Page 138 of Saddle and Scent
He gestures at the pillow fort with obvious pride, and I have to admit it's impressive in its complexity and attention to detail.
There are multiple levels and chambers, each one carefully constructed to provide both comfort and privacy. The gaming setup is positioned to be visible from several different angles, suggesting he put thought into making sure we could both see the screen regardless of where we chose to settle.
I try to remember when was the last time I played a videogame?
Animal crossing was my favorite…
Had it really been that long since I last held a controller in my hands? I racked my brain, searching back through hazy childhood afternoons and long, lazy weekends spent curled up on the ratty corduroy couch in Aunt Lil’s den. I used to be obsessed with Animal Crossing, totally losing myself in the sweet, slow rhythm of weeding, planting, fishing, and fussing over a community of tiny pixelated townsfolk who always needed me and, more importantly, never judged me for theweirdness of my scent or the fact that I sometimes disappeared during “certain weeks” of the year. I remembered the gentle lull of bubble-popping dialogue, the little chime when my character paid off another mortgage, the low-key thrill of a new flower hybrid blooming in a spot I’d forgotten I even planted. I remembered how, even on the worst days, Animal Crossing felt like a safe little world I could control—a place where nothing ever changed unless I wanted it to.
The nostalgia sent a wave of warmth through me, simultaneously comforting and bittersweet. Maybe that’s why seeing Wes here, in the middle of this ridiculous, perfect blanket fort, controller in hand and game waiting on the screen, made me feel oddly emotional. Like he’d constructed not just a nest, but a gateway back into something soft and protected, just for me.
"This is incredible," I say, meaning it. "How long did this take you to build?"
"Couple hours," he says with a shrug. "Had some time to kill while waiting for you to give up on sleep."
The casual admission that he's been here for hours, building an elaborate comfort structure in anticipation of my inevitable arrival, makes my chest warm with feelings I don't know how to categorize.
This isn't just thoughtfulness—it's the kind of detailed planning that comes from understanding someone well enough to predict their needs and caring enough to address them proactively.
"You were supposed to be at the clinic tonight," I point out.
"Emergency call got resolved faster than expected," he explains, though something in his tone suggests there might be more to the story. "Figured my time was better spent here, making sure my favorite Omega gets some actual rest."
The possessive warmth in his voice when he calls me his favorite Omega sends heat spiraling through my system that has nothing to do with biological cycles and everything to do with the way he makes me feel cherished and protected.
"So what's the plan?" I ask, settling more comfortably into the cushions and trying to ignore the way my body responds to his proximity.
"Gaming therapy," he announces with mock seriousness. "Specifically, Stardew Valley, because I remember someone making me play for eight hours straight to get a golden chicken."
The memory makes me laugh, the sound coming out more genuine than anything I've managed in days. Because I do remember that marathon gaming session from our teenage years, the way he'd patiently helped me optimize my farm layout and achieve completely arbitrary goals that seemed incredibly important at the time.
"I can't believe you remember that," I say, though warmth spreads through my chest at the evidence that he's held onto details from our shared past.
"I remember everything about you, Junebug," he says simply, handing me a controller and starting up a saved game that appears to be specifically created for this occasion. "Including the fact that you get obsessive about completion rates and will stay up all night to achieve perfect efficiency."
He's not wrong about my gaming tendencies, and the familiar mechanics of virtual farming provide exactly the kind of mindless distraction my overstimulated brain needs.
We fall into an easy rhythm of cooperative play, taking turns managing different aspects of the farm while maintaining a steady stream of conversation that flows between game strategy and more personal topics.
"I brought supplies," he says during a loading screen, producing a bottle of apple cider and what appears to behomemade cookies from somewhere within the pillow fort's depths.
"Did you bake these?" I ask, accepting the offered treat and trying not to melt at the thoughtfulness of the gesture.
"Beckett did, before he left for the bakery crisis," he admits. "But I had the foresight to steal some before they disappeared into the general cookie jar."
The cookies are perfect—soft and chewy with just the right amount of sweetness, clearly made with the kind of attention to detail that characterizes everything Beckett creates.
Paired with the crisp apple cider, they provide the perfect accompaniment to our virtual agricultural adventures.
"Tell me something I don't know about you," I say as we work together to redesign the farm's layout for maximum efficiency.
"Like what?"
"Anything. Childhood dreams, secret talents, embarrassing memories. Whatever you're willing to share."
He's quiet for a moment, considering the question with the kind of seriousness that suggests he's actually thinking about revealing something meaningful.
"I used to want to be a wildlife photographer," he says finally. "Before I decided on veterinary medicine, I had this whole fantasy about traveling the world documenting endangered species and remote ecosystems."
