“Running's easier,” Daniel agreed. “Staying's harder. But staying's also how you figure out where you actually belong.”
Something in his tone made me look up, catching an expression on his face that seemed to say more than his words. Like he understood something about belonging that I was still trying to learn.
“Do you think I belong here?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.
Daniel smiled then, the first real smile I'd seen from him all evening. It transformed his face, softening the harsh lines and making him look younger, more approachable. More like the father Evan deserved.
“I think you've been looking for home your entire life,” he said. “And I think you might have found it, if you're brave enough to claim it.”
The words hit like a revelation, cutting through confusion to something clearer underneath. Because he was right. I had been looking for home—in Portland, in college, in Chicago—always searching for that place where I fit, where I belonged, where I could be myself without apology.
And maybe, just maybe, it had been Hollow Pines all along.
“Evan's going to be devastated that he hurt you,” Daniel continued, voice soft with parental concern. “He's been carrying guilt about keeping secrets ever since you came back. Especially after you two...”
He trailed off, but the implication was clear. After we'd gotten together. After what had started as friendship had deepened into something more complicated and infinitely precious.
“I don't want him to feel guilty,” I said. “This isn't his fault. It's mine for reacting badly.”
“It's nobody's fault,” Daniel corrected firmly. “It's just what happens when two people care about each other but don't know how to navigate complicated territory. The important thing is figuring out how to do better going forward.”
Silence settled between us, comfortable now instead of tense. The fire crackled in the hearth, and somewhere in the house, I could hear the distant murmur of voices—pack members going about their evening routines.
This felt like family. Like the thing I'd been missing without knowing it.
“You look exhausted,” Daniel observed, and I realized he was right. The emotional rollercoaster of the day had left me drained, hollow in ways that had nothing to do with hunger.
“Yeah, I should probably head home,” I said, starting to rise from the chair.
“Stay,” Daniel said, and there was something in his voice that made me freeze. “Please. I don't think you should be alone tonight, and I suspect Evan would want to see you when he gets back from patrol.”
I hesitated, caught between wanting to see Evan and being terrified of facing him after my spectacular meltdown. “I don't know if that's a good idea. I said some pretty awful things.”
“And you'll have the chance to apologize,” Daniel said practically. “But right now, you look like you're about to fall over. When's the last time you ate something?”
The question made me realize I couldn't remember. Sometime before the revelation that my boyfriend was a werewolf, which felt like days ago but had only been hours.
“I'll take that as a no,” Daniel said, standing with fluid grace. “Come on. Let's get some food in you, and then we'll set you up in Evan's old room. He moved out to his own place last year, but we keep the room ready for when he needs it.”
The casual kindness in the offer made my throat tight with gratitude. After the way I'd behaved today, I didn't deserve this level of care and consideration. But Daniel was offering it anyway, extending the same protective instinct to me that I'd seen him show toward pack members.
Like I was worth protecting. Like I belonged.
“You don't have to?—”
“Nate.” Daniel's voice carried just enough alpha authority to make me shut up and listen. “You're important to my son, which makes you important to me. Let me take care of you.”
The words hit like a sucker punch to the chest, overwhelming in their simple sincerity. When was the last time someone had wanted to take care of me? When was the last time I'd let them?
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and followed Daniel out of the study and toward what I assumed was the kitchen. The pack house was larger than it looked from outside, all hardwood floors and warm lighting that made everything feel homey and lived-in.
We passed a living room where several pack members were sprawled across couches, watching what looked like a nature documentary. They looked up as we walked by, offering smiles and nods that felt welcoming rather than wary. Like they'd already decided I was worth keeping around.
The kitchen was massive, clearly designed to feed a crowd. Daniel moved around it with comfortable efficiency, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator and setting a pan on the stove to heat.
“Nothing fancy,” he said, cracking eggs into a bowl. “But it'll help settle your stomach.”
I watched him cook, mesmerized by the domestic normalcy of it. This was what family looked like—taking care of each other without fanfare, making sure everyone was fed and safe and had a place to sleep.
