Through the window, I watched Gideon emerge from the common room, wiping his hands on a cloth, looking like he hadn't slept in days. He caught my eye, gave me a weary nod that said the pack would recover but it would take time.
Time we might not have, if whoever had sent those rogues decided to press their advantage.
The pack was worried. That was fair.
But worry wasn't the same as doubt, and I'd take concerned wolves over complacent ones any day.
I went back to the patrol reports, ignoring the way my ribs protested every breath, and if my thoughts drifted to Rafe more than they should have, to amber eyes and grief that felt too real to be performance, well.
That was my burden to carry.
Not theirs.
Michael was alreadyat the desk when I arrived at the mill, surrounded by ledgers and invoices and the organized chaos of someone who actually understood numbers. He had reading glasses on, which was new, and they made him look distinguished in a way that did absolutely nothing to help my concentration.
“You're early,” I said.
He looked up, and something in his expression made my chest tight. Warm. Present. Like seeing me was the best part of his morning, and he wasn't bothering to hide it anymore.
“Couldn't sleep. Figured I'd get a head start on the quarterly projections.” He gestured at the papers spread across the desk. “Also, your coffee maker is better than mine.”
“Is that the only reason you keep showing up?”
“One of several.” His mouth quirked. “The company's not bad either.”
I moved to the coffee maker in question, poured myself a cup I didn't really need. Anything to have something to do with my hands that wasn't reaching for him.
“What's the verdict on the projections?”
“Better than I expected, actually.” Michael shuffled through some papers, found the one he wanted. “Your profit margins are solid. Supply contracts are locked in at rates below current market, which means you're making more per board foot than most mills your size. Whoever negotiated those deals knew what they were doing.”
“That would be Jake. I just sign where he tells me.”
“Don't sell yourself short.” Michael's eyes found mine over the rim of his glasses. “You've built something real here. Something that matters to this town.”
I settled into the chair across from him, cradling my coffee. “But?”
“But your record-keeping is still a war crime, and if you don't start tracking inventory weekly instead of whenever you remember, you're going to end up with supply gaps that cost more to fix than they would to prevent.” He pulled out a notebook, flipped to a page covered in his neat handwriting. “I've drafted a system. Nothing complicated. Just consistent.”
“You drafted a system.”
“I had time.” He shrugged, but there was something underneath the casual gesture. Pride, maybe. Or just the satisfaction of doing something useful. “Want to see it?”
“Show me.”
Michael launched into an explanation of inventory tracking and receipt categorization that should have been boring. Would have been boring, from anyone else. But he talked with his hands, gestured at columns and figures, got genuinely excited about something called “rolling averages” that I was pretty sure I'd never understand.
And I watched him.
Watched the way the light caught the silver threading through his hair. The way his brow furrowed when he was thinking through a problem. The way his whole face changed when he smiled, lines crinkling around eyes that had seen too much grief and somehow still found reasons to be warm.
“You're not listening,” he said.
“I'm listening.”
“You're staring.”
“I can do both.”
