I turn the radio on. Then off. Then on again. Can't find a station that doesn't remind me of her. Country makes me think of the time we danced at the Fourth of July barbecue. Classic rock reminds me of her singing along badly in the kitchen. Pop stations play those songs about heartbreak that hit too close to home.
I settle on static. At least static is honest about being noise.
The drive home takes fifteen minutes but feels like hours. Our packhouse sits on three acres at the edge of town.
Sergio inherited it when his parents died. Car accident, six years ago. Same year Jessica left. My mom stepped in as pack mom after that—been the glue holding us together when we were all falling apart from losing too much at once.
She doesn't live here, has her own place in town, but she's here more than she's there. Makes sure we eat. Makes sure we talk. Makes sure we don't forget what pack means.
Mom started cooking for five guys instead of just me and my dad after he died when I was fifteen. Construction accident. That's how packs work when they're chosen instead of born. You build your own family.
Sergio went to the academy. Got his coaching degree. Came back to build something here. Pedro went to medical school, specialized in omega health, and kept this place as his base. Nacho did his four years at State, then the police academy, worked his way up from deputy to sheriff. Me? I stayed local, learned carpentry from my dad before the accident, built the business from the ground up.
We've been a pack since high school. Four alphas who fit together like puzzle pieces.
We've been incomplete in other ways too. But I try not to think about the empty omega-sized hole in our pack.
Stop it, I tell myself. She ran. She doesn't want this.
I pull into the gravel driveway and park next to Nacho's patrol car. He must have beaten me here. The man drives like every trip is an emergency, even when he's just getting groceries.
The house is warm when I walk in. Smells like home. Like the beef stew Nacho makes when he's stressed and needs to do something with his hands. Like the lemon cleaner Sergio used this morning. Like pack and safety and everything good.
Nacho is at the stove, still in his sheriff's uniform but wearing the gray house slippers with little stars that Sergio bought him as a joke three Christmases ago. He pretended to hate them. Wears them every single day.
"Hey," I say, dropping my tool belt on the hook by the door. Try for cheerful. Normal. Like my heart isn't currently being shredded into confetti. "That smells amazing. You stress cooking again?"
"Maybe." He doesn't look up from the pot. "You look like someone kicked your puppy."
"Accurate." I cross to the fridge, grab a beer, twist off the cap. Take a long drink. "Pretty sure I am the puppy. And I got kicked."
Nacho finally turns to face me. His dark eyes scan my face, reading me the way he reads crime scenes. Seeing everything I'm trying to hide.
"She really ran?"
"Like I was on fire and she was afraid of getting burned." I slump against the counter. "I just wanted to say hi. Make sure she was okay. Maybe make her laugh. She used to laugh at my jokes, remember? Even the bad ones."
"Especially the bad ones," Nacho says quietly.
"Yeah." My voice cracks. I clear my throat, try again. "She looked scared, Nacho. Of me. Like I was going to hurt her or something. I would never... I'd cut off my own hands before I'd hurt her."
Nacho's expression softens. "I know. But last time she saw you, you kissed her and she fled the state. Now you're waiting outside her doctor's appointment. That's a lot."
I open my mouth to argue, then close it. He's right. I know he's right. I've been acting like a lovesick idiot since the moment I heard she was back. Waiting for her. Unable to stay away even though I should.
"I'm pathetic," I mutter into my beer.
"You're in love." Nacho turns back to the stew. "There's a difference."
The front door opens and Sergio walks in, bringing cold air and the smell of ice rink with him. He's still in his coaching gear, whistle around his neck, clipboard tucked under his arm. His dark curly hair is damp with sweat and there's tension in every line of his body.
"Practice ran late," he says. "Whitfield kid still can't pass to save his life. His mom is going to murder me when she finds out I benched him."
"She thinks he's NHL material," I say, trying for the usual banter. Trying to act normal.
"He's barely house league material." Sergio drops the clipboard on the counter and moves to stand beside Nacho. His hand settles on the small of Nacho's back, automatic and unconscious. "How long until dinner?"
"Twenty minutes."
