He said, “So, Newt, you planning to stick around or is this just a pit stop?”
Newt hesitated, then looked at me, waiting for a cue.
I gave him one. “He’s staying,” I repeated. “As long as he wants.”
That seemed to end the matter. Ransom shrugged, popped a toothpick in his mouth, and said, “Good luck, man. This place has a way of chewing people up.”
Newt smiled, shaky but genuine. “I’ll try not to get splinters.”
Ma barked a laugh. “You might fit in after all.”
The rest of breakfast passed in a blur of food and chatter. Newt relaxed, a little, enough to make jokes about the size of Harlow’s biceps and ask Ma for the recipe to her gravy.
I sat back, watching him navigate the storm, and felt something settle in my chest. Not peace, exactly, but the sense that, for the first time in a long time, the table was set the way it should be.
When the meal ended, Ma stood, wiped her hands on her apron, and said, “You boys clear the table. I need to call your father.”
She swept out, leaving the aftermath behind.
I stacked plates with Ransom, who watched Newt the whole time, eyes sharp but not unkind.
“He’s cute,” Ransom said, voice pitched low enough not to carry. “You gonna fuck this one up, too?”
I didn’t answer, just grinned and carried the dishes to the sink.
Newt followed, hands full of mugs, trying not to drop them. “Should I—where do these go?”
“Just leave them,” I said. “You’re the guest.”
He set the mugs down, then turned to face me. He looked different in the morning light—less fragile, more present.
“Thanks,” he said. “For… I don’t know. Not letting them eat me alive.”
I shrugged. “They’re wolves. You learn to bite back.”
He smiled. “I think I could, if I had to.”
I looked at him, really looked, and saw the steel under the nerves. He’d been through hell, and he was still standing.
“You will,” I said. “Trust me.”
He did.
We cleaned up the rest of the kitchen in silence, side by side, the way people did when they’d been doing it for years. Every so often, our hands would brush, and neither of us pulled away.
Ransom whistled as he finished the last of the silverware, then headed for the back porch, leaving us alone.
Newt leaned against the counter, twisting the hem of the hoodie. “So what happens now?”
“Now,” I said, “we see if you can survive a full day at the shop without losing a finger.”
He laughed, a real one, and for a second I wanted to freeze the moment, keep it safe. But the world didn’t work like that.
I gestured toward the door. “Come on. I’ll show you what real work looks like.”
He followed, still in my hoodie, still a little shaky, but with something new in his eyes.
Hope, maybe.
