Page 87 of Saddle and Scent
I hope she had moments like this.
I hope she knew how special this place really is.
There's a fallen log at the edge of the field, probably knocked down in some long-ago storm and left to weather into something that's more comfortable than it has any right to be. I settle onto it, pulling my knees up and wrapping my arms around them, tilting my head back to take in the full scope of the star-filled sky.
Time becomes fluid out here.
Minutes or hours could pass, and I wouldn't notice.
I think about my predicament—because that's what this is, isn't it? A predicament of the highest order. The past with all its hurt and misunderstanding, the present with its tentative steps toward something that might be forgiveness, and the future with its infinite possibilities and terrifying uncertainties.
What do I want?
That's the question the doctor said I need to answer.
What do I actually want, stripped of all the fear and pride and protective instincts that have been guiding my decisions?
I want to feel safe. I want to belong somewhere, to someone, in a way that doesn't require me to constantly prove my worth or independence. I want to wake up in the morning and know that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be, doing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing, with exactly the people I'm supposed to be with.
I want what we almost had when we were teenagers.
I want what we could have now, if we're all brave enough to try again.
The thought should terrify me—this admission of want, this acknowledgment that my walls are already crumbling—but sitting here under the stars, surrounded by the scents and sounds of home, it just feels true.
Inevitable, even.
Something catches my attention as I wrinkle my nose, picking up a new scent on the night breeze. Lavender and chamomile, warm and soothing, with the underlying hint of something herbal and comforting.
Tea.
I turn my head, not entirely surprised to see Beckett approaching from the direction of the house. He's carrying a steaming mug in each hand, moving carefully across the uneven ground. The moonlight catches in his hair, highlighting the red threads that weave through the brown, and there's something almost ethereal about the way he moves through the darkness.
Like he belongs to the night as much as the day.
He catches my eye and smiles, the expression soft and inviting in a way that makes my chest warm. It's not the calculated charm that Alphas sometimes use to get what they want, or the practiced politeness that keeps social interactions smooth. It's just... genuine. Real. The kind of smile that says he's happy to see me, happy to share this moment, with no expectations beyond simple companionship.
I can't help but smile back.
It's an instinctive response, as natural as breathing. My lips curve upward without conscious thought, and I feel some of the tension I've been carrying in my shoulders finally release.
He extends one of the mugs toward me, and I accept it gratefully, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic and inhaling the fragrant steam. The scent is even better up close—lavender and chamomile with hints of honey and something that might be mint. It's the kind of tea blend that promises deep sleep and peaceful dreams, though I suspect sleep is the last thing on either of our minds right now.
The mug is familiar in my hands.
Hand-thrown pottery with a slightly irregular rim and a glaze that shows tiny imperfections in the moonlight.
These are the mugs from Aunt Lil's kitchen, the ones she used for special occasions or when she needed extra comfort.
The ones that probably carry their own set of memories—late night conversations, shared sorrows, moments of connection over warm drinks and honest words.
Beckett stands there for a moment, not saying anything, and I understand instinctively that he's trying to give me space while also wanting to be present. It's a delicate balance, this dance we're all learning—how to be close without crowding, how to offer support without imposing, how to show care without demanding reciprocation.
I shift over on the log, making room, though I don't need to say anything. The invitation is clear in the movement, in the way I leave space beside me without looking directly at him.
Some communications don't require words.
He accepts the silent offer, settling onto the log next to me with the kind of careful grace that speaks to his awareness of the moment's fragility. We're close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body, can smell his individual scentunder the herbal tea, but there's still space between us. Still the option to retreat if either of us needs it.
