“Mmhmm.” Cal grinned down at me, paint chips caught in his dark hair. “Super approachable. Very 'come talk to me about your feelings, I definitely won't bite your head off.'”
I flipped him off, which only made him laugh harder.
The front door swung open before I could mount a proper defense, and Nate appeared wearing paint-splattered jeans and one of my flannel shirts that was way too big for him. My wolf practically purred at the sight—mine, wearing my clothes, smelling like me—while the human part of my brain tried to pretend my heart wasn't doing stupid fluttery things.
“Hey, you,” he said, and his smile was soft and private and meant just for me. “Mom's got everyone organized into work crews. Apparently we're building a deck now too.”
“A deck?” I raised an eyebrow, stepping close enough to tug at the collar of my shirt where it hung loose on his shoulders. “When did that happen?”
“About ten minutes after she brought out the lemonade and started talking about summer barbecues.” Nate leaned into my touch without even thinking about it, and I had to bite back a satisfied rumble. “Your mom would have loved her, I think.”
Mom would have adored Anna Harrington's fierce protectiveness disguised as hospitality, would have recognized a kindred spirit in the way Anna gathered strays and claimed them as family.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “She would have.”
Nate's expression softened, reading the shift in my mood with that intuition that still caught me off guard sometimes. His fingers found mine, squeezing gently.
“Come on,” he said, tugging me toward the house. “Dad's been muttering about carburetor settings, and I think he's about two seconds away from taking the whole engine apart just to prove a point.”
Inside, the house buzzed with comfortable chaos. Mason sprawled on the living room floor, apparently in charge of sorting screws and brackets for whatever project Anna had dreamed up next. Tools and lumber occupied every available surface, and the scent of fresh coffee mixed with sawdust and that indefinable something that made houses feel like homes.
Michael looked up from where he was bent over the kitchen table, studying what appeared to be architectural drawings with the focused intensity of a man determined to understand every detail.
“Evan!” Anna's voice carried from somewhere upstairs, followed by the sound of her heels clicking down the wooden steps. “Perfect timing. I need someone tall to help me hang these curtains, and Nathaniel keeps making excuses about having to help his father.”
“I don't make excuses,” Nate protested, grinning. “I delegate. Very efficiently.”
“Delegate?” Mason snorted from his position on the floor. “Is that what we're calling it when you disappear every time someone mentions actual work?”
“I do actual work,” Nate said indignantly. “I document the actual work. With my camera. For posterity.”
“For posterity,” Cal echoed, climbing down from his ladder to grab a water bottle. “Right. Nothing to do with avoiding anything that might chip your manicure.”
I watched the easy banter with something warm unfurling in my chest. This was what pack felt like when it worked—the teasing and the shared labor, the way everyone pitched inwithout being asked because that's what family did for each other.
Even if half the family didn't know they were family yet.
“The carburetor's not going to rebuild itself,” Michael called from the kitchen, and I could hear the barely contained excitement in his voice. Working with his hands again, fixing something that mattered—it was doing him good.
“Coming, Dad,” Nate called back, but instead of moving toward the kitchen, he stepped closer to me, fingers catching in the front of my shirt. “But first...”
He went up on his toes, pressing a quick kiss to my mouth that tasted like coffee and contentment. It was soft and sweet and completely unconscious, the automatic gesture of someone who'd gotten comfortable with showing affection.
My wolf practically vibrated with satisfaction.
“Ugh,” Mason groaned from the floor. “Seriously? Right in front of my salad?”
“You're not eating salad,” Cal pointed out reasonably. “You're sorting hardware.”
“It's an expression, Cal.”
“A stupid expression.”
“Your face is a stupid expression.”
I tuned out their bickering, too busy cataloging the way Nate fit against me, the way his thumb brushed across my collarbone where my shirt had shifted. Casual touches, stolen kisses, the simple miracle of being wanted by someone who knew exactly what they were getting into—and I still wasn't used to it.
Wasn't sure I'd ever be used to it.
