"Bored?" she asks, looking up from her computer screen and seeing the coffee I'm holding out toward her.
"Extremely bored," I admit, setting the coffee down on her desk and pulling up a chair from against the wall. "And also here to help. One week until the wedding of the century, and I'm assuming you could use an extra set of hands."
"You're a firefighter," she says, taking a sip of the coffee and making a satisfied sound that goes straight to my chest. "Shouldn't you be at the station?"
"Day off," I lie smoothly, even though we both know it's not a complete lie. I could go in if I needed to, but I've arranged my schedule specifically to be free this week. "Besides, when's the last time you had someone help you with this?"
Sharon considers this, her eyes narrowing slightly like she's trying to figure out if I'm being genuine or if this is some kind of elaborate setup. "Jessica helps."
"Jessica is amazing," I agree. "But Jessica is also a beta, which means she's probably running on fumes by now. Let me do something useful instead of sitting at home wondering why my life has become so quiet."
She reaches out and touches my face, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. "You're going to get bored in like two hours."
"Probably," I admit. "But I'm still here for at least those two hours. Point me toward something that needs doing."
By lunch, I've helped Sharon contact three different vendors to confirm delivery times for Saturday. I've organized the final seating chart and printed it out in a format that's actually readable. I've coordinated with the photographer to make sure he has all the shots that Sharon wants captured. I'm still not bored, which is surprising.
Jessica arrives back from a vendor meeting around noon, and she takes one look at me helping Sharon and raises her eyebrows in amusement. "Let me guess. Cassian heard that there was a celebrity wedding happening and decided he couldn't miss out on all the drama."
"Something like that," I say, not bothering to deny it. Jessica knows me well enough by now to understand that I do things on my own timeline and for my own reasons.
"Well, you can help me with the final seating arrangements," Jessica says, setting down her purse and pulling out a folder. "We need to make sure that the musicians aren't sitting next to the tech crew because apparently there's some kind of old feud."
"There's always feuds," I say, moving to help her organize the papers. "Every town has people who can't stand each other. It's a universal truth."
By the time we've made it through the afternoon, I've actually been useful. More useful than I expected to be. And I'm not bored. I'm actually enjoying myself, because all I wanted to do was spend time with Sharon, even if she is working.
Around four o'clock, Sharon suggests we grab food. Jessica has to head home to help with something, so it's just me and Sharon walking down the snowy street toward Los Tacos. Her hand finds mine automatically, and her scent settles into something warm and content.
"Thank you for helping today," she says as we're walking. "It actually made a huge difference."
"That's what pack does," I say. "We help each other."
We get our tacos and find a quiet spot in the plaza to eat them. Sharon's dressed in layers because the office heating is still being weird, and she's got this adorable way of huddling over her food like it's going to protect her from the cold.
I bite into my taco and the spice hits my tongue first, then the lime. The metal bench is cold through my jeans, and I shift closer to Sharon without really thinking about it. She leans into me automatically, her shoulder pressing against mine, and the contact sends warmth spreading through my chest.
Around us, the plaza is alive with lunch hour chaos. Office workers hurry past with their phones pressed to their ears. A street musician starts playing guitar near the fountain. The smell of roasting corn drifts over from a vendor's cart.
But all I can focus on is Sharon. The way she closes her eyes when she takes a bite. The soft sound of satisfaction she makes. The warmth of her body against mine.
I reach over and brush a bit of cilantro from the corner of her mouth. She catches my hand, holding it for just a second, her fingers cold but her grip solid.
This is what pack feels like. Not perfect. But real. Not always easy. But always honest.
I finish my taco and ball up the wrapper, feeling the grease on my fingers, the December wind picking up against my face. Sharon tucks herself tighter against my side, and I wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.
I wouldn't trade this for anything in the world.
29
SHARON
I'm standing outside Savannah's house with approximately seventeen different things in my arms that I'm pretty sure I'm about to drop.
The house is warm when Savannah opens the door, and the smell that hits me is a combination of baby powder, cinnamon, and the kind of chaos that only comes from having three newborns in one space. I can hear crying coming from somewhere in the back of the house, and Savannah looks like she hasn't slept in approximately three years.
"Sharon," she says, and there's genuine happiness in her voice despite the fact that she looks like a zombie. "Come in. Quickly. Before the cold gets in and wakes up whoever just fell asleep."
