Page 66 of Found by the Pack
“I’m beat,” she says, pulling her sweater tighter around herself.
“Where’d you park your truck?”
She hesitates, then gives me a little grin. “I biked.”
I stare at her. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“It’s really good exercise,” she says, mock-offended. “I don’t know why none of you guys believe me.”
I just shake my head, chuckling. “Good thing I brought my truck, then.”
I load up her bike, and she lets me help her in. I’m not sure if it’s the beer, the dancing, or just the late hour, but she’s loose in a way I haven’t seen before—languid, happy. She fiddles with the dials on my dash, flipping the vents open, finding a station she likes.
As I drive, she leans her arm out the window, fingers trailing in the wind. And for the first time since I’ve known her, she looks… free.
It’s dangerous, how much I like it.
I catch myself looking more than I should, noticing the way she leans into the seat, one knee pulled up slightly like she’s finally relaxed enough to get comfortable. I’ve seen her guarded, angry, stubborn, terrified—but not this. Not this lightness.
It’s dangerous. It makes me think about how much more she might be hiding, how many other versions of herself she’s keeping locked away from the rest of the world.
When we pull up to her place, she doesn’t move to get out right away. Instead, she turns to me, lips curving in a small smile. “I’ve got some leftover fish and chips if you want to come in.”
I hesitate, but not for long. “Yeah. I’ll come in.”
Inside, the place smells faintly of paint and lemon cleaner. Her shoes are kicked off by the door, a small pile of brushes and rags stacked neatly in a corner.
Everywhere I look, there’s some trace of her—a sweater draped over a chair, a sketch half-finished on the counter. A chipped mug sits on the windowsill, paint-stained at the rim, and I wonder what it would look like with my coffee cup beside it. I shove the thought away.
She moves easily in the space, humming under her breath as she goes into the kitchen, like she’s used to having someone here. I stay leaning against the archway, watching her pull two waters from the fridge.
“You okay?” I ask.
She glances over her shoulder at me, still humming, then turns back. “I’m… feeling a little reckless.”
That gets my attention. “Reckless how?”
She twists the cap off her bottle, takes a sip, then puts it down on the counter. There’s a flicker of uncertainty in her expression before she says, “Can I ask you something? Like… as a professional medic?”
I nod, curious.
She meets my eyes. “Do you think I’m sexy?”
I choke—actually choke—on my water, sputtering into my hand.
Her face falls immediately, color rushing to her cheeks. “Forget it. It was stupid. I’m probably drunk.”
I set my bottle down and step closer. “Look at me,” I say, quietly but firmly, and she does. “You’re not drunk.”
She swallows, the embarrassment still there in her eyes, but there’s something else under it—something almost like fear.
I reach up, my thumb brushing along her cheekbone. Her skin is warm under my hand, her breath catching just slightly.
“You’ve been through a lot,” I say, my voice low. “That part is true. But none of that changes how you look. And yeah… you’re beautiful, Sadie. Sexy as hell. But that’s not the only thing I see when I look at you.”
Her breathing shifts—slower, heavier. I can feel the way her pulse flutters beneath my touch.
“What if I told you I was broken?” she whispers.
