Page 88 of Saddle and Scent
We sit in comfortable silence, drinking our tea and watching the stars.
The night sky is a masterpiece tonight, clear and endless and full of possibilities. I can see the Big Dipper, Orion's Belt, the faint smudge of the Milky Way stretching across the darkness like a river of light. It's the kind of view that makes you feel simultaneously insignificant and infinite, aware of your tiny place in the universe while also connected to something vast and eternal.
This is what I've been missing.
Not just the stars, though they're beautiful.
Not just the peace, though it's precious.
This feeling of being exactly where I belong, with exactly who I belong with.
The tea is warming me from the inside out, but it's more than the physical heat. It's the gesture itself, the thoughtfulness, the way Beckett knew exactly what I needed without me having to ask for it. It's the way he's sitting beside me without demanding conversation or explanation or anything beyond shared presence.
Eventually, slowly, carefully, I let my head drift to rest against his shoulder.
The movement is tentative at first, testing the waters, ready to pull back if he stiffens or shows any sign of discomfort. But he doesn't. If anything, he settles more solidly into position, becoming a more stable resting place for my weary head.
His scent is stronger here, this close.
Cinnamon and warmth and something fundamentally comforting that makes me want to burrow closer, to curl up against his side like a cat seeking the perfect sunbeam.
I take a deep inhale, letting his scent fill my lungs and settle into my bloodstream. It's intoxicating in the best possible way—not overwhelming or demanding, but soothing, grounding, like coming home after a long journey through foreign territory.
Neither of us speaks, and that's perfect. There are no expectations here, no pressure to fill the silence with small talk or explanations or plans for the future. Just tranquility in the midst of peace, just two people sharing a moment under stars that have witnessed countless similar scenes throughout history.
This is what I can enjoy.
This slow exploration, this careful rebuilding, this tentative return to intimacy that doesn't demand more than I'm ready to give.
This is what taking it at my own pace looks like.
And deep within my chest, in the place where I've kept my heart locked away for ten years, I can feel something stirring.
Something that might be hope.
Something that suggests my heart can open up to these men again, slowly and carefully and on my own terms.
Even if I'm still afraid of being broken.
17
NESTING INSTINCTS
~JUNIPER~
Iwake up cozied up in what feels like the most luxurious cloud I've ever experienced.
This isn't my lumpy, ancient mattress.
This isn't the threadbare sheets that came with the house.
This is something else entirely.
I'm surrounded by softness—plush blankets that seem to cocoon me in warmth, pillows that cradle my head with perfect support, fabric that feels like it costs more than my entire wardrobe. Everything smells incredible too, a symphony of scents that makes my Omega instincts purr with contentment.
Pine and smoke, citrus and storm, cinnamon and warmth.
All woven together with something clean and fresh and undeniably expensive.
