Page 26 of Knot on the Market

"Thanks. I'm still figuring it out."

"You're doing better than you think," Dean says, setting the grocery bag on the counter. "It takes time to make a place feel like home."

There's something in the way he says it that suggests he understands more about starting over than his easy confidence usually reveals. But before I can ask, he's unpacking ingredients with practiced efficiency. Fresh vegetables, chicken, noodles, and what looks like half a spice cabinet's worth of bottles and jars.

"Can I help?" I ask, because standing here watching him work feels too much like being taken care of. And I came here to prove I could handle things myself.

"Absolutely. You can handle the vegetables while I get the sauce started." Dean hands me a cutting board and a knife that looks suspiciously professional. "Fair warning, I may have gone overboard with the prep. I stress-cook when I'm nervous."

The admission catches me off guard. "Nervous?"

"Well, yeah." Dean starts pulling containers out of what I thought was a simple grocery bag. "It's not every day I get to cook for someone I..." He trails off, running a hand through his hair. "I mean, I want it to be good. The food. I want you to enjoy it."

The sweet awkwardness of his explanation does something warm and entirely inappropriate to my chest. Dean nervous is somehow even more attractive than Dean confident.

"I'm sure it'll be amazing," I say, accepting the bag of vegetables. "Though I should warn you, my track record with anything kitchen-related is questionable at best."

"Hey, you haven't burned anything down in at least twenty-four hours," Dean points out with a grin. "That's progress."

I laugh, and the sound surprises me, genuine and relaxed in a way I haven't felt in months. To be honest…years.

"Setting the bar nice and low, I see." I cock my hip.

"It's all about realistic expectations." He grins.

We fall into an easy rhythm. Dean works on his sauce with the kind of focus that suggests he takes cooking seriously, while I tackle the vegetables with considerably less skill but growing confidence. The kitchen fills with warm scents of garlic and ginger and whatever magical combination of spices Dean is creating.

There's something cozy about cooking together like this. The gentle sounds of chopping and stirring, the way Dean hums softly while he works, completely at ease in my space. I catch him glancing over at me occasionally, and there's something warm in his expression that makes my chest flutter dangerously.

This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. The comfortable slide into domestic partnership, the way having someone take care of the details makes everything feel easier. The dangerous appeal of letting someone else handle the complicated parts while I focus on being grateful.

But it doesn't feel like that with Dean. It feels like... collaboration. Like we're both contributing something instead of me just being taken care of.

"So," I say, dicing bell peppers with more precision than I knew I possessed, "stress-cooking. Is that a firefighter thing or a Dean thing?"

"Dean thing," he admits, stirring something that smells incredible. "My grandma taught me when I was twelve. Said itwas important for alphas to know how to take care of themselves and the people they care about. Turns out she was right. I've never met a problem that couldn't be helped by good food and someone who gives a damn about making it."

The philosophy is so fundamentally Dean that it makes my chest tight. Of course he learned to cook as an act of service.

"She sounds wonderful," I say.

"She was something else. Lived to be ninety-three and made Sunday dinner for the whole family right up until the end." Dean's smile turns soft with memory. "This sauce? It's hers. She would've gotten a kick out of you, I think."

The statement hits deeper than it should. The casual assumption that his grandmother would have approved of me, the easy way he includes me in the category of people worth caring about, it's exactly the kind of simple acceptance I came here looking for.

I'm contemplating this when Dean reaches past me for the olive oil, and suddenly he's right there. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, close enough that his scent surrounds me. His chest brushes against my shoulder as he stretches for the bottle, and every nerve ending I have sits up and takes notice.

My breath catches audibly, and Dean freezes, his arm still extended over my head. I can feel the exact moment he becomes aware of our proximity, the way his breathing changes, the subtle tension that runs through his body.

"Sorry," he murmurs, but he doesn't step back immediately. Instead, he turns his head slightly, and suddenly we're looking at each other from inches away, the olive oil forgotten in his hand.

For a moment we're frozen like that, his arm creating a cage around me, my heart hammering against my ribs. Dean's gaze flicks down to my lips, lingers there for a heartbeat longer than it should, and the heat in his eyes makes my mouth go dry.

I can smell the faint hint of his aftershave mixing with his natural scent, can see the way his pupils have dilated, can feel the barely restrained tension in how he's holding himself so carefully still. My omega instincts are practically purring at the proximity of a strong, gentle alpha who smells like everything I didn't know I was missing.

And then I catch it, the subtle shift in the air around us. My scent, warming and sweetening in response to his closeness, mixing with his until the whole kitchen smells like some impossibly cozy dream. I'd forgotten this could happen, forgotten that my body might have opinions about attractive alphas that my brain hasn't approved yet.

Dean's nostrils flare slightly, just once, and the way his eyes darken tells me he's noticed too.

---