Chapter 11 #2
It's enormous on me.
The hem falls to mid-thigh, completely covering everything that needs covering and then some.
The shoulder seams hit somewhere around my biceps.
The neck hole is wide enough that it keeps slipping off one shoulder, exposing my collarbone in a way that's either sexy or sloppy depending on your perspective.
His scent envelops me completely now—every breath I take fills my lungs with smoked leather and warmth. I could get used to this. I could get dangerously, irresponsibly used to walking around smelling like him.
I check my reflection again and grin in triumph.
Perfect. I technically look like a tomboy who raided her boyfriend's closet, but I don't mind as long as I'm comfortable. The oversized aesthetic works. Plus, going commando gives me a nice breeze situation happening, and if I'm being optimistic—do I dare hope for one more round before I leave?
Fuck yeah, I dare.
I pad barefoot out of the bedroom, trying to be quiet as I make my way through the house.
The hardwood floors are cool beneath my feet, a pleasant contrast to the warmth of Tank's bed.
Morning light is filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the great room, painting everything in shades of gold and amber.
It's later than I thought—probably close to nine, based on the angle of the sun.
Sasha is sprawled across his massive dog bed, watching me with those intelligent amber eyes. His tail thumps once—a greeting—but he doesn't get up. Just observes, like a furry sentinel keeping track of movements in his domain.
"Good morning, handsome," I whisper, and his tail thumps again. "Stay there. I'm just going to make some food. You'll get some too, don't worry."
The kitchen calls to me like a siren song. I wonder if I should make him breakfast before I go. Would that be overbearing? Presumptuous? The kind of clingy behavior that sends Alpha's running for the hills?
Or would it be a nice gesture? A thank-you for an incredible night? A way to end things on a positive note rather than just... disappearing?
I debate with myself as I survey the contents of his fridge. There's not much—clearly he doesn't cook often, or he's due for a grocery run. But I spot eggs, a package of bacon that's still within its use-by date, and a box of pancake mix in the pantry that looks promising.
I can work with this. I've made incredible meals out of far less.
The coffee pot is my first priority—because I am not a functional human being without caffeine, and also because the ritual of making coffee centers me.
I find a bag of whole beans in the freezer (properly stored, I note with approval), a grinder tucked into a corner of the counter, and a French press that looks like it's never been used.
Rich people and their fancy coffee equipment they don't know how to operate. Classic.
I set the coffee to brew and pull up my phone, scrolling through my music library until I find something suitable for morning cooking. Something upbeat but not aggressive. Something that matches the unexpected lightness I'm feeling despite knowing this is temporary.
The first notes of a pop song fill the kitchen, and I find myself swaying to the rhythm as I crack eggs into a bowl.
This is my element. Not the sex—although that was certainly enjoyable—but this.
Creating something. Transforming raw ingredients into a meal.
The simple alchemy of heat and timing and intuition that turns chaos into sustenance.
I whisk the eggs with a fork, adding a splash of milk and a pinch of salt the way my grandmother taught me. The bacon goes into a cold pan—the only proper way to cook it, fight me—and I turn the heat to medium-low, letting it render slowly while I mix the pancake batter.
The pancake mix is basic—just-add-water variety—but I doctor it up anyway.
A little extra vanilla extract. A pinch of cinnamon.
A tablespoon of melted butter that I find in a dish on the counter.
It's a habit born from years of making do with limited ingredients, of turning cheap basics into something worth eating.
Cooking for someone else feels different than cooking for myself. There's intention in it. Care. The desire to create something good, something that will bring pleasure, something that says "thank you for an incredible night" without using words.
The music shifts to something with more bass, and I'm fully dancing now.
Hip-swaying, shoulder-shimming, spatula-as-microphone dancing.
The kind of ridiculous movement that would mortify me if anyone were watching but feels absolutely necessary when I'm alone in a kitchen with good music and the promise of breakfast.
The bacon starts sizzling in earnest, filling the kitchen with that unmistakable aroma that makes mouths water and morning people out of even the most dedicated night owls. I flip the strips carefully, watching the fat render out, the edges crisping to perfect golden brown.
I pull out plates from the cabinet—simple white ceramic, restaurant-quality—and arrange them on the island.
I've made way too much food, I realize as I flip the first batch of pancakes.
But I have no idea how much Tank eats, or if he's on some kind of calorie bulk or cut situation that bodybuilders do.
Better to have too much than not enough.
Plus, Sasha probably wouldn't mind some bacon scraps. Dogs love bacon. Everyone loves bacon. Bacon is a universal language.
I'm pondering what kind of coffee Tank might prefer—does he seem like a latte person? An espresso purist? A straight-black-coffee-no-frills kind of man?—when the sound of the front door opening makes me freeze.
"You are always so damn hard to reach, Tank," a male voice calls out, and it is not Tank's voice.
I pause mid-pancake flip, spatula suspended in the air, heart suddenly pounding.
My first instinct is defensive—grab the nearest weapon, assess the threat, protect myself.
But the voice doesn't sound aggressive. It sounds.
.. exasperated. Familiar, even, with the easy cadence of someone who has every right to be walking into this house unannounced.
Footsteps approach. Heavy boots on hardwood. And then a man rounds the corner into the kitchen, and—
Oh.
Oh, hello.
He's in full firefighter gear—the heavy jacket with reflective stripes, the thick pants designed to withstand insane temperatures, boots that look like they weigh approximately a thousand pounds each.
The only thing missing is the helmet, which he must have left somewhere else, because his head is bare, revealing a mess of sun-streaked brown hair that looks like he's been running his hands through it all night.
He's tall—not quite Tank's height, but close enough that I have to look up to meet his eyes.
And what eyes they are: a striking hazel-green that catches the morning light and seems to shift colors as I watch.
They're framed by strong brows, set in a face that's all sharp angles and easy charm—high cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass, lips curved into the beginnings of what might become a devastating smile.
He's younger than Tank—late twenties, maybe, with the kind of boyish energy that suggests he doesn't take life too seriously.
There's a playfulness in his features, a lightness that contrasts sharply with Tank's brooding intensity.
Different, but complementary somehow. Like two notes that shouldn't harmonize but somehow do.
His scent hits me a second later, and I have to physically stop myself from leaning toward it.
Woodsmoke and pine needles and something sweet—maple, maybe, or honey.
It's layered over the expected firefighter notes of ash and heat and adrenaline, but there's a warmth beneath it all that feels like coming home after a long journey.
Like campfires and autumn leaves and the promise of cozy evenings wrapped in blankets.
It's different from Tank's scent—less intense, more inviting. Where Tank's aroma demands attention, this one welcomes it. Two very different flavors of Alpha, both equally devastating in their own ways.
And beneath all of that... Alpha. Unmistakably, undeniably Alpha. The kind of dominant presence that fills a room without trying, that makes your omega instincts sit up and take notice even when you've already spent the night with someone else's scent soaking into your skin.
He takes me in slowly—starting at my bare feet, traveling up my borrowed t-shirt, lingering on the shoulder that's slipped free of the oversized neckline, finally reaching my face.
His expression shifts through several emotions in rapid succession: surprise, then assessment, then something that looks suspiciously like approval.
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Your pancakes are burning."
"Shit!" I curse, whipping back around to the stove where, yes, the pancakes have definitely passed "golden brown" and are venturing into "concerning char" territory. I flip them quickly, salvaging what I can, and lower the heat with more aggression than necessary. "Sorry for intruding!"
The words come out automatically—my default response when caught somewhere I'm not sure I belong. But even as I say them, I realize how ridiculous they sound. I'm apologizing for intruding? In the home of a man I spent the night with? To a stranger who just walked in without knocking?
The firefighter chuckles—a warm, easy sound that loosens something in my chest. "I feel like I'm the one intruding, honestly.
Tank never brings anyone to his place." He shakes his head, amusement dancing in those hazel-green eyes.
"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. "
Tank never brings anyone to his place. That's... interesting information. Information that makes last night feel even more significant than it already did.
I file that away for later examination and focus on the more immediate concern: the man in front of me who clearly knows Tank well enough to have access to his home.
"Did you meet Sasha?" he asks, leaning against the kitchen island with the kind of casual grace that suggests he's very comfortable in this space. Very comfortable in his own skin, too—there's no awkwardness in his posture, no tension in his shoulders. Just easy, relaxed confidence.
"Yes," I say, a smile tugging at my lips despite myself. "She surprisingly liked me."
"She?" He raises an eyebrow. "Sasha's a he, actually. But I appreciate the assumption—he does have very pretty eyes."
Oh. Oops. Gender assumptions about dogs—apparently a thing I do now.
"My mistake," I say, not particularly bothered. "He's gorgeous either way. And he tackled me the moment I walked in, so I'm taking that as approval."
"Tackled you?" The firefighter's eyebrows climb higher. "Sasha doesn't tackle. He barely acknowledges visitors exist. I've seen him actively ignore people Tank was trying to impress."
The same thing Tank said—that no omega has ever liked his dog. And now this: that the dog doesn't typically like anyone. What does it mean that Sasha made an exception for me?
I shrug, returning my attention to the pancakes. "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."
The firefighter laughs—full and genuine, the sound warming the kitchen like a secondary heat source. "Okay, I officially like you. Anyone who can joke about being attacked by a horse-sized dog is good in my book."
Something in my chest loosens at the approval.
It shouldn't matter—this man is a stranger, and I'll probably never see him again after this morning—but there's something about his easy acceptance that makes me feel.
.. welcome. Like I haven't overstayed a welcome that was only ever supposed to last one night.
"Would you like eggs and bacon?" I offer, gesturing to the spread I've been preparing. "Obviously no salt or pepper on Sasha's portion, but I figured he'd appreciate the protein."
The firefighter's eyes widen. "You made some for the dog?"
"I made way too much in general," I admit. "But yes, I was planning to set aside some plain stuff for him. Seemed only fair after he gave me such a warm welcome."
He stares at me for a long moment—long enough that I start to wonder if I've done something wrong. Then his face splits into a grin so wide it transforms his features entirely. The sharp angles soften. The easy charm becomes something warmer, more genuine.
"Wow," he says, and there's wonder in his voice. "Cooking breakfast and including Sasha in it. Do we have a winning omega?"
The question is teasing—clearly not meant to be taken seriously—but something about the way he says it makes heat rise to my cheeks. Winning omega. Like I'm a prize to be claimed. Like I'm something worth winning.
Dial it back, Rosemarie. This isn't anything more than it is. Don't read into things that aren't there.
I laugh, keeping my voice light. "Well, I'm more of a temporary Valentine's Day swing." I throw in a wink for good measure, playing up the casual, no-strings-attached vibe. "Nothing permanent. Just a fun night that happened to include excellent sex and mediocre pancake-flipping skills."
His expression flickers—something crosses his face too quickly for me to identify before it's smoothed away. But his smile doesn't falter.
"Valentine's Day swing, huh?" He tilts his head, studying me with those striking hazel-green eyes. "Interesting choice of words."
There's something in his tone—curiosity, maybe, or something deeper that I can't quite identify. Like he's filing away information. Like he's assessing me for something I don't understand.
Before I can respond—before I can deflect or change the subject or make another joke to diffuse the sudden tension in the air—I turn fully to face him, plate in hand.
The bacon is perfectly crispy, the eggs fluffy, the slightly-too-dark pancakes arranged to hide their flaws.
It's not my best work, but it's respectable.
"Breakfast?" I offer, extending the plate toward him like a peace offering. Like an invitation. Like something I can't quite name.
He looks at the plate. Then at me. Then at the plate again. His stomach chooses that exact moment to growl—loud and insistent and impossible to ignore.
His smirk returns, softer now. Infinitely warmer.
"I'm famished."