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“There’s nowhere to walk except the parking lot,” I explained.

“I like urban infrastructure.” She popped another pecan into her mouth and picked her jacket up from the back of the couch.

Hudson’s eyebrows knit together, but he said nothing.

She pulled on her jacket and headed to the door. I followed her, leaving Hudson in the kitchen.

“Patty,” I whispered.

She turned, already smiling. “You’re not subtle.”

“You’re abandoning me.”

She hugged me quickly and lowered her tone. “Kiss him this time.”

My face flamed as she slipped out the door.

Silence moved through the apartment. The refrigerator hummed. The oven clicked. A car passed outside, its headlights flashing through my window. In the apartment above, my neighbor dropped something heavy enough to suggest either furniture assembly or a domestic disagreement.

Still, the apartment felt entirely different.

I leaned back against the closed door, catching my breath, and then reality hit me like a splash of ice water.

I hadn’t planned on this evening lasting anywhere near this long. What started as an impromptu baking lesson had dragged on for hours, and my mind flashed back to Patty’s slide deck—specifically, the part about wolf shifters having hypersensitive noses that could pick up changes in body chemistry, stress, and scent.

Oh fuck.

I had put on my fake scent-masking oil hours ago, but I’d spent most of the evening standing over a hot stove. The air in my apartment was thick with the heavy, sweet aromas of toasted pecans, dark cane syrup, melted butter, and billows of flour.

What if the heat and the baking smells had completely washed out the oil? What if the cheap Etsy formula had already worn off, leaving me sitting in a cloud of pure, unmasked human?

Panic spiked, sharp and hot in my chest.

“I—I just need to wash my hands,” I called out, my voice an octave higher than normal. “I’m covered in flour.”

“Take your time,” Hudson called back, his voice smooth and maddeningly unbothered.

I bolted into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me and clicking the lock into place. My hands trembled as I practically tore through my vanity drawer, shoving aside bobby pins and half-empty lotion tubes until my fingers snagged the tiny amber glass vial.

I unscrewed the dropper.

I didn’t have time to calibrate a perfect balance. I hastily dabbed a drop behind each ear, rubbed a frantic smear across my wrists, and slapped a quick dab against my collarbone. Great, now I smelled like a woodchipper. Why the hell did I put so much on? I should’ve dabbed some behind my knees like I’d always done, but what if Hudson and I kissed? Would he be able to tell my scent had changed?

I grabbed the hand towel off the counter and started rubbing furiously at the spots where I’d added the oil. Hudson was waiting for me and probably wondering if I was taking a shit. That was even worse than smelling overly woodsy!

I took three long, steadying breaths, checked the mirror to ensure I hadn’t smeared flour across my forehead in my panic, and unlocked the door.

I slowly returned to the kitchen, trying to look like a person who hadn’t just suffered a micro-heart attack in her own bathroom.

Hudson stood in my kitchen.

Alone with me.

He still had flour on his cheek, and it did nothing to soften anything about him. He was still too tall for the space, still too attractive for my concentration, and watching me with the same awareness that had nearly ended in a kiss beneath the stars.

I leaned against the opposite end of the kitchen counter.

“She planned that,” I said.