Page 71 of Saddle and Scent
One moment I'm floating in blessed darkness, weightless and peaceful, and the next I'm burning alive from the inside out. My skin feels like it's been set on fire, every nerve ending screaming in protest against the heat that seems to radiate from my very bones.
But then the magical hands appear.
Cool, gentle, efficient.
Patting me down with towels that feel like salvation against my fevered skin.
Someone—and I can't quite grasp who, can't quite focus enough to identify the touch—keeps replacing the cloth on my forehead whenever it grows warm from absorbing my body heat. The moment things get too uncomfortable, too overwhelming, those hands are there with fresh coolness, bringing relief that allows me to drift back into the peaceful darkness.
It's so calm.
So safe.
Like being wrapped in cotton and care, protected from everything that could hurt me.
The scents follow me into my dreams, weaving through my subconscious like threads of gold and comfort. Pine and smoke, citrus and storm, cinnamon and warmth—familiar as breathing, comforting as a lullaby sung by voices I've known since childhood.
I drift through memories like pages in a photo album.
Seven years old, scraped knee from falling off my bike, and three worried boys hovering over me while Beckett's mom cleaned the wound.
Ten years old, camping trip by the river, all of us squeezed into one tent because I was afraid of the dark and they refused to let me sleep alone.
Thirteen years old, first day of high school, and the way they flanked me in the hallways like bodyguards, making sure no one so much as looked at me wrong.
The memories grow sweeter as they progress, tinged with the golden haze of adolescence and possibility.
Fourteen, and Callum teaching me how to change the oil in my aunt's truck, his hands guiding mine on the wrench while he explained the mechanics in that patient, careful way he had.
Fifteen, and Wes making me laugh until I snorted soda through my nose, then laughing even harder at my mortification until I was laughing too.
Fifteen and a half, and Beckett presenting me with a birthday cake he'd made from scratch, decorated with wonky roses and my name spelled out in purple frosting because he remembered it was my favorite color.
The memories crystallize around sixteen, that golden year when everything seemed perfect and possible.
When I thought I'd be one of the lucky Omegas who found her pack straight away.
Men who were my friends for the longest time—protective, loyal, loving in that fierce, uncomplicated way that made me believe the whole world was safe as long as they were in it.
I remember lying in the grass by the river that summer, all four of us sprawled out under the stars, and thinking that this was it.
This was my forever.
These three boys who knew every secret, every dream, every fear I'd ever had.
These three boys who looked at me like I was something precious, something worth protecting, something worth loving.
I remember the way Callum would watch me when he thought I wasn't looking, his eyes intense and searching, like he was trying to memorize every detail.
The way Wes would find excuses to touch me—brushing my hair back from my face, catching my hand to examine a paper cut, pulling me close when we watched movies on the old couch in Beckett's basement.
The way Beckett would make my favorite foods without being asked, anticipating my needs before I even knew I had them, creating comfort and sweetness in equal measure.
It felt inevitable.
Like we were planets orbiting the same sun, held in perfect balance by forces too fundamental to question.
Like all we had to do was wait for the right moment, the right words, the right configuration of courage and honesty to make it official.
