"I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why not? We're colleagues. You need a place to stay and I have space." His expression was neutral, but something in his eyes made my stomach flip. "It's practical."
"Parker, honestly, Dawson's place does make more sense," Mike said. "My neighborhood might have flooding too. I wasn't thinking about that."
I wanted to argue and maintain my distance and anger and all the walls I'd carefully constructed over the past few hours. But I was exhausted, still shaken from nearly dying, and the thought of a long drive through flooded streets to a place that might not be accessible didn't appeal.
"Fine." I managed to get the one word out. "But just for tonight. As soon as the roads clear, I'm going to a hotel."
"Whatever you need." Dawson let out a long breath. "Let me grab my things."
Twenty minutes later, we were in his truck, driving through streets that looked like rivers. The city was dark with the power out in most areas and garbage littered the roads. Dawson navigated carefully with his hands steady on the wheel.
"Thank you," I said finally, breaking the silence. "For letting me stay."
"It's not a problem." He glanced at me briefly before returning his attention to the road. "I meant what I said earlier. I'm sorry for how I reacted."
"I know." And I did. But knowing didn't make the hurt disappear.
His house was small tucked at the edge of a residential neighborhood that had avoided the worst of the flooding. Inside, it was warm and surprisingly cozy with comfortable furniture, books on shelves, and everything was neat without being sterile.
"Spare room is upstairs, first door on the right." Dawson set his keys on the counter. "Bathroom is across the hall. I'll get you some towels and clothes to sleep in."
"Thanks."
I followed him upstairs, aware of his butt bobbing in front of me. This was a mistake. Being here, in his space, with all this history between us. It was too much, but I was too tired to care.
The spare room was simple with a bed, dresser and a small bookshelf. Dawson appeared with an armful of towels and what looked like an old college t-shirt and sweatpants.
"These should fit." He set them on the bed. "I'll make that hot chocolate. Come down when you're ready."
Then he left, closing the door behind him, and I was alone in Dawson's guest room, holding his clothes and about to drink his hot chocolate.
This was definitely a mistake.
After a welcome shower, I pulled the t-shirt over my head and immediately caught Dawson's scent of pine and rain and something more primal. The fabric was soft from years of washing, and it felt intimate to be wearing something of his. The sweatpants were too loose, and I had to tie the drawstring tight, but even they carried his scent.
I looked at myself in the small mirror above the dresser and studied Dawson's clothes on my body. The scent on his clothes mingled with my own and it struck me that we'd crossed a line, one I hadn't realized we'd been approaching.
SEVEN
DAWSON
The hot chocolate was a mistake.
Not because I didn't have the ingredients. I did, tucked away in the back of my pantry. But because making it felt too intimate. Like I was trying to take care of Parker instead of just offering a colleague a place to crash.
My wolf helpfully reminded me that was exactly what I was doing.
I heard his footsteps on the old hardwood. When he appeared in the kitchen doorway wearing my clothes, my wolf preened with satisfaction. Our mate was wearing our scent.
I shoved that thought away.
"Hot chocolate's almost ready." I kept my tone even. "But I was thinking we should probably eat something real first. When's the last time either of us had actual food?"
Parker considered. "A handful of chips doesn't count?"
"Definitely not."
