Page 118 of Saddle and Scent
T-shirts.
The guys' t-shirts.
Particularly flannel ones in every color imaginable.
It's like someone has been systematically collecting them for years, creating a wardrobe that's equal parts practical and sentimental.
There are work shirts that smell faintly of motor oil and sawdust—clearly Callum's.Soft cotton tees that carry the lingering scent of flour and vanilla—obviously Beckett's.And several pieces that smell like hay and antiseptic and that particular combination of scents that can only belong to Wes.
They've been leaving their clothes for me.
Building a collection of comfort items that carry their scents, creating a kind of portable security blanket that speaks to deeper instincts than I'm comfortable acknowledging.
The domesticity of it should probably concern me.
Instead, it makes me feel cherished in a way I've never experienced before.
I select a soft flannel in deep blue—one of Callum's, based on the scent and the fact that it's large enough to serve as a dress on my smaller frame—and head for the en-suite bathroom that still feels like a miracle every time I use it.
The shower is another luxury I'm still adjusting to.
Hot water that doesn't run out after five minutes, water pressure that actually works, tiles that aren't cracked or stained with years of neglect.
It's the kind of bathroom that makes you want to linger, to take time with the simple pleasure of getting clean.
But as the hot water cascades over my skin, I become acutely aware that I'm feeling... different this morning.
Warmer than usual.
More sensitive.
Like every nerve ending has been dialed up to maximum sensitivity.
It could be related to how close I've been getting with the guys lately.
Physical proximity to Alphas affects Omega biology in ways that most people don't talk about in polite company, but that every unmated Omega learns to navigate through trial and error.
I'm not used to being around Alphas 24/7, especially not Alphas whose scents call to something primal and instinctive in my hindbrain. Most of my adult life has been spent carefully managing my exposure, maintaining enough distance to keep my biology stable and predictable.
But there's nothing stable or predictable about living with Callum, Wes, and Beckett.
Their scents are everywhere, their presence a constant reminder of everything my body thinks it wants and my brain insists is too complicated to consider.
Maybe I should see that Omega doctor from the town over.
Ask about heat suppressants or hormone regulation or whatever other medical interventions might help me maintain some semblance of control over my own biology.
I'm definitely on birth control—have been for years, despite my less-than-active sex life—but I can feel the effects of their constant presence building in my system like pressure in a closed container.
And despite my determination to take things slow, I can't help but feel needy when I'm around them.
Like I'm addicted to pushing boundaries, testing limits, seeing exactly how much I can get away with before one of them snaps and gives me what some traitorous part of me actually wants.
The thought should probably alarm me...but it sends a thrill of anticipation through my entire body.
I finish my shower quickly, towel off, and slip into Callum's flannel. It hangs to mid-thigh, the sleeves long enough that I have to roll them up several times, and it smells like pine forests and morning coffee and something that's uniquely him.
Wearing his clothes feels like a declaration.
