Spread For Dad’s Alpha Best-Friend

TINGLES

NOLA

I wake to the sound of paper.

Not footsteps. Not the house settling. Paper, the soft, careful rustle of it being folded, straightened, set down.

My eyes open slowly.

Morning light filters in through the curtains, pale and muted, casting long shadows across the unfamiliar room. For a second, I forget where I am. Then the scent hits me, wood polish, clean soap,

Rhett.

I sit up, the blanket sliding down my arms. My shirt has twisted in my sleep, the fabric tugging awkwardly at my waist. I smooth it down absently, running a hand through my hair to tame the mess.

There’s a small bag on the dresser.

Not there when I went to sleep.

It’s matte black, simple, unmarked except for a thin silver ribbon tied neatly around the handles. No logo. No card.

I swing my legs over the bed and cross the room barefoot. The floor is cool, grounding. When I lift the bag, it has weight to it.

Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, is a cardigan.

Soft, Cashmere, maybe, deep forest green.

I pull it out slowly, fingers brushing over the fabric. It’s warm just from touching it, plush and heavy in a way that promises comfort. Beneath it sits a second item, a slim notebook, leather-bound, the cover smooth and dark.

I flip it open.

Blank pages.

My throat tightens.

A knock sounds at the door, sharp and controlled.

“Yes?” I call.

Rhett opens it halfway. He’s already dressed, dark jeans, a fitted long-sleeve shirt rolled at the forearms. His hair is still damp, curls barely restrained. He smells faintly of soap and something else , coffee.

His eyes flick to the items in my hands.

“They fit?” he asks.

“You didn’t even ask my size.”

“I know your size.”

The words land heavier than they should.

I clear my throat. “Thank you.”

He nods once, like that’s all he needed to hear. “Breakfast is ready.”

I pull the cardigan on before I follow him.

It slips over my shoulders like it was made for me. The sleeves hug my wrists just right, the fabric brushing my skin every time I move. It smells like his house, clean, faintly masculine .

The kitchen is bright, sunlight spilling across the counter. A plate waits at the table, toast, eggs, sliced fruit arranged with too much care.

“You didn’t have to,” I say.

“I know.”

There it is again.

That answer.

I sit anyway.

We eat in silence at first, Every scrape of cutlery sounds louder than it should. Every time I shift, I feel his attention flicker toward me and away again, like he’s training himself not to look.

When I reach for my water, my sleeve rides up slightly.

His gaze follows.

I notice the exact second he realizes what he’s doing.

His jaw tightens.

“I’m going out later,” he says abruptly.

“Oh?” I keep my tone neutral. Casual.

“Errands.”

I nod. “Good.”

He hesitates, then adds, “I’ll be back before dark.”

I don’t ask why. We both know.

After breakfast, I head for the hospital. Rhett insists on driving, and I don’t fight him today. The cardigan stays on the whole way, my fingers curling into the sleeves whenever my thoughts start to spiral.

At the hospital, he keeps his distance again, hovering just far enough to give me space, close enough not to feel alone.

When I talk to Dad, Rhett waits by the window. When a doctor approaches, he straightens. When I sway slightly after standing too fast, his hand lifts instinctively, then drops before it touches me.

The restraint is worse than the contact would have been.

Back at the house, I find more evidence of his quiet atonement.

Groceries I mentioned once in passing. A new lock on my window, installed cleanly, professionally. A lamp placed closer to my side of the bed, the light warmer, softer.

He doesn’t mention any of it.

That night, I wear the cardigan again. I curl up on the couch with the notebook open on my lap, pen hovering uselessly above the page.

Rhett sits in the chair across from me, pretending to read. His attention flicks up every time I move.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” I say quietly.

“Doing what?”

“Trying to make it easier.”

His eyes lift fully now. “I’m not trying.”

I meet his gaze. “Then what are you doing?”

He exhales slowly. “Making sure you don’t regret staying.”

Something twists in my chest.

I look back down at the blank page.

I still don’t write a word.

The quiet doesn’t leave.

It stretches instead, lingering between us like something alive, something aware. Rhett remains where he is, close enough that I feel the warmth of him without touching. The air carries the faint scent of coffee and wood polish and something darker underneath, something that belongs only to him.

I shift my weight, suddenly conscious of my body in a way that makes my skin prickle. The fabric of my top feels softer than I remember, thin against my chest. When I move, it slides slightly, the neckline dipping just enough that I become acutely aware of myself standing there in his house, in his space.

Rhett notices.

Not openly, not in a way he could be accused of. But his gaze flickers, brief and sharp, then lifts back to my face as if nothing happened at all, still, the moment lingers.

He exhales, slow and low, and turns toward the kitchen counter. I watch him move, the way his shirt pulls across his back, the way the muscles beneath the fabric shift when he reaches for a mug. There is an ease to him that makes everything feel more intimate than it should.

“You sleep alright?” he asks.

“Yes.”

My voice sounds thinner than I expect.

He nods, lifting the mug to his lips. I track the motion without meaning to, the way his throat works when he swallows. The sight pulls something tight low in my stomach.

I look away first.

The counter is cool beneath my palms when I lean against it. The wood presses lightly into my skin through my jeans. I cross my arms, more to give myself something to do than for comfort.

Rhett turns then, resting one hip against the opposite counter. The space between us is narrow. Too narrow to be accidental. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that I’m aware of every breath he takes.

His eyes move over me again. This time slower. Careful. He doesn’t rush it, and he doesn’t linger too long either. But I feel it. The awareness. The way his attention skims the curve of my shoulder, the fall of my hair, the faint outline of my body beneath cotton.

Heat creeps up my neck.

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, fingers brushing my skin. The motion draws his eyes immediately. They follow the movement, darkening just a shade before he looks away again.

The silence presses in, heavy but not uncomfortable. Charged.

“I forgot how quiet this place gets,” I say, just to break it.

He huffs softly. “You always said it felt too big.”

“I did.” I pause.

“It still does.”

Something shifts in his expression. Not quite a smile. Something softer. He studies me for a moment like he’s seeing something familiar and new at the same time.

“You’ve changed,” he says.

“So have you.”

Our eyes meet.

The look that passes between us feels intimate in a way that makes my chest tighten. His gaze dips again, almost against his will. This time, I don’t pretend not to notice.

I don’t move either.

My own eyes betray me next. They drop, tracing the line of his chest, the way his shirt fits across him, lower to where the fabric of his trousers pulls in a way that makes my breath catch before I can stop it.

I look up too late.

He’s seen it.

The air shifts instantly.

Rhett straightens slightly, shoulders squaring, but not stepping back. His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring subtly as he draws in a breath that sounds deeper than necessary.

For one suspended second, neither of us speaks.

I become acutely aware of the way my heart is pounding. Of how close he is. Of how the scent of him wraps around me, warm and heavy and impossible to ignore.

I take a step to the side, meaning to pass him.

I misjudge the space.

My shoulder brushes his chest.

The contact is light, barely there, but it sends a sharp rush through me, heat flaring instantly along my skin. Rhett freezes. I feel it, the way his body stills completely, like even breathing might snap something fragile between us.

His hand lifts on instinct, stopping just short of my waist.

He doesn’t touch me.

That somehow makes it worse.

I tilt my head up without thinking. He’s close now. Too close. I can see the faint flecks of lighter gray in his eyes, the tension etched into his expression like he’s holding himself together by force alone.

My lips part.

His gaze drops there immediately.

The moment stretches, thick and dangerous. I can feel it building, the pull tightening, drawing us toward something neither of us seems willing to name.

Then, somewhere outside, a sound carries through the air.

Low.

Rough.

Not quite a growl, but close enough that my stomach flips.

Rhett’s head snaps toward the window, his body shifting instinctively, placing himself just slightly in front of me without realizing he’s done it.

I swallow. “Did you hear that?”

“Yes,” he says quietly.

The tension between us doesn’t fade. If anything, it sharpens, tangled now with something darker, something unknown.

His gaze returns to mine, intense and unreadable.

“Go upstairs,” he says, voice low. Not commanding. Not gentle. Just certain.

I hesitate, searching his face.

Another sound rolls through the night, closer this time.

My skin prickles.

I turn and head for the stairs, heart racing, every step feeling heavier than the last. Halfway up, I pause and glance back.

Rhett is still standing there, eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the glass.