Chapter 12 #2
Something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe, or a recalculation of whatever assumptions she'd been making. She files the information away visibly, processing it, and I find myself curious about what conclusions she's drawing.
"Did you meet Sasha?" I ask, because Sasha is the real gatekeeper of this household. Tank's opinion matters, sure. But Sasha's opinion is law.
"Yes," she says, and a smile tugs at her lips despite herself. "She surprisingly liked me."
"She?" I raise an eyebrow. "Sasha's a he, actually. But I appreciate the assumption—he does have very pretty eyes."
Her cheeks flush slightly—adorable—but she doesn't seem particularly bothered by the mistake. "My mistake. He's gorgeous either way. And he tackled me the moment I walked in, so I'm taking that as approval."
Tackled her? Sasha actually tackled her?
"Sasha doesn't tackle," I say, and I can hear the disbelief in my own voice. "He barely acknowledges visitors exist. I've seen him actively ignore people Tank was trying to impress."
She shrugs, turning back to the pancakes with easy confidence. "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."
I laugh—can't help it. The image of Sasha, all hundred-and-fifty pounds of stoic Malamute dignity, bowling over this omega like an overgrown puppy is too good. And her response to it—casual, humorous, utterly unbothered—only makes me like her more.
"Okay, I officially like you," I announce. "Anyone who can joke about being attacked by a horse-sized dog is good in my book."
"Would you like eggs and bacon?" she offers, gesturing to the spread she's been preparing. "Obviously no salt or pepper on Sasha's portion, but I figured he'd appreciate the protein."
She made food for the dog. She made food for Tank's dog. Without being asked.
"You made some for the dog?" I ask, and I know my expression is probably giving away how impressed I am.
"I made way too much in general," she admits. "But yes, I was planning to set aside some plain stuff for him. Seemed only fair after he gave me such a warm welcome."
Who is this woman? Where did Tank find her? And more importantly, how do I make sure she sticks around?
"Wow," I say, not bothering to hide the wonder in my voice. "Cooking breakfast and including Sasha in it. Do we have a winning omega?"
She laughs—light and easy, but there's something guarded beneath it. Something that suggests she's not used to being called "winning" and isn't quite sure what to do with the compliment.
"Well, I'm more of a temporary Valentine's Day swing," she says, and there's a wink thrown in for good measure. "Nothing permanent. Just a fun night that happened to include excellent sex and mediocre pancake-flipping skills."
Temporary Valentine's Day swing. That's... an interesting way to frame it. And also disappointing, though I'm not sure I have any right to be disappointed about a woman I met thirty seconds ago.
"Valentine's Day swing, huh?" I tilt my head, studying her. "Interesting choice of words."
She turns fully to face me, plate in hand. The food looks good—better than good, actually. Perfectly crispy bacon, fluffy scrambled eggs, pancakes that are only slightly too dark around the edges. It's the kind of breakfast that takes effort, that shows care.
"Breakfast?" she offers, extending the plate toward me.
My stomach growls in response—loud and insistent and impossible to ignore. Twelve hours of on-call work tends to leave you hungry, especially when the station's idea of food is reheated pizza and protein bars.
"I'm famished," I admit, and the smile that spreads across my face is entirely genuine.
She gestures toward the breakfast bar, and I settle onto one of the high-backed stools while she finishes plating.
The kitchen island is gorgeous—black marble veined with gold—and I've always been a little jealous of Tank's house.
The man has impeccable taste, even if he never brings anyone home to appreciate it.
Until now, apparently.
I unstrap the heavier parts of my gear while she works—the jacket gets draped over the stool beside me, the boots I kick off because I'm not an animal who wears fireproof footwear inside someone else's house.
Underneath, I'm in the standard-issue pants and a black thermal that's seen better days but is comfortable as hell.
She sets a plate in front of me with the kind of efficiency that suggests experience—not just cooking, but serving.
There's a grace to her movements, a practiced ease that makes me wonder about her background.
Hospitality? Restaurant work? The way she arranges the food is almost artistic, even though she'd probably dismiss it as basic.
I take my first bite, and I have to close my eyes because the bacon is genuinely perfect.
Crispy without being burnt, flavorful without being oversalted.
The eggs are fluffy and seasoned just right.
Even the slightly-too-dark pancakes taste better than they have any right to—there's vanilla in them, I think, and maybe a hint of cinnamon.
Okay. She can cook. She can definitely cook. Add that to the list of things I'm finding unreasonably attractive about this woman.
"So," she says, leaning against the counter across from me. "Were you out on the line of duty?"
I take a bite of bacon—perfectly crispy, exactly the way I like it—before answering. "Today was on-call only. But a few drills don't hurt. Keeps the team sharp, keeps the equipment checked, keeps us from going stir-crazy waiting for something to happen."
She nods, and there's genuine interest in her expression. Not the performative "oh how brave" response I get from most people when they find out what I do for a living. Just... curiosity. Engagement.
"How do you like your coffee?" she asks, already moving toward the French press that's been steeping on the counter.
I laugh—can't help it. "Well, the coffee I actually like can't be made. Not with standard equipment, anyway."
Something shifts in her expression. The casual, slightly guarded demeanor she's been wearing since I walked in... changes. Her spine straightens. Her eyes sharpen. There's a new energy in the way she holds herself—focused, almost competitive.
"Try me," she says, and it's a challenge. A genuine, honest-to-God challenge, delivered with a smirk that does interesting things to my heart rate. "If I have the ingredients, it can be made."
Oh. Oh, this is interesting. This isn't casual conversation anymore. This is someone in their element.
I arch an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. "Fine. Can you make a caramelized honey oat milk latte with espresso undertones and just a hint of cardamom? Not too sweet, not too bitter—that perfect balance where you can taste every note but none of them overpower the others?"
It's a tall order. I know it's a tall order.
Most coffee shops look at me like I've grown a second head when I describe it, and the few that attempt it never quite get the ratios right.
It's the kind of drink I only get properly made when I visit this one specific café in the city, run by a barista who charges twice what anyone else does because she knows she's worth it.
The omega doesn't even blink.
"Interesting," she says, and she's already moving.
Opening cabinets, checking containers, assembling ingredients with the kind of muscle memory that only comes from doing something a thousand times.
"Caramelized honey, oat milk, cardamom..
." She finds a small jar in the spice cabinet and holds it up triumphantly.
"You're in luck. Tank apparently has taste. "
She's actually going to try it. She's actually confident enough to attempt the most finicky coffee order I've ever given anyone.
I watch her work, and it's like watching a completely different person emerge.
The shy undercurrent I sensed earlier—the slight guardedness, the way she seems to hold parts of herself back—vanishes entirely. In its place is pure, unfiltered confidence. She moves through the kitchen like she owns it, like she was born to be surrounded by brewing equipment and raw ingredients.
She heats the honey in a small pan, watching it carefully until it begins to caramelize, the color deepening from golden to amber.
The oat milk goes into a separate container for frothing—she's using what looks like a manual frother she found in one of Tank's drawers, working it with practiced efficiency.
The espresso comes from the French press she'd already prepared, concentrated and strong.
And the cardamom... she doesn't just dump it in. She grinds fresh pods with a mortar and pestle that I didn't even know Tank owned, releasing that distinctive sweet-spicy aroma that tells me she knows exactly what she's doing.
The whole kitchen smells incredible now—the savory remnants of breakfast mixing with the sweetness of caramelizing honey and the exotic warmth of cardamom. It's layered over her natural scent in a way that makes my mouth water for reasons that have nothing to do with food.
This isn't someone who learned coffee from a YouTube tutorial. This is someone who's trained. Who's devoted time and energy and passion to mastering this craft.
The way she moves—confident, precise, completely in her element—it's like watching an artist at work. Every movement has purpose. Every decision is deliberate. She's not just making coffee; she's creating something.
"What's your name?" I ask, because I realize I don't actually know it. Tank didn't mention anything about an omega when he spoke to Julian about the bodyguard favor.
"Rosemarie," she says without looking up from her work. "But most people call me Rose. You?"
"Elias." I pause, watching her layer the caramelized honey into the bottom of a mug. "So, Rosemarie. Where does someone learn to make coffee like this?"
"Here and there," she says, and there's something deliberately vague about the answer.
"I worked at Starbucks Reservatory for a while.
Before that, I trained with a few independent roasters.
Before that..." She shrugs. "I've always been drawn to it.
The precision. The creativity. The way you can make something beautiful out of the same basic ingredients depending on how you approach it. "
Starbucks Reservatory. That's not entry-level. That's the elite tier—the place where they train baristas to be artists rather than button-pushers.
"And the latte art?" I ask, because I can see her preparing something that looks suspiciously like she's about to attempt a design.
She glances up at me with a smirk. "Watch and find out."
I do. I watch as she pours the espresso over the caramelized honey, watch it swirl and mix into something that smells absolutely incredible.
I watch as she adds the cardamom—just a pinch, carefully measured.
I watch as she begins to pour the frothed oat milk with a concentration that borders on meditative.
Her wrist moves in patterns I can't quite follow—deliberate, precise, with the kind of control that takes years to develop. She's creating something on the surface of the drink, building layer by layer with the milk foam, using what looks like a toothpick for finer details.
When she finally steps back, she lets out a breath of relief. "Got the art perfectly," she murmurs, more to herself than to me.
I can't help myself. I'm off the stool and crossing to the counter before I've consciously decided to move, drawn by curiosity and something else I can't quite name. I come up behind her, close enough that I can look over her shoulder at what she's created.
And I stop breathing.
Because there, in the foam of my ridiculously specific coffee order, is Sasha. Not a generic dog—Sasha. The distinctive pattern of his fur, the shape of his ears, even the intelligent expression in his amber eyes. And on his head, perfectly rendered in milk foam, is a fire helmet.
A fire helmet with what looks like the number of my station etched into it.
How did she—I'm wearing my gear. She saw my gear and made—she made Sasha into a firefighter. For me.
The detail is insane. She captured the slight tilt of his head, the way one ear always sits a little higher than the other. She even got the expression in his eyes—that intelligent, watchful look that makes you feel like he's judging your life choices and finding them wanting.
I whistle, low and impressed. "Well fuck. You're good at this shit."
She turns to look at me, and I realize too late how close we're standing.
Two inches apart, maybe less. Close enough that I can see the individual flecks of gold in her hazel eyes.
Close enough that her scent wraps around me like a physical embrace, all cinnamon and coffee and something underneath that's purely her.
She's not pulling away. If anything, she's leaning in slightly, her chin tilting up to hold my gaze. There's pride in her expression—the justified satisfaction of someone who knows they've done something well—but there's also something else. Something that looks a lot like heat.
"Now try it," she says, and there's a challenge in her voice that makes my competitive instincts flare to life.
I arch an eyebrow, matching her smirk with one of my own. "Alright. But if it doesn't taste divine, you owe me."
She doesn't miss a beat. "And if it does, you owe me a date, firefighter."
A date. She just bet me a date on the quality of her coffee. This woman—this gorgeous, talented, confusing omega who showed up in Tank's kitchen wearing his shirt and making friends with his dog—just wagered a date on her barista skills.
And based on what I'm looking at, I'm absolutely going to lose this bet. Which means I'm going to win something much better.
I think I might be in trouble.
My grin spreads wider, showing teeth. Something warm unfurls in my chest—anticipation, maybe, or the beginning of something I don't want to name yet.
Something that feels suspiciously like hope.
I wink at her, because I can't resist, because she's looking at me with those challenging eyes and I want to see what happens if I push back.
"Chief, to be exact," I correct her, because if we're going to play this game, we might as well get the titles right. "But I can totally keep a promise like that."