Mom clears her throat delicately. "The Thanksgiving Festival really would be good for you, honey. Fresh air, friendly faces..."
"People asking why I'm back and what went wrong with Terrance and when I'm planning to find a nice pack and settle down."
"No one's going to?—"
"Mom. This is Honeyridge Falls. Mrs. Peterson asked me about my 'romantic situation' when I was getting the mail from the mailbox yesterday. I've only been home a week."
Silence falls over the kitchen. Outside, I can hear the distant sound of someone chopping firewood and the honk of geese that didn't make it south in time. Normal, small-town sounds that used to comfort me and now feel like a trap closing around my ankles.
"People care about you, sweetheart," Papa says gently. "This town watched you grow up. Of course they're curious about how you're doing."
I want to argue, but the fight goes out of me as suddenly as it flared. He's not wrong. Honeyridge Falls isn't malicious in its curiosity—just invested. When your neighbor's kid gets sick, you bring soup. When someone loses a job, you find them work. When the local omega comes home unexpectedly from college, you ask questions because you care.
That doesn't make it any less exhausting. Or scary. Everyone expecting me to have answers when I barely have questions figured out yet.
"Fine." Three faces immediately brighten. "I'll go to the stupid festival. But if one person asks me about finding an alpha, I'm coming straight home."
"Deal." Ben's quick response tells me he's afraid I'll change my mind. He wipes his hands on his jeans—an old habit from the garage. "And I'll run interference if anyone gets too nosy."
"You'll try to set me up with every unmated alpha under thirty."
"Only the good-looking ones with stable jobs."
"Says the guy who still lives at home," I shoot back, but there's no heat in it. "Maybe I should be setting you up instead."
"I own a business, thank you very much. Living at home is called being financially smart." He grins. "Besides, someone has to keep an eye on our parents."
"You bought Mack's garage with money you saved by mooching off Mom and Dad."
"Strategic resource allocation," he corrects primly.
"That's a fancy way of saying 'I don't pay rent.'"
"At least I didn't come crawling back after—" He stops himself, grimacing. "Sorry. Low blow."
"It's fine." And surprisingly, it is. This is normal sibling banter, not pity. "But seriously, Ben. You're twenty-six. When are you going to fly the nest?"
"When you stop needing your big brother to rescue you from karaoke machines."
"That was one time!"
"At seven in the morning," Papa adds helpfully.
Ben ignores him, those dimples appearing again. "Besides, you're one to talk. You literally just moved back into your childhood bedroom."
"Temporarily!"
"Uh-huh. And I'm staying here temporarily too. Been temporary for twenty-six years now."
"Kids," Mom says mildly, but she's smiling. This is familiar territory—safe territory. Ben and I can fight about anything except the things that actually matter.
"Anyway," Ben continues, clearly eager to change the subject. "You do have a thing for competent guys."
I narrow my eyes at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Just that you circled Tom Kerr's photo in your yearbook."
"I was seventeen and he was cute!"
