Page 43 of Fat Arranged Mate
She slips out of the closet, and I follow, both of us blinking in the relative brightness of the main room. The air feels cooler here, easier to breathe without her scent overwhelming my senses.
"We need to move," I say, voice rougher than intended. "Before they come back."
Sera nods, not quite meeting my eyes. "Lead the way."
As we retrace our path through the forest, maintaining professional distance that feels more deliberate than before, I struggle to rebuild walls that seem suddenly, alarmingly permeable. This mission just became complicated in ways I never anticipated—ways that have nothing to do with missing pack members or human hunters, and everything to do with the woman walking silently beside me.
Chapter 15 - Sera
I can't stop thinking about the closet.
Twenty-four hours later, and my skin still remembers the precise contours of Dylan's body against mine. The solid warmth of his chest. The careful strength in his arms as they circled my waist. The whisper of his breath stirring my hair.
It's maddening. Distracting. Dangerous.
I slam a drawer shut with more force than necessary, startling a nurse who's sorting supplies nearby. She raises an eyebrow, and I mumble an apology before returning to my inventory checklist. The clinic bustles around me—ordinary Tuesday morning chaos of patients checking in, phones ringing, medical equipment beeping in steady rhythms.
"Sera?" Dr. Sanders appears at my elbow, clipboard in hand. "Need you to cover triage this afternoon. Diane called in sick."
"Of course," I agree automatically, grateful for the distraction. Anything to keep my mind occupied with something other than replaying yesterday's closet scene for the hundredth time.
The day passes in a blur of minor emergencies—sprained ankles, allergic reactions, a child with a marble lodged firmly up his nose. I work methodically, professionally, smiling at patients while keeping my ears open for any Guardian-related conversations. It's almost working. Almost.
Until I brush against the supply cabinet and am instantly transported back to that tiny closet, Dylan's arms around me, his scent overwhelming my senses. My hands fumble with the bandages I'm holding, scattering them across the floor.
"You okay?" asks Mike, one of the paramedics, helping me gather the scattered supplies.
"Fine. Just clumsy today." I force a laugh, hoping he can't see the flush creeping up my neck.
By the time my shift ends, I'm wound tight as a spring. The walk home does nothing to clear my head—each step seems to increase rather than decrease the electric tension humming beneath my skin.
Our cottage sits quiet in the late afternoon sun, Dylan's borrowed truck absent from the driveway. He's attending another Guardian meeting tonight, gathering intelligence on their upcoming operations. We've barely spoken since yesterday's mission, maintaining careful distance around each other like wary animals circling uncertain territory.
Inside, I drop my bag and head straight for the shower, desperate to wash away the clinic's antiseptic smell and the lingering unease that follows me. I turn the water as hot as I can stand it, letting it pound against tense muscles.
It doesn't help. If anything, the cascade of sensation heightens my awareness of my own body—skin hypersensitive, nerves singing with a restlessness I can't seem to quell.
This is ridiculous. I'm a professional. A healer. A grown woman who's survived genuine horrors. I should be able to handle an accidental moment of physical proximity without coming completely undone.
Yet here I am, trembling under the shower spray, unable to stop remembering the way his thumb traced circles against my waist. The gentle pressure of his chest against my back. The impossible heat of him.
I shut off the water with a frustrated twist, wrapping myself in a towel and padding to my bedroom. The cottage remains quiet—Dylan won't return for hours yet. Time enough to regain my composure, to rebuild the professional walls that seem suddenly, alarmingly fragile.
Night falls slowly, painting the small living room in deepening shades of blue. I've made myself tea, attempted to read, reviewed our mission notes—anything to occupy my rebellious mind. Nothing works.
Just as I'm considering an early retreat to bed, the crunch of tires on gravel announces Dylan's return. I straighten instinctively, smoothing my hair before catching myself in the absurd gesture. Since when do I care how I look for him?
The front door opens, bringing a rush of cool night air and Dylan's now-familiar presence. He nods in acknowledgment but doesn't quite meet my eyes.
"Anything?" I ask, aiming for professional detachment.
"Nothing concrete." He moves to the kitchen, filling a glass with water. "They're still organizing for something big around the full moon, but details are sparse."
"I heard similar rumors at the clinic today," I offer. "Something about preparations for a 'major operation' next week."
He nods again, gulping the water. Even this ordinary action draws my attention to the strong column of his throat, the flex of muscle beneath tanned skin. I look away quickly, heat rising in my cheeks.
"I need to check in with Connor," he says after a moment. "Standard security protocol."
