gatekeeper of this household. Tank's opinion matters, sure. But Sasha's opinion is law.
"Yes," she says, and a smile tugs at her lips despite herself. "She surprisingly liked me."
"She?" I raise an eyebrow. "Sasha's a he, actually. But I appreciate the assumption—he does have very pretty eyes."
Her cheeks flush slightly—adorable—but she doesn't seem particularly bothered by the mistake. "My mistake. He's gorgeous either way. And he tackled me the moment I walked in, so I'm taking that as approval."
Tackled her? Sasha actually tackled her?
"Sasha doesn't tackle," I say, and I can hear the disbelief in my own voice. "He barely acknowledges visitors exist. I've seen him actively ignore people Tank was trying to impress."
She shrugs, turning back to the pancakes with easy confidence. "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."
I laugh—can't help it. The image of Sasha, all hundred-and-fifty pounds of stoic Malamute dignity, bowling over this omega like an overgrown puppy is too good. And her response to it—casual, humorous, utterly unbothered—only makes me like her more.
"Okay, I officially like you," I announce. "Anyone who can joke about being attacked by a horse-sized dog is good in my book."
"Would you like eggs and bacon?" she offers, gesturing to the spread she's been preparing. "Obviously no salt or pepper on Sasha's portion, but I figured he'd appreciate the protein."
She made food for the dog. She made food for Tank's dog. Without being asked.
"You made some for the dog?" I ask, and I know my expression is probably giving away how impressed I am.
"I made way too much in general," she admits. "But yes, I was planning to set aside some plain stuff for him. Seemed only fair after he gave me such a warm welcome."
Who is this woman? Where did Tank find her? And more importantly, how do I make sure she sticks around?
"Wow," I say, not bothering to hide the wonder in my voice. "Cooking breakfastandincluding Sasha in it. Do we have a winning omega?"
She laughs—light and easy, but there's something guarded beneath it. Something that suggests she's not used to being called "winning" and isn't quite sure what to do with the compliment.
"Well, I'm more of a temporary Valentine's Day swing," she says, and there's a wink thrown in for good measure. "Nothing permanent. Just a fun night that happened to include excellent sex and mediocre pancake-flipping skills."
Temporary Valentine's Day swing. That's... an interesting way to frame it. And also disappointing, though I'm not sure I have any right to be disappointed about a woman I met thirty seconds ago.
"Valentine's Day swing, huh?" I tilt my head, studying her. "Interesting choice of words."
