The chair waits, familiar.
I strip out of my clothes and pull the new t-shirt over my head.
It falls over my shoulders, soft and heavy, sleeves dangling past my elbows.
It smells nice.
It smells faintly safe.
I sit in the chair and stare out the window, toward the neighbor's house where Finn lives with his alphas.
Down the hall, the house breathes and shifts and continues being itself.
But in here—just for a moment—I have something in my hands that doesn't hurt.
And I'm tired of pretending that doesn't matter.
Chapter 25
I stand in the kitchen, flour dusting my hands as I knead the dough for poker night.
It clings to my skin and settles into the creases of my knuckles. I press the heel of my palm into the dough, feeling it give, then fold it back over itself.
Press. Fold. Turn.
The motion sinks into my muscles. My body remembers this even when my mind doesn't want to cooperate.
The kitchen smells like vanilla and butter and sugar warming into something soft and familiar. The kind of smell that used to mean game night without qualifiers. Without tension riding underneath.
Eli stands a few feet away, leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee. He's trying not to hover, but I can tell he's watching. Like he's afraid the moment might shatter if he breathes too loudly.
He's the one who asked me to bake tonight.
Like you used to, he'd said earlier, voice gentle.Only if you want to.
I said yes before I could overthink it.
Now he lets me work, offering presence without pressure. His scent is calm—tea and linen and something quietly reassuring—and it helps more than I want to admit.
I portion the dough methodically, rolling it between my palms until each piece feels right, then lining them up on the baking tray with careful spacing. Same size. Same shape. Order where I can find it. Control where I can keep it.
My shoulders ease down a fraction as I work. My breathing evens out. For a few minutes—just a few—my instincts quiet, curling inward instead of scraping restlessly under my skin.
This is what I did before Marie arrived.
This is who I was when baking wasn't a performance or a peace offering. When it was just mine.
The oven hums softly as I slide the first tray inside, heat blooming against my face. I wipe my hands on a towel and reach for the cutting board.
Carrots first. Then celery. Even, precise cuts. I arrange everything neatly on a platter, small bowls of dip placed just so in the center.
That's when I feel it.
Ragon.
I don't turn. I don't have to. His presence announces itself—pine smoke and steel, dominance pulled tight enough that it brushes the edges of my awareness.
He passes the kitchen doorway and slows.
