“What are you making?” Dax asks, pulling down plates.
“Pasta. Nothing fancy, just something warm and filling.”
“Looks fancy to me.”
“That’s because your idea of cooking is grilling meat over an open flame.”
“Hey, that’s a valid cooking method.”
“It’s the only cooking method you know.”
He doesn’t argue, which means I’m right. Instead, he startssetting plates around the table. Four place settings, then pausing before adding a fifth.
We both stare at that fifth plate.
“She’ll want to eat with us,” I say quietly.
“Yeah,” Dax agrees, his voice rough. “She will.”
Cole and Jalen wander in as I’m plating the pasta, both of them drawn by the smell. Or maybe by Sierra’s presence in the next room. Hard to say at this point. Our pack instincts have become thoroughly entangled with our feelings for her.
“That looks incredible,” Cole says, peering over my shoulder.
“It’s just pasta.”
“You say ‘just pasta’ like it’s not a work of art.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. Cole’s enthusiasm is infectious.
We carry everything to the table. The pasta, salad, the bread I managed to salvage from our supplies. It’s a proper meal, the kind we haven’t really had time for during the storm and heat.
“Sierra,” Jalen calls. “Dinner’s ready.”
She appears in the doorway, and something about the domestic simplicity of the moment makes the rest of the world just fade away for a second. This could be any evening. Any normal pack dinner where we gather around the table and share food and conversation.
Except it’s not normal. Not yet. Maybe never, depending on what happens tomorrow.
“This looks amazing,” Sierra says, sliding into the seat Dax pulls out for her. Her cheeks flush slightly at the gesture, but she doesn’t protest. “I can’t believe you actually packed pasta and vegetables.”
“Someone had to consider nutritional needs beyond frozen pizza,” I say, my lips twitching with a suppressed smile. We settle around the table, passing plates and bowls, falling into an easy rhythm. For a few minutes, there’s just the sound of eating and the occasional contented sigh.
“This is so good,” Sierra says after her first bite. “Malik, where did you learn to cook like this?”
“My grandmother,” I say. “She insisted all her grandchildren learn their way around a kitchen. Said it was a life skill everyone needed, regardless of designation.”
“Smart woman.”
“She was.” I smile at the memory. “She’d make these huge family dinners every Sunday. Everyone had to contribute something, even if it was just setting the table or washing dishes.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Sierra says softly. “My mom used to cook like this. Before she died, I mean. Sunday dinners were our thing, too.”
There’s something fragile in her voice, and I see the others react to it. Dax’s hand moves closer to hers on the table. Cole leans in slightly. Jalen’s expression softens.
“She’d make this congee,” Sierra continues, her eyes distant with memory. “With ginger and scallions and whatever protein we had on hand. I thought it was just rice porridge for the longest time; didn’t realize it was comfort food until I was older.”
“Do you still make it?” I ask gently.
“Sometimes. When I’m sad or sick or just need to feel close to her.” She takes another bite of pasta, then looks up at me with a small smile. “This reminds me of those dinners. The feeling. That sense of being taken care of.”
