“So,” he said around a bite of what looked like roast beef and cheese, “you've been awfully chipper lately. Almost human, even.”
I looked up from my own lunch, caught off guard by the observation. “I'm always human.”
“Debatable,” Sienna said, settling beside us with her thermos of coffee. “You've been different the past week or so. Less brooding, more...” She waved her hand vaguely. “Present, I guess.”
The attention made me uncomfortable, pack members noticing changes in my behavior that I hadn't realized were visible. But that was the nature of living in close community—people noticed when your patterns shifted, even when you tried to keep personal business private.
“Maybe I'm just getting better at the job,” I said.
“Or maybe it has something to do with a certain photographer who's been spotted around town,” Jonah suggested, grin spreading across his face like sunrise.
Heat crawled up my neck despite my efforts to remain casual. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Right,” Theo said, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “And I suppose it was pure coincidence that you've been taking longer lunch breaks and making more trips to the general store than usual.”
“I go to the general store for supplies,” I protested.
“Supplies that happen to be available when a certain someone is also shopping there?” Sienna asked, eyebrow raised in challenge.
The pack was watching now, the casual teasing turning into something more focused. Pack bonds made it impossible to hide emotional shifts completely, but I'd gotten good at keeping the details private. Apparently not good enough.
“There's nothing to talk about,” I said finally, voice carrying more edge than I'd intended.
Jonah studied my face with the attention of someone who'd known me since childhood. “Nothing to talk about, or nothing you want to talk about?”
“Nothing worth discussing with the entire pack,” I replied back.
“We're not the entire pack,” Sienna pointed out. “We're your friends. People who care about you and want to see you happy.”
“I am happy.”
The words came out flat, unconvincing even to my own ears. Because while I wasn't unhappy exactly, there was a restlessness in my chest that had been growing stronger each day, fed by brief encounters and careful conversations that left me wanting more than I knew how to ask for.
“You're content,” Jonah corrected. “Which isn't the same thing.”
It was accurate. I'd built a life around being useful, reliable, steady—all valuable traits that served the pack and the community well. But usefulness wasn't the same as fulfillment,and reliability didn't automatically translate to personal happiness.
“Content is fine,” I said, but the protest sounded weak.
“Is it though?” Theo asked, voice gentler than his usual teasing tone. “You've looked more alive this past week than you have in months. Whatever's changing, it's good for you.”
These people knew me, had watched me navigate the complicated balance of personal desires and pack responsibilities for years. If they thought something was different, something better, maybe it was worth examining instead of dismissing.
“It's complicated,” I admitted finally.
“Most things worth having are,” Sienna said, echoing words I'd heard from Gideon. “Doesn't make them less worth pursuing.”
Dad emerged from the office, expression grim but controlled. Whatever conversation he'd been having was finished, and judging by his posture, it hadn't gone well. His eyes swept the mill floor, taking in the progress we'd made, before settling on me with the kind of intensity that meant business.
“Evan,” he said, voice carrying across the mill floor with unmistakable authority. “I need to see you in my office.”
The tone made every pack member within earshot go still for just a moment before returning to their work with the studied casualness of people pretending they hadn't noticed anything unusual. But I could feel their attention like a weight on my shoulders, pack bonds humming with the low-level anxiety that came when the Alpha's mood shifted.
I set down my tools and followed Dad across the mill floor, past stacks of fresh-cut lumber and the familiar industrial smell of sawdust and machine oil. The office felt smaller with both of us in it, cramped by the weight of whatever news Dad was carrying.
He closed the door behind us and moved to the window that overlooked the mill floor, hands clasped behind his back in the posture he adopted when he was preparing to deliver information that would change everything.
“Sit,” he said without turning around.
