It's beautiful, seeing a pack function with people who care about each other and navigate the daily chaos of life together.
Then the conversation shifts, morphing into heavier topics. Someone mentions Evie, maybe Silas or Wyatt. The Alphas' expressions shift, becoming softer, more pained. They start sharing memories, stories about her that make the kids smile, even as their eyes glaze over with tears.
"She couldn't cook to save her life," Wyatt says with a fond laugh that sounds more sad than amused. "Remember when she tried to make pot roast. She somehow managed to set the smoke alarm off three times?"
"She insisted it was the oven's fault," Silas adds, smiling despite the tears gathering in his eyes. "Said it was running too hot."
"It wasn't," Hunter says quietly. "She just forgot to add liquid and tried to cover it by blaming the appliance."
Riley giggles, slapping a hand over her mouth. The sound is so unexpected that everyone stops to look at her. "Mama was really bad at cooking. But she made the best sandwiches."
"She did," Hunter agrees, reaching over to squeeze her shoulder. He pauses, noticing the buns for the first time tonight. "Your hair looks beautiful tonight, sweetheart. Did you do something different?"
Riley touches one of the buns self-consciously. "Miss Amelia helped me brush it. We put it in buns."
"Well, it's very pretty," Silas says, smiling at his daughter. His eyes flick to me briefly, something grateful in his expression.
Dylan clears his throat, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "Our mom had really curly hair, too. Even curlier than Riley's, actually. Spent years teaching Amelia how to take care of hers properly." He nudges my shoulder gently. "It took a little while when we lost our parents and I had to figure out how to do it but now Amelia’s a natural. Mom used to say you had the gentlest hands."
My throat tightens at the memory. I'd forgotten that. "She was patient with me too," I manage to push out.
I try to keep my smile in place, managing to look appropriately sympathetic and engaged. But there's a tightness building in my chest. All this grief and loss is pressing down on me and mixing with my own pain until it's hard to breathe properly.
I watch Riley and Isaac eating, trying to focus on something concrete. Isaac has given up on his fork entirely, eating with his hands now and getting sauce all over his face. He makes sound effects with each bite, little "mmm" noises, and giggles, obviously enjoying himself. Riley is more careful with her fork, but she's also kicking her feet under the table in a restless rhythm that makes her chair squeak.
It's just so much chaos. So much noise. The scrape of forks against plates, the sound of conversation overlapping, someone's phone buzzing, the refrigerator humming. All of it building into this overwhelming wall of sound that makes me feel like I’m crawling out of my skin.
Noise was never good with Vincent. Noise meant I wasn't paying attention. Noise meant I was being disrespectful, not focusing on him, or letting myself get distracted. He'd slam his hand down on the table to get my attention. He'd throw things when the noise got to be too much for him. Somehow, it was always my fault for not controlling the environment better.
My breathing kicks up, getting faster and shallower, the panic starting to build at the edges of my consciousness. I'm trying so hard to keep my emotions under control and not ruin this dinner that's actually going pretty well. But I can’tdo. The. Noise.
Dylan's hand finds mine under the table, his fingers wrapping around my trembling ones, pulling me back from the edge of panic. I glance at my brother, offering him a small smile of relief before looking around the table. For some reason, Hunter catches my attention and his mostly full plate still in front of him. He’s pushed the food around a bit, moved it from one side to the other, but he hasn't actually eaten more than a bite or two since we sat down.
I frown, worry cutting through my own anxiety. "Why aren't you eating?" The question comes out before I can stop it, before I can think about whether it's appropriate for the nannyto question the head Alpha. "Is it not good? Should I make something else?"
Hunter looks up, surprise flickering across his face. "I'm not hungry."
The response feels like something he probably says every time someone asks. But before I can respond, Wyatt makes a low growling sound in his throat that's definitely a warning.
"Don't mind him," Wyatt says, looking at me instead of Hunter, even though his words are clearly directed at his fellow Alpha. "He doesn't eat a lot these days."
The casual way he says it, like it's just a quirk instead of a serious problem, makes something protective flare in my chest. These Alphas are slowly destroying themselves with grief and nobody's doing anything about it.
"Right. Okay," I say, because what else can I say? I'm just the nanny. I don't get to have opinions about their health.
Hunter’s brows furrow a little as he stares at me with those intense hazel eyes. Something passes across his face, some emotion I can't quite read. Then, slowly, he picks up his fork and takes a bite. Then another. He eats mechanically, without seeming to taste anything, but he eats. He clears his plate, setting his fork down with a soft clink when he's finished.
Then he offers me a small smile, the motion transforming his whole face. "It's really good. Thank you."
I merely nod, not sure what else to say because somehow it feels like I’ve made another step forward but this time it’s with the Alphas of the house and not their kids.
The conversation picks back up as Hunter stands, grabbing his plate to take it to the sink. Maddox gets up too, his own plate in hand, heading to the sink as well. I relax a little, squeezing Dylan’s hand beneath the table when the evening takes a turn for the worse.
Maddox's elbow catches the edge of a glass sitting on the counter. It tips, wobbles, and then falls, crashing to the floor in an explosion of sound.
For a split second, I'm not in the Kane house anymore. I'm in Vincent's apartment. He's just thrown a glass at the wall next to my head because I said something wrong, did something wrong, or maybe just existed wrong. The crash of shattering glass meant danger. Pain. It meant that I needed to make myself as small as possible and hope he'd calm down before things got worse.
A raw, terrified sound tears out of my throat, my body moving on pure instinct as I drop to the floor, covering my head with my arms. I'm under the table before I consciously decide to move, curling into myself, trembling so hard my teeth are chattering.
