Even at the dinner table.
How fucked up is that?
A giggle escapes.
High.
Bright.
Completely inappropriate for the moment.
The others look at me—varying degrees of concern and curiosity on their faces—and I wave a hand dismissively.
"Sorry. Just... thinking about how weird this is." I gesture at the spread before us. "I haven't seen a table like this since I was a kid. Before... you know. Before."
No one asks me to elaborate.
They know whatbeforemeans.
The silence that follows is different—heavier, more thoughtful. I can feel them watching me, assessing, trying to figure out how to navigate the minefield of my trauma without detonating anything.
Careful.
They're being careful with me.
When has anyone ever been careful with me?
The thought makes my chest tight.
I shove another piece of bread in my mouth to avoid dealing with the emotion.
One-two-three-four.
My fingers tap against the table.
One-two-three-four.
"I don't really know much about you," I say finally, swallowing the bread and reaching for my wine glass. The alcohol burns pleasantly on the way down. "Any of you. Beyond the basics. Beyond what Sage told me in letters and what I've observed in the last couple days."
Blaze raises an eyebrow. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything." The word comes out more honest than I intended. "But that's a lot, so... how about we go around the table? Everyone says something about themselves. Passions. Hobbies. Whatever. Get to know each other like actual pack members instead of strangers who happen to share living space."
Another silence.
This one feels uncertain—like they're not used to sharing, to opening up, to letting people see beyond the masks they wear.
Join the club, I think.
We can all be emotionally constipated together.
"I'll start," I offer, because someone has to break the ice and it might as well be me. "Since you already know most of my dark secrets from the letters anyway."
I set down my wine glass.
Take a breath.
Let myself actually think about who I am when I'm not justsurviving.
