Not thirsty.
Nate read it, then looked at me with those blue-green eyes that saw too much. “We've been doing this dance for a month now, and I still don't know if you have any siblings. Are you an only child, or is there a whole family of mysterious, notebook-wielding Callahans I should know about?”
My pencil hovered over the paper. Such a simple question, but family meant complications in ways he couldn't understand.
Just me and my dad,I wrote finally.
“Ah,” he said, nodding sagely. “So you got all the brooding genes concentrated in one person. That explains a lot.”
I raised an eyebrow at him, and he held up his hands in mock surrender.
“What? I'm just saying, if there were two of you walking around town, the local teenage population wouldn't be able to handle it. Half of them already stare at you like you're some kind of cryptid.”
The laugh escaped before I could stop it, a sharp bark of sound that made Martha look over from behind the counter with raised eyebrows. I clamped my mouth shut immediately, heat flooding my cheeks, but the damage was done.
Nate's eyes went wide. “Holy shit. You can laugh.”
I grabbed my pencil, scribbling furiously:
Sometimes.
“Sometimes,” he repeated, leaning forward like he'd just discovered buried treasure. “What else can you do sometimes?”
What could I do sometimes? Talk to pack members when we were alone and the weight of human expectations wasn't crushing my throat closed. Howl with my wolf in the deep forest where no one could hear. Dream about a future where I could be the Alpha my father needed without the broken pieces that made simple conversations feel like walking through broken glass.
Not much,I wrote instead.
Nate studied the words, then set down his coffee cup with deliberate care. “You know what I think?”
I raised an eyebrow, waiting.
“I think you're doing more than you give yourself credit for.” He gestured vaguely around the café, where other students chatted and laughed without a care in the world. “Most people in this place? They talk constantly but don't actually say anything important. You pick your words carefully. When you do speak, it matters.”
My chest tightened with something that wasn't quite relief but wasn't pain either.
“Besides,” Nate continued, voice getting softer, “there are other ways to communicate, right? Your sketches say things words can't. The way you listen—really listen—when people talk. How you notice things others miss.” He paused, then added with a small smile, “How you make sure I don't get lost walking back from the forest.”
I looked down at my notebook, not trusting myself to meet his eyes.
“My point is,” he said gently, “maybe the problem isn't that you can't talk. Maybe it's that everyone else expects you to perform conversation instead of just... being yourself.”
The simple acceptance in his voice made my throat burn with emotions I didn't have names for. He wasn't trying to fix me or push me to be someone I wasn't. He was just sitting there,drinking coffee and looking at me like I was enough exactly as I was.
Thank you,I wrote, the words feeling inadequate but necessary.
“Nothing to thank me for,” Nate said, then grinned. “Though I do expect you to keep letting me follow you around like a lost puppy. This friendship is the best thing that's happened to me since moving here.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled. Almost.
The house wasdark when I got home, except for the warm glow spilling from Dad's study. I could hear him moving around inside, the rustle of papers and the occasional scratch of pen on documents that kept our pack fed and our secrets hidden.
I should have gone straight to my room, should have avoided the conversation I knew was coming. But something about Nate's promise had left me feeling raw and reckless, like maybe it was time to stop hiding from the hard truths.
I knocked on the doorframe, waiting for Dad's grunt of acknowledgment before stepping inside.
“Hey, Dad.”
Daniel Callahan looked up from his massive oak desk, steel-gray hair catching the lamplight and his weathered hands steady as he signed what looked like lumber mill contracts. He was still wearing his work clothes, flannel shirt rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and crossed with the scars that came from a lifetime of physical labor.
