Page 94 of Saddle and Scent
Fuck.
I'm doing everything in my power not to prowl toward her on my damn hands and knees and beg her to use that mouth for something other than breakfast.
It's crazy because I'm not even the submissive type—not even close—but Juniper makes me want to be explorative, makes me want to try things I've never considered with anyone else.
She has this effect on all of us.
Always has.
I try to distract myself by attacking the dishes with unnecessary vigor, scrubbing plates that are already clean, washing the sink twice, and then—in a moment of complete stupidity—attempting to clean the damn stove while it's still on.
"Shit!" I yelp, jerking my hand back from the hot surface.
"Don't do that," Juniper says with a laugh, not even looking up from her pancakes. "It burns."
Yeah, no kidding.
But even with a throbbing hand, I can't peel my eyes away from her for long before I'm captivated again. She's been bubbly and happy since she saw what we've accomplished inside the house, and that joy is infectious. Her whole demeanor has shifted from the guarded, defensive woman who collapsed from heat stroke yesterday to something lighter, more open.
More like the Juniper we used to know.
Her room is now a paradise of new furniture that we've been collecting for years. I think it started as a coping mechanism—buying things that reminded us of her, pieces that felt like they belonged to someone with her particular combination of strength and softness. It evolved into furniture and decorative items that we justified with excuses about preparing for "our future Omega," but maybe we always knew it would be her.
Even when years were passing and our Junebug wasn't coming back.
Until now.
The room she woke up in—we hope it becomes a nest she actually likes. I remember Juniper always loved to read, though I'm not sure if she'd want a whole library setup or if she's gotten into video games or other hobbies over the years.
That's the thing.
We don't actually know a lot about the older Juniper.
Her current likes and dislikes, whether they've stayed the same or changed completely.
We're operating on decade-old information and hoping some fundamentals remain constant.
I decide to start small, catching her attention as she picks at the blueberries in her pancakes like they're personal enemies.
"So I guess blueberries are still a no?" I ask with a smirk.
"Sometimes," she says, making a face at the offending fruit.
"But you love Beckett's blackberry pies," I point out.
She pouts, an expression that's both adorable and stubborn.
"That's totally justifiable because they're amazing."
"They're the same berries, Junebug."
"Blackberries and blueberries are totally different!" she argues with the kind of passionate conviction usually reserved for important political debates.
"Sure," I say, grinning as I pour myself coffee and settle at the tiny kitchen table across from her.
The table can barely fit two people comfortably.
Callum and Beckett are bringing a bigger one today—something that could practically seat all four of us with room for proper chairs instead of this cramped arrangement.
