Chapter 15 - Sera
I can't stop thinking about the closet.
Twenty-four hours later, and my skin still remembers the precise contours of Dylan's body against mine. The solid warmth of his chest. The careful strength in his arms as they circled my waist. The whisper of his breath stirring my hair.
It's maddening. Distracting. Dangerous.
I slam a drawer shut with more force than necessary, startling a nurse who's sorting supplies nearby.
She raises an eyebrow, and I mumble an apology before returning to my inventory checklist. The clinic bustles around me—ordinary Tuesday morning chaos of patients checking in, phones ringing, medical equipment beeping in steady rhythms.
"Sera?" Dr. Sanders appears at my elbow, clipboard in hand. "Need you to cover triage this afternoon. Diane called in sick."
"Of course," I agree automatically, grateful for the distraction. Anything to keep my mind occupied with something other than replaying yesterday's closet scene for the hundredth time.
The day passes in a blur of minor emergencies—sprained ankles, allergic reactions, a child with a marble lodged firmly up his nose. I work methodically, professionally, smiling at patients while keeping my ears open for any Guardian-related conversations. It's almost working. Almost.
Until I brush against the supply cabinet and am instantly transported back to that tiny closet, Dylan's arms around me, his scent overwhelming my senses. My hands fumble with the bandages I'm holding, scattering them across the floor.
"You okay?" asks Mike, one of the paramedics, helping me gather the scattered supplies.
"Fine. Just clumsy today." I force a laugh, hoping he can't see the flush creeping up my neck.
By the time my shift ends, I'm wound tight as a spring. The walk home does nothing to clear my head—each step seems to increase rather than decrease the electric tension humming beneath my skin.
Our cottage sits quiet in the late afternoon sun, Dylan's borrowed truck absent from the driveway.
He's attending another Guardian meeting tonight, gathering intelligence on their upcoming operations.
We've barely spoken since yesterday's mission, maintaining careful distance around each other like wary animals circling uncertain territory.
Inside, I drop my bag and head straight for the shower, desperate to wash away the clinic's antiseptic smell and the lingering unease that follows me. I turn the water as hot as I can stand it, letting it pound against tense muscles.
It doesn't help. If anything, the cascade of sensation heightens my awareness of my own body—skin hypersensitive, nerves singing with a restlessness I can't seem to quell.
This is ridiculous. I'm a professional. A healer. A grown woman who's survived genuine horrors. I should be able to handle an accidental moment of physical proximity without coming completely undone.
Yet here I am, trembling under the shower spray, unable to stop remembering the way his thumb traced circles against my waist. The gentle pressure of his chest against my back. The impossible heat of him.
I shut off the water with a frustrated twist, wrapping myself in a towel and padding to my bedroom. The cottage remains quiet—Dylan won't return for hours yet. Time enough to regain my composure, to rebuild the professional walls that seem suddenly, alarmingly fragile.
Night falls slowly, painting the small living room in deepening shades of blue. I've made myself tea, attempted to read, reviewed our mission notes—anything to occupy my rebellious mind. Nothing works.
Just as I'm considering an early retreat to bed, the crunch of tires on gravel announces Dylan's return. I straighten instinctively, smoothing my hair before catching myself in the absurd gesture. Since when do I care how I look for him?
The front door opens, bringing a rush of cool night air and Dylan's now-familiar presence. He nods in acknowledgment but doesn't quite meet my eyes.
"Anything?" I ask, aiming for professional detachment.
"Nothing concrete." He moves to the kitchen, filling a glass with water. "They're still organizing for something big around the full moon, but details are sparse."
"I heard similar rumors at the clinic today," I offer. "Something about preparations for a 'major operation' next week."
He nods again, gulping the water. Even this ordinary action draws my attention to the strong column of his throat, the flex of muscle beneath tanned skin. I look away quickly, heat rising in my cheeks.
"I need to check in with Connor," he says after a moment. "Standard security protocol."
"Of course." I gather my book and empty teacup, suddenly desperate for retreat. "I'll turn in early."
We navigate the narrow hallway with careful precision, maintaining maximum possible distance as we pass each other. It's almost comical—two adults behaving like magnets with reversed polarity, pushing away with the same force that seems to constantly draw us together.
In my bedroom, I change into sleep clothes—oversized t-shirt, soft cotton shorts—and attempt to focus on my book.
The words blur into meaningless patterns, my attention straying to the muffled sounds of Dylan moving around the cottage.
Water running in the bathroom. Floorboards creaking beneath his weight. The soft click of his bedroom door.
Minutes later, his voice drifts through the thin wall separating our rooms. He must be on the secure phone, speaking to Connor back at Silvercreek. I try not to listen—truly, I do—but the timbre of his voice carries easily, and fragments reach me despite my best intentions.
"...going as planned. No, we haven't located Miles yet, but..."
I should put in earphones. Or turn on music. Something to block the intrusion into his privacy.
Instead, I find myself perfectly still, ears straining to catch each word.
"...think he's safe, based on what we overheard yesterday..."
A pause. Connor must be speaking.
"No, nothing concrete yet on the Guardian operations, but..."
Another pause, longer this time. Then Dylan's voice changes, dropping lower and carrying a note I've never heard from him before.
"That's not the problem, Con. I'm handling the mission objectives fine. It's just..."
My heartbeat quickens inexplicably.
"Yeah. Yeah, exactly that." A soft sound that might be a frustrated laugh. "It's becoming a distraction."
My stomach drops. I'm the distraction. My inexperience, my hesitation, my pacifist principles—all liabilities to someone like Dylan, trained for efficient action and clear-cut decisions.
"No, it's not that she's incompetent. The opposite, actually."
Wait. What?
"She's... I don't know. Different than I expected. Stronger."
Heat rises in my face for entirely new reasons.
"The problem is I can't stop thinking about her." His voice drops even lower, barely audible through the wall. "Yesterday we were hiding, and she was pressed against me for maybe fifteen minutes, and I just... Fuck, Connor."
Oh.
"Yeah, laugh it up, asshole." But there's no heat in his words. "You're not the one stuck in a tiny cottage with someone who drives you crazy in every possible way."
Every possible way? My pulse hammers in my throat, body suddenly flushed with awareness.
"No, I haven't done anything about it. We're on mission. She's my lottery match. And she probably still hates me."
I press my fingers against my lips, unsure whether I want to laugh or scream. I don't hate him. I'm not sure I ever did, not really. Feared him, yes. Disagreed with him, absolutely. But hate?
"Yeah, well, telling me to just 'get it out of my system' isn't exactly helpful advice, considering the circumstances."
Get it out of his system? What exactly is Connor suggesting? The implications send a rush of heat spiraling through me, settling low in my abdomen with insistent pressure.
"Look, forget I said anything. I'll handle it."
His voice grows fainter, suggesting he's moved away from the wall we share. The conversation continues, shifting to operational details I can no longer distinguish. Just as well—I've heard more than enough. More than I should have.
I press my heated cheeks against my pillow, mind racing with this new information. Dylan thinks about me. Wants me, if I'm interpreting correctly. The knowledge creates a strange, swooping sensation in my stomach, equal parts terror and something dangerously like anticipation.
This is a complication we can't afford. We're undercover agents with a mission critical to the safety of multiple packs. We're reluctant lottery matches with fundamentally opposing worldviews. We're temporary partners who will return to our separate lives once this assignment concludes.
Yet none of these rational arguments seems to matter to my rebellious body, which now hums with awareness at the memory of his words. I can't stop thinking about her. The deep rumble of his confession replays in my mind, sending shivers across my skin.
I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling in the darkness. Sleep seems impossible now. Every nerve ending feels electrified, hyper-aware. I shift restlessly, sheet tangling around my legs, body temperature rising despite the cool night air flowing through the cracked window.
From the other room, I hear the soft click of Dylan's phone being set down, the creak of his bed as he settles. Is he lying awake, too? Thinking of me as I'm thinking of him? The possibility only intensifies the warmth spreading through me.
I press my thighs together, trying to alleviate the ache building there. This is madness. Complete, utter madness. I should be focusing on our mission, on the missing pack member, on the dangerous Guardian operations we're investigating.
Instead, all I can think about is Dylan's hands. His voice. His eyes watching me across rooms with an intensity I've been deliberately misinterpreting as mistrust rather than desire.
How long has this been building? Was it there from the beginning, disguised as antagonism? Or did it develop gradually, transforming from genuine dislike to something far more complicated?
I have no answers, only questions that circle endlessly as the night deepens around me. One thing is certain: tomorrow morning, I'll have to face him knowing what I now know. Pretending I haven't heard his confession. Maintaining the careful distance we've established.
Unless...
No. I cut off that dangerous line of thinking before it can fully form. Whatever this is—attraction, chemistry, simple proximity—it changes nothing about our fundamental differences.
Yet as I finally drift toward uneasy sleep, my body still humming with unfulfilled awareness, I can't help wondering what might happen if we stopped fighting this current between us, even for a moment.