Page 4 of Knotted By my Pack
But today, something is wrong.
My skin buzzes. A restless, unsettling energy curls low in my stomach. I roll out my yoga mat, forcing myself through the motions. Stretch. Breathe. Hold. Control.
My body protests, but I push through. It’s just an off morning. Nothing more.
I finish the routine, still unsettled. Still hot.
Another shower. This time, I stand under the spray longer, hands braced against the tile as water sluices over my back. Maybe I need more sleep. Maybe I need food. Maybe…
The sound of the front door unlocking snaps me out of it.
Noah.
He doesn’t knock anymore. He just walks in like he owns the place. Like he has for years.
I get out of the shower and quickly pull on a pair of shorts and a tank top, then make it downstairs just as he steps into the kitchen.
He looks the same as always—flannel rolled up to his elbows, well-worn jeans, boots that have seen one too many construction sites. Sandy blond hair a mess, like he didn’t bother brushing it before leaving the house.
Brown eyes flick over me, sharp and assessing. “You eat yet?”
I shake my head. “Didn’t get around to it.”
His brows draw together. It’s barely a flicker, but I see it. The shift. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just not hungry.”
The silence stretches. Noah knows me. Probably better than I know myself. And right now, he doesn’t believe me.
He exhales through his nose. “I’ll make breakfast.”
I don’t argue.
I watch instead.
He moves through my kitchen like he belongs there, opening cabinets, pulling out a pan, grabbing eggs and bacon from the fridge. The burner clicks, flames catching, and soon the sound of sizzling bacon fills the space.
His forearms flex as he flips the bacon, biceps tightening under the worn cotton of his flannel.
I shouldn’t be staring.
But suddenly, I am.
Noah is attractive. That’s a fact, one everyone knows. Broad shoulders. Strong hands. The kind of solid, quiet presence that makes people trust him instinctively. But I have never looked at him like this.
Never sat in my kitchen and wondered what it would be like to be wrapped in those arms—completely naked.
What the hell? Where did that thought come from?
The fever spikes. That’s what this is. A mistake. A misfire in my brain.
I shove back from the table so fast the chair scrapes against the floor.
Noah glances over, spatula in hand. “Where are you going?”
“I need another shower.”
His eyes narrow, but before he can question it, I turn and bolt upstairs, slamming the door behind me. I brace my hands on the sink, staring at my reflection.
