His hand came up to cover mine, engulfing it completely, his calloused palm warm and rough against my knuckles, his fingers curling around my wrist like he could feel my pulse and needed to memorize its rhythm. "Thursday." His voice came out hoarse, the word dragged from somewhere deep in his chest, his dark eyes searching my face with an intensity that made my breath catch. "That's three days."
"Three days." I stretched up on my toes to press a kiss to his bearded jaw, feeling the scratch of whiskers against my lips, breathing in his moonshine-and-cedar scent until it filled my lungs. "For dinner. Here. All of you." I pulled back to look at him, at the worry carved into every line of his face, the furrow between his brows, the tight set of his mouth beneath his beard. "I'm not going anywhere, big guy. I'll be right here when you come back."
Something shifted in his expression—the tight set of his shoulders loosening just slightly, the furrow between his brows smoothing, a breath releasing that he'd probably been holding since Silas announced the roads were clear. He nodded once, a jerky motion, like the agreement cost him something, like he was tearing himself in half to give it.
"Thursday." He repeated it like a promise, like an anchor, like a prayer, the single word carrying the weight of everything he couldn't say. Then he ducked down to press his lips to my forehead, his beard scratching gently against my skin, his scent wrapping around me like a blanket, and I felt his chest expandwith a deep breath—memorizing me, maybe, storing up the smell of us for the empty hours ahead. "I'll bring food."
"You don't have to—" I started, but he cut me off with a low rumble that vibrated through both of us, his hand still pressed over mine against his chest.
"I want to." The rumble deepened, resonating in the space between us, ancient and instinctive. "That's what pack means, right?"
I smiled against his chest, breathing him in one last time, letting the sound of his heartbeat echo in my ears like a promise. "Right."
Remy was next, already on his feet and moving toward me with that easy grace of his, though I could see the tension coiled beneath the surface—in the set of his jaw, the way his hands hung loose at his sides like he didn't trust them not to reach for me, the slight tremor in his fingers that he couldn't quite hide. He stopped just close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, his honey-gold gaze searching my face like he was memorizing every detail, every freckle, every curve and shadow.
"Thursday." He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering at the curve of my jaw, tracing the line of my cheekbone with a featherlight touch that made my skin tingle in his wake. "I'll bring my guitar. Play you that song I've been working on."
"The one about the bayou witch who steals hearts?" I leaned into his touch, letting his warmth seep into me, watching the way the morning light turned his amber eyes to molten gold, caught the copper threads in his curls.
His grin flickered to life, genuine this time, chasing some of the shadows from his expression, his dimples cutting deep into his cheeks. "That's the one. Though I might need to add a verse about a certain gator who keeps trying to eat me." He glanced toward the window where Gumbo's massive shape wasvisible in the shallows, his voice taking on a theatrical tone of long-suffering complaint that didn't quite hide the affection underneath.
"Gumbo doesn't want to eat you." I leaned into his touch, letting his warmth seep into me, breathing in honey and cinnamon and river water until it felt like he was already part of me. "He just likes watching you panic."
"Very comforting, chere." But he was smiling as he bent to kiss me, soft and sweet and lingering, his hands framing my face like I was something precious, something breakable, something he couldn't bear to let go. His lips moved against mine with a tenderness that made my chest ache, a question and an answer all at once. When he pulled back, his eyes were bright with something that looked suspiciously like unshed tears, his throat working as he swallowed hard. "Thursday."
"Thursday." I echoed, squeezing his wrists before letting go, feeling the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath my fingertips, the heat of his skin, the reluctance in every millimeter he put between us.
That left Silas, still leaning against the doorframe, still watching with that predator stillness that should have been unnerving but somehow just felt safe. I crossed to him slowly, giving him time to brace himself, and stopped just inside his reach.
"Thursday." I said it simply, without the gentle coaxing I'd used with the others. He didn't need soft handling—he needed directness, honesty, the kind of straightforward communication he used with his wounded animals.
He nodded once, sharp and certain, his pale eyes never leaving mine, something flickering in their depths that might have been relief. Then his hand came up to cup the back of my neck, pulling me forward until my forehead rested against his collarbone, his fingers warm and steady against my nape, histouch firm but careful—the way he handled creatures that might bolt if startled. He didn't kiss me—just held me there, breathing slowly, his thumb tracing the line of my spine through my thin shirt.
"I'll bring something for Gumbo." His voice was barely above a whisper, meant only for me, his breath stirring the hair at my temple, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that gradually synced with mine. "Fresh fish. Wild caught."
"He'll love that." I smiled against his shirt, breathing in rain and moss and something feral underneath, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat against my forehead, the coiled strength in every line of his body. "Might even let you pet him again."
"Don't push it." But there was warmth buried under the flat words, barely detectable unless you knew where to look, and his hand squeezed the back of my neck gently before letting go—a silent promise, a wordless vow.
Getting them out the door took another twenty minutes.
Harper remembered he needed to show me something about the generator after all—some switch I should check if the power flickered, demonstrated with the kind of painstaking detail usually reserved for defusing bombs, his big hands moving over the machinery with the focus of a man who desperately needed something to do with them. Remy couldn't find his keys, which turned out to be in his pocket where they'd been the entire time, discovered only after a dramatic search that involved checking under every cushion twice and accusing Gumbo of theft. Silas circled the cabin twice, checking windows and testing locks, his military instincts apparently demanding a full security sweep before he could leave me unguarded, his pale eyes cataloging every potential weakness.
I stood on the porch and watched them go, one by one. Harper's truck rumbled to life first, his hand raised in a brief wave through the window before he disappeared down themuddy road, the engine sound fading slowly into the cypress trees until it was just a memory. Remy's motorcycle followed a few minutes later, the engine's roar fading into the distance until all that remained was the sound of the bayou—frogs and insects and the gentle lap of water against the dock. Silas was last, pausing at the edge of my property to look back, his lean silhouette sharp against the afternoon light. He didn't wave—just held my gaze for a long moment, something passing between us that didn't need words.
Then he was gone too, and I was alone.
The silence hit like a physical blow.
I'd lived alone for years. Preferred it, even, after Aunt Marguerite passed. The cabin had always been my sanctuary, my space, the one place in the world where I answered to no one and nothing except myself and Gumbo. I'd never felt lonely here. Never felt the walls pressing in or the quiet stretching too thin.
But now.
Now the cabin felt cavernous and cold, despite the afternoon heat pressing against the windows. The kitchen was too big without Harper filling it. The couch looked wrong without Remy sprawled across it. The corners seemed darker without Silas watching from the shadows.
And the smell—God, the smell. Four days of four people living on top of each other, and their scents had seeped into everything. The blankets, the pillows, the worn wood of the floors. Every breath I took was full of them, and every breath reminded me they were gone.
"Well." I said it to no one, my voice too loud in the empty room, bouncing off walls that used to absorb the sound of four people breathing. "That's pathetic."
