Gumbo rumbled from somewhere outside, his massive shape visible through the window as he patrolled the shallows near the dock. He'd been restless all morning, pacing the perimeter of theflooded property like he was standing guard. Even now that he could roam freely, he wasn't straying far—just circling the cabin in slow, watchful loops.
I understood the feeling.
I tried to keep busy. There was plenty to do—storm debris to clear, mud to mop up, supplies to inventory. The cooler needed to be emptied and cleaned. The boards we'd taken off the windows were stacked on the porch, waiting to be stored. Normal post-hurricane tasks, the kind I'd done a dozen times before.
But I kept getting distracted.
By the coffee cup Remy had left on the counter, his lip prints still visible on the rim. By the dish towel Harper had folded and placed precisely beside the sink, the edges lined up with military precision that made me think of Silas. By the spot on the wall where Silas had leaned for four days straight, the paint worn slightly smoother from the brush of his shoulder.
By the flannel shirt hanging over the back of a kitchen chair.
I noticed it around four in the afternoon, when the light shifted and caught the red-and-black plaid in a way that made my chest ache. Harper must have taken it off at some point—probably when he was working on the generator, or helping with the cooking—and forgotten to put it back on before he left.
I picked it up without thinking. The fabric was soft and worn from years of use, the elbows faded almost white, a small tear near the hem that had been carefully mended with thread that didn't quite match. It smelled like him—moonshine and cedar smoke and something earthier underneath, so strong and present that for a second I could almost believe he was still here.
A purr started in my chest before I could stop it, low and instinctive, my whole body responding to the scent of my Alpha without conscious permission.
My Alpha. When had I started thinking of him like that? Of all of them like that? I should have hung the shirt by the door, maybe texted Harper to let him know he'd forgotten it. That would have been the sensible thing to do. The normal thing.
Instead, I carried it into my bedroom and laid it across my pillow—the pillow that was already part of my nest, the sanctuary I'd built in the reading corner years ago with its soft blankets and fairy lights and the worn quilt Aunt Marguerite had made me.
The purring got louder.
When I went back to the living room to tackle the pile of blankets still tangled on the floor, I found myself sorting through them with a critical eye. This one smelled like Remy—honey and cinnamon and river water, warm and sweet and slightly chaotic. That one had Silas's rain-and-ozone scent clinging to the fibers, cool and clean with something wild underneath.
I knew exactly what I was doing as I carried them to my nest. Adding layers. Adding scents. Addingthemto the space I'd kept private for so long, the space I'd never shared with anyone. And instead of the panic I might have expected, instead of the urge to protect my solitude, I felt something settle in my chest. Something that felt like rightness.
By sunset, my nest smelled like pack.
Harper's flannel draped across my favorite pillow. Remy's blanket folded into the corner where I usually curled up to read. One of Silas's undershirts—black, practical, probably military issue—tucked beneath the quilt where I could reach for it in the night. I curled up in the middle of it all as the last light faded from the sky, surrounded by their scents layered over my own, and counted the hours until dinner.
Gumbo's rumble drifted through the open window, deep and constant, a prehistoric lullaby that had soothed me to sleep foryears. He was still circling the cabin, still keeping watch, still refusing to stray more than a hundred yards from the dock.
"I know, buddy." I whispered into the fading light, pulling Remy's blanket up to my chin, breathing in honey and cinnamon. "I miss them too."
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I grabbed it too fast, nearly knocking over the lamp in my eagerness, and felt my heart stutter at the three separate notifications glowing on the screen.
Harper:Home safe. Distillery's fine. Thursday.
Remy:Made it back. Houseboat didn't sink. Miss you already, chere. Is that pathetic? Don't answer that. Three days feels like forever.
Silas:Animals are fine. Brought them extra food. Thursday.
I read each message twice, three times, a smile spreading across my face that I couldn't have stopped if I tried. Then I typed back three responses—short and simple, nothing too eager—and set the phone aside.
The cabin still felt too big. Too quiet. Too empty. For the first time since they'd left, it also felt like waiting. Like the pause between breaths, the silence before a song, the moment before a storm breaks. Not an ending—just an intermission.
Thursday. Three days away.
I could survive three days.
I buried my face in Harper's flannel, breathed in the scent of moonshine and cedar, and let the sound of Gumbo's steady patrol lull me toward sleep.
The purr in my chest hadn't stopped since I'd added their things to my nest. I didn't try to quiet it. Three days. Then Sunday dinners and coming home and belonging.
I could survive three days.
Chapter Twenty-Five
