Page 16 of Fat Arranged Mate
"I don't know. Anything." I turn to look out the window, watching pine trees give way to more mixed forest as we head toward lower elevations. "We're supposed to be married. Might help to know basic things about each other."
He's quiet so long, I think he's ignoring me. Then: "What kind of things?"
The reluctance in his voice almost makes me smile. "I don't know. Favorite color? Food preferences? Whether you snore?"
"Blue. Rare steak. And no, I don't." His answers come clipped, automatic. "You?"
"Green. Anything with garlic. And I have no idea—I've never had anyone to tell me."
More silence. Then: "You grew up in Cheslem?"
The question surprises me. "Yes. Born there. My grandmother was their healer before..." I trail off, memories crowding too close. "What about you? Always Silvercreek?"
"Born there. Never went to college." His voice softens slightly, a change so subtle I almost miss it. "Closest school was too far for a daily commute, and I had Ethan to look after."
"Your brother?" I guess, though I’ve never heard the name.
He nods once, sharply. Subject closed. I wonder if there’s a story there.
We fall back into silence, but it feels slightly less strained. The miles roll by, taking us further from pack territory and deeper into human lands. Road signs for Pinecrest begin to appear, advertising a "Charming Mountain Community" with "Family Values." The irony isn't lost on me.
"Remember," Dylan says as we approach the town limits, "we're newly married, still adjusting. That explains any awkwardness between us."
"So, act like we can barely tolerate each other? Shouldn't be a stretch." The words come out harsher than intended, a shield against the nervousness building in my chest.
His jaw tightens, but he says nothing as we turn onto a quiet residential street lined with modest homes. The rental cottage sits at the end of a cul-de-sac, small but well-maintained, with a tiny front yard and a covered porch. It looks almost painfully normal.
"Home sweet home," I murmur as Dylan pulls into the driveway.
As we exit the car, I'm instantly aware of being watched. A curtain twitches in the house across the street. An elderly man pauses while retrieving his mail two doors down. Small town curiosity—natural but unsettling.
Dylan notices, too, of course. His posture shifts subtly as he moves to the trunk, becoming more open, less alert. His smile, when he hands me a suitcase, looks almost natural. Almost.
"Ready to see the new place, honey?" he asks, loud enough to carry.
I force a smile in return, the endearment making my teeth clench. "Can't wait."
Inside, the cottage is clean but sparse—basic furniture, neutral colors, minimal decor. The kind of place you could leave tomorrow without a second thought. I scan the small living room and the adjoining kitchen, noting the two doors that must lead to the bedrooms.
As the front door closes behind us, Dylan's false smile drops immediately. He performs a silent sweep of the space, checking corners, windows, exits. I stand awkwardly in the center of the living room, unsure what to do with myself in this strange limbo we now inhabit.
"Bedroom's through there," he says, gesturing to the door on the right. "Bathroom's connected to it. I'll take the smaller room."
"Oh." The arrangement makes sense, but somehow, I hadn't quite processed that we'd have separate rooms. Relief mingles with an emotion I refuse to examine. "That works."
We unpack in silence, moving around each other with careful distance. The cottage feels both too small and too large—too cramped for two people accustomed to solitude, too empty without the constant background hum of pack presence.
In the kitchen, I begin organizing supplies, trying to establish some sense of order in the chaos of our situation. Dylan appears behind me, reaching for the same cabinet, and our hands brush briefly. The contact sends an unexpected jolt through me, electric and unsettling. I step back quickly, nearly dropping the box of tea I'm holding.
"Sorry," he mutters, moving to the opposite counter.
I say nothing, my skin still tingling where his fingers grazed mine. His scent—pine and cedar and something uniquely him—fills the small space, somehow both foreign and disturbingly familiar. My wolf stirs restlessly, recognizing another predator in close proximity.
By evening, exhaustion catches up with us. The stress of the lottery, the sudden mission, the long drive—all of it weighs heavily on my shoulders as I prepare for bed in the unfamiliar bathroom. The face that greets me in the mirror looks drawn, uncertain. Not the confident spy these humans expect to fool, just a tired wolf far from her pack.
In the bedroom, I slip under covers that smell of laundry detergent rather than forest and pack. Through the thin wall, I can hear Dylan moving in the adjacent room—the creak of floorboards, the soft sound of a window being checked one final time.
Despite my exhaustion, sleep eludes me. I lie awake, hyperaware of his presence just feet away, separated only by drywall and stubbornness. How am I supposed to maintain emotional distance when everything about this situation forces proximity? How can I pretend to be in love with someone whose very approach to life contradicts everything I believe?
