"Perfection," he declares, but his eyes devour me, not the treat.
The door rattles then, Margaret's key turning, and we straighten hastily, though the flush on my cheeks and the disarray of my dress betray us. She enters with a knowing smile, surveying the baked goods and our rumpled states.
"Looks like you made the most of the time."
I laugh, gathering the cookies into a container, the simple act grounding me amid the whirlwind.
As we exit to rejoin the others, the fence newly mended and their faces smeared with dirt and sweat, I feel the pack's gaze on me—curious, possessive, alive with possibility.
This day, with its unexpected intimacies and shared labors, weaves us tighter, and I wonder what other delights await in this unfolding bond.
The drive back to Sweetwater Falls unfolds in a haze of contentment, the truck's cab filled with the aroma of fresh cookies and the low hum of conversation.
I nestle between Silas and Bear in the back seat, my head resting on Bear's broad shoulder while Silas's hand traces idle patterns on my thigh, hidden from view but electric in its promise.
Aidric drives, his storm-gray eyes flicking to the rearview mirror more often than necessary, while Calder rides shotgun, his posture relaxed but his amber gaze occasionally meeting mine with a spark of intrigue.
We distribute the cookies, bites passed around like tokens of our afternoon's triumph, laughter erupting as Aidric recounts his baking debacle with reluctant humor.
"That bread resembled a meteor crater more than sustenance," he grumbles, but the edge is gone, replaced by self-deprecating amusement that draws chuckles from us all.
Bear pops a cookie into my mouth, his fingers lingering on my lips, and I savor the burst of flavor, the chocolate's richness mingling with the subtle saltiness that echoes our earlier escapades.
"You baked these to perfection, Firefly," he praises, his green eyes gleaming with pride. "Though I suspect Silas provided... inspiration."
I swat his arm playfully, heat rising anew, but the tease feels affectionate, inclusive.
Silas's fingers squeeze my thigh gently, a silent affirmation, and I lean into the contact, marveling at how these touches—once sources of flinch-worthy fear—now kindle security and desire.
As the landscape shifts from town outskirts to rural expanses, conversation turns to the ranch. "Cactus Rose needs attention tomorrow," Aidric states, his voice steady with purpose. "Fences to check, livestock to tend. We can make it a pack effort."
The idea resonates, a thread pulling us toward shared purpose. I picture us there—me in work boots and one of my new outfits, the Alphas' cowboy aesthetics in full display, sweat and soil binding us in labor's honest rhythm.
"I'd love that," I respond, voice soft but certain. "Willa entrusted it to me, but sharing the load...it lightens everything."
Calder twists in his seat, his smile warm.
"Then it's settled. Dawn start, unless you prefer sleeping in after today's exertions."
The innuendo lands lightly, drawing smirks, but no tension follows. This ease, this banter—it's novel, a far cry from Gregory's pack, where every word carried undercurrents of judgment or demand.
Here, affection flows freely, unburdened by expectation.
Dusk settles as we approach the station, the building's lights winking like beacons. Inside, the space feels less like a temporary refuge and more like home, my belongings integrated among theirs.
The moment we cross the threshold into Station Fahrenheit, the collective exhaustion of the day briefly pauses, arrested by the pure, unfiltered chaos of kittens performing synchronized acrobatics at our feet.
Ember, Ash, Cinder, and Spark, all miniature fluff and erratic energy, tumble down the front hallway like a furryavalanche, digging their needle-claws into the doormat and each other as they jockey for the coveted position of "first to greet the humans." They zero in on my boots with laser precision, climbing my jeans in a coordinated assault that would impress even the most jaded drill sergeant.
My hands are instantly occupied untangling purring kittens from my shoelaces, their tiny bodies vibrating with affection and a patented brand of feline entitlement.
Blaze, the station's unofficial golden retriever mascot and undisputed ruler of his domain, observes the mayhem from his customary vantage point atop the battered armchair in the rec room.
He surveys the scene with the patient, bemused air of a monarch tolerating his court's seasonal mischief, tail thudding rhythmically against the upholstery as he waits for the requisite belly rub and a report on the day's activities.
He doesn't so much as twitch as the kittens scramble onto the arm of the chair and use his side as an impromptu springboard, instead greeting our return with a single, resonant woof that brings every pack member running to deliver their daily tribute—namely, ear scratches and a handful of the gourmet treats Aidric keeps stashed in a labeled Rubbermaid under the kitchen counter.
I scoop up Ember, the boldest of the litter, and she immediately settles on my shoulder like a pint-sized parrot, purring directly into my ear as though relaying urgent kitten business. Bear and Silas are instantly drafted into kitten-wrangling duty; Bear, predictably, is the softest touch, scooping up two at once and nuzzling their faces with a goofy tenderness that sets my heart wobbling. Once they’ve had their share, they’re rushing to their next victims, while Silas is more methodical, corralling Ash and Cinder into the crook of his arm and stroking their heads with absent-minded precision, butthere's a visible softening in his expression that makes me want to record the moment for future blackmail—if only I had a free hand.
