Page 129 of Pack Plus One

“And this,” I say, approaching the crown jewel with reverence, “is the oven.”

It’s a gleaming behemoth, all stainless steel and digital displays. I saved for years for this specific model—commercial-grade with stone baking decks and steam injection capabilities that will give my breads the perfect crust.

“I haven’t actually used it yet,” I admit, running my fingers along its pristine surface. “Today will be its maiden voyage.”

“You’re christening it with us here?” Jude clutches his chest dramatically. “I’m honored. Truly.”

I roll my eyes at his theatrics, but there’s truth in his words. Having them here for this moment feels significant in ways I hadn’t anticipated. This isn’t just the first bake in my new space—it’s the first time I’m sharing my craft, my passion, with people who seem to genuinely care.

“I thought we could make croissants,” I suggest, moving toward the refrigerator. “First official bake in Sweet Omega’s kitchen.”

“From scratch?” Jude looks momentarily alarmed. “Doesn’t that take like twelve hours or something?”

“It can,” I admit, already pulling out butter—the French butter they just helped unload—and placing it on the marble countertop. “But I know a few shortcuts. It’ll still take a few hours though, so if you need to go?—”

“We don’t,” Caleb says simply, his deep voice brooking no argument.

“Show us,” Mason adds quietly, his steady presence already calming my sudden nervousness about sharing this process.

Liam steps closer to the counter, a gentle smile softening his features. “I’d love to learn how it’s done properly.”

Their interest warms me more than the oven ever could.

“Okay then.” I pin my hair back, suddenly energized. “Gather ‘round for Croissants 101.”

The process begins with ingredients. Flour, salt, yeast… the building blocks of happiness. I pour the ingredients into the bowl, my hands moving with ease. This is where I belong. Not at a stuffy wedding, not playing pretend with a pack that’s not mine, but here, in my kitchen, surrounded by the scents and sounds of creation. I glance at Caleb, catching his eye, and can’t help the smile that spreads across my face.

“The dough needs structure but tenderness.” I continue kneading. “Too much working and it gets tough, too little and it won’t hold the layers.”

“Like relationships,” Jude says, leaning his elbows on the counter. When we all turn to look at him, he shrugs. “What? I have depths.”

When my arms tire from kneading, Liam steps in without being asked, his hands working the dough with surprising skill. His touch is gentle but confident, just like the way he touches me, and I find myself watching the movement of his fingers fascinated.

“You’ve done this before,” I comment, surprised by his deft handling of the dough.

He shrugs. “My grandmother practically raised me in her bakery. Sundays were for cinnamon rolls and guilt trips about not eating enough.”

I grin. “Guilt trips are a key ingredient in every good baker’s arsenal.”

Mason, watching intently, picks up a piece of the chilled butter. “So, the temperature matters that much?” he asks, turning it over in his hands.

“Everything in baking is about balance,” I explain, oddly touched by his interest. “Too cold and the butter cracks, too warm and it melts into the dough instead of creating layers.”

He nods, absorbing this information even though it shouldn’t really be of interest to him. When our hands briefly touch as I pass him the dough scraper, the contact sends a small jolt through me, his skin warm against mine.

The crucial process of encasing the butter in dough draws them all closer, crowding around the marble counter.

“Watch,” I say, placing the butter block in the center of the rolled-out dough. The butter gleams slightly in the light, pale yellow and perfectly rectangular after I’ve beaten and folded it into shape. “This is where the magic happens.”

I fold the dough over the butter, sealing it with careful pinches. The weight of their attention should be uncomfortable, but instead it feels like a spotlight I’ve been unknowingly craving—appreciation for the craft I’ve spent years perfecting.

“Now we roll,” I explain, positioning the rolling pin at the top of the dough packet. “This creates the layers. Dough, butter, dough, butter—repeated dozens of times through folding and rolling.”

Caleb steps closer, his chest nearly touching my back. “Show me,” he says, and it’s not quite a command, but close enough that my omega instincts stir in response.

I hand him the rolling pin, our fingers brushing in a way that sends warmth cascading through me. “Gentle but firm pressure,” I instruct, my voice embarrassingly breathy as I guide his hands. “Even thickness throughout.”

He nods, expression intent as he follows my direction. His arms bracket me as he works the dough, his body radiating heat that I feel even without direct contact. When he leans forward slightly to inspect his work, his chest presses against my back, and I inhale audibly.

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