We make our way downstairs together, the house quiet around us. But when we reach the kitchen, we both stop in the doorway.
Silas is at the stove, his back to us, doing something with a pan that's sending up steam and the smell of garlic and butter. He's humming. Quietly, absently, like he doesn't even realize he's doing it. Some tune I recognize but can't quite place.
Wyatt leans in close, his voice barely a whisper. "She's completely redoing everything. When's the last time Silas cooked?"
I can't remember. Months, at least. Probably not since before Evie died. Silas used to love cooking, would spend hours in the kitchen on weekends making elaborate meals for the pack. But after we lost her, he'd retreated to his study, buried himself in work, let the kitchen gather dust while we survived on takeout and whatever I could cobble together from frozen dinners.
But now he's here, cooking,humming, and the sight of it makes my eyes burn with tears I refuse to let fall.
Because I recognize that tune now. It's the lullaby Evie used to sing to the kids when they couldn't sleep. Some old melody from her childhood that she'd hum while rocking them, her voice soft and sweet in the darkness.
And Silas is humming it. Unconsciously, naturally, like some part of him has finally started to heal enough to remember her without breaking.
Wyatt's hand finds my shoulder, squeezing once. He feels it too, I can tell. The significance of this moment, the weight of what it means.
I look up at the stairs, at the second floor where Amelia is sleeping in the guest room. Where Riley and Isaac are safe in their beds. Where our broken pack is somehow, impossibly, starting to knit itself back together.
What would a step forward with Amelia look like?
Would it be stolen moments in hallways? Carefully negotiated boundaries? The slow, terrifying process of letting someone in when you've already lost so much?
Or would it be simpler than that? Just opening the door we've all been standing in front of for weeks now, too scared to turn the handle. Just admitting that we want her, that the kids need her, that maybe, just maybe, we're allowed to build something new from the ashes of what we lost.
Silas turns, noticing us finally, and his smile is small but genuine. "Thought I'd make something real for once. Amelia lefteverything prepped before she fell asleep with the kids. Seemed a shame to let it go to waste."
"It smells amazing," Wyatt says, moving into the kitchen. "Need any help?"
"You can set the table. Hunter, there's beer in the fridge if you want one."
I grab a beer, twisting the cap off and taking a long pull while watching my pack move around the kitchen. Wyatt gathering plates and silverware, Silas stirring whatever he's making with practiced ease. Both of them looking more settled, more present than they have in months.
All because of one small Omega who talks to photographs and makes my kids laugh and somehow convinced Silas to cook again.
The guilt is still there. I don't think it's going away anytime soon. But for the first time in a year, it's not the only thing I'm feeling.
There's hope too. Fragile and terrifying, but real.
And maybe, just maybe, that's enough to start with.
Amelia
I'm trying to be quiet as I move through Dylan's house in the pre-dawn darkness, but apparently I'm not as stealthy as I thought. The kitchen light flicks on just as I'm grabbing my bag from the counter, and I freeze like a kid caught sneaking out.
Dylan leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, his hair sticking up in about fifteen different directions. He's wearing flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt that's inside out, and there's a pillow crease on his cheek. "Where are you off to?" His voice is rough with sleep but amused. "You don't work on weekends."
"I know, I just..." I clutch my bag tighter, suddenly feeling like I need to justify myself. "They need a little extra help. The house gets messy during the week and I thought I'd go over early, get some things done before the kids wake up. Make breakfast, maybe."
Dylan's eyebrows rise slowly, a knowing smile spreading across his face. "Uh huh. And this has nothing to do with the fact that you've been coming home later and later all week? Or that you smile at your phone now when you get texts?"
Heat floods my face. "I don't... that's not what this is."
"What is it, then?" He pushes off the doorframe, moving into the kitchen to start the coffee maker. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like my baby sister has a crush. Multiple crushes, maybe."
"Dylan." His name comes out strangled, embarrassed. "They're your friends. I wouldn't... I can't..."
Maddox appears in the doorway, looking significantly more awake than Dylan despite the early hour. He takes one look at my flaming face and Dylan's shit-eating grin and laughs, the sound warm and fond. "You like them, don't you? I haven't seen you this happy in..." He pauses, his expression softening. "I don't think I've ever seen you this happy. And I love it."
"Nothing is happening," I insist, but my voice is too high, too defensive. "I'm just helping with the kids. That's all. They're good people and I like working for them, but that's it."
