It wasn’t just an attraction. It was… recognition.
The kind of recognition that doesn’t need words.
The tension is real. Palpable. Wren’s stirred something in all of us, and none of us is ready to admit how deep it’s gone. We’re the Rescue Pack—Fox Hollow’s self-proclaimed trio of lifesavers. And now?
We’re acting like lovesick idiots.
After another round, the three of us retreat to the booth again, and Mick swings by with loaded fries. The conversation drifts—back to work, the upcoming Harvest Festival, how Simon refuses to volunteer for the pie judging again after last year’s cinnamon debacle.
But underneath it all, Wren lingers.
Her scent. Her silence. The sharp pride in her posture, even when everything around her was crumbling.
“She’s not like the others,” Beau says, voice low.
“She’s not ours,” Simon replies, but there’s something in his voice—a thread of hesitation.
I stare down at the amber bottle in front of me.
No one’s claimed anything. And yet…
It feels like something has already begun.
By the time we call it a night, Mick’s wiping down the bar. I slap a tip into the jar and wave him off.
“Night, boys,” he calls as we step out into the night air.
Beau whistles low. “Well, that was weird.”
Simon grunts. “Try not thinking with your dick next time.”
I laugh softly, but it’s hollow. Because I’m not sure whether he’s talking to me, Beau…or himself.
CHAPTER SIX
Wren
I wakewith my cheek pressed into fabric that doesn’t belong to me.
Levi’s hoodie is soft and worn at the edges, too oversized around my arms, and loose at the waist. It still smells like him—cedarwood and smoke and something warmer, richer like leather seats heated by the summer sun.
I should’ve taken it off. I meant to. But the scent made something in my chest quiet last night, like the static in my brain finally dialed down to a whisper.
I’m too warm now. Restless. And there’s this dull buzz under my skin—irritability, soreness, every scent in the air amplified like I’ve been dropped into some sensory torture chamber.
Pancake is curled at my feet, snoring gently. Even his fur smells stronger today. Or maybe I’m just… off.
God. Not now.
I roll out of bed, padding barefoot to the kitchen to feed him. His tail flicks with impatience until I dump his usual chicken blend into the bowl, and he digs in like he hasn’t eaten in a week.
I rub my eyes and lean against the counter, trying to shake the heaviness pressing behind them.
The fire. That must be it. Too much smoke. Too little sleep. A stress hangover.
Right.
I grab a change of clothes and take the fastest shower I can manage—lukewarm water, unscented soap, and my hair twisted up in a towel. I’m too fragile to deal with the chaos that is drying it.
