"Look, we're happy for you, man." Logan says. He stands up abruptly, the sudden movement making the booth shake, and walks toward the bar. "Getting married, settling down with Emma. That's great."
"What do we do about the wedding planning situation?" Dax asks instead, turning back to Griffin and me.
I straighten my shoulders, shifting into problem-solving mode like switching from casual conversation to professionalconsultation. "We're all adults. We can be civil and professional for Emma's sake. Besides, it was eight years ago. Ancient history."
Griffin nods, though his scent suggests he's not entirely convinced. "We've all moved on. It'll be fine."
Logan returns with three fresh bottles, setting them down with the careful precision of someone who's had practice controlling his strength. The cold glass sweats immediately in the warm air, condensation pooling on the wooden table. "Let's just focus on celebrating. Dax is getting married. That's what matters."
Dax's grin returns, warm and grateful, transforming his entire face. "Thanks, guys. And speaking of celebrations, did you hear about the Riverside pack?"
"What about them?" I ask, accepting the fresh beer and noting how Logan's posture has relaxed slightly now that we're off the subject of ancient romantic disasters.
"They got married to an omega. Turns out she had both a birth pack and a mated pack."
Griffin whistles low, the sound cutting through the ambient noise of the pub. "I thought mated and bonded packs were the same thing."
"Yeah, it was weird. The whole thing ended up in a bloodbath." Dax observes, his pine scent carrying something thoughtful as he settles back against the booth. "Some alphas were lost this week."
"What a waste! Thank God Emma's not like that, hooking up with packs left, right and center."
"Well," I say, swiftly changing the mood and conversation, "to you and Emma. May your wedding be everything you both want it to be."
Griffin raises his bottle, grinning despite the complex emotions swirling beneath the surface. "And may working with our ex-girlfriend not end in complete disaster."
Logan mutters something that might be agreement or might be profanity, but he raises his bottle anyway.
We clink glasses, the sound sharp and hopeful in the warm air of the Hollow Oak. Dax finishes his beer quickly, eager to get back to Emma and whatever domestic bliss awaits him. Griffin and Logan drain their bottles more slowly, both lost in their own thoughts about the complications ahead.
The drive home is quieter than usual, Griffin riding shotgun and fiddling with the radio while Logan sprawls in the back seat, staring out the window at the familiar streets of Pine Hollow.
As I pull into our driveway and watch Griffin and Logan disappear into their respective bedrooms without the usual evening argument about whose turn it is to lock up, I wonder if eight years has been long enough to forget how Savannah's vanilla bourbon scent used to make my carefully controlled world feel slightly less rigid.
And whether that's something I want to remember or something I need to guard against.
Time will tell. It always does.
3
LOGAN
After last night's bombshell that Savannah was coming home, I did what any alpha would do with shame and guilt hanging over his head. I took my best bottle of whiskey and decided to drown my sorrows in my room alone. I didn't even let Griff come in to spend the night. Fuck! We shared most things as a pack, but they didn't know that I broke Savannah's heart. I'm the one who caused her to leave Pine Hollow eight years ago. And I want it to stay like that.
The coffee tastes like shit this morning, but then again, everything tastes like shit when you wake up with a hangover. I stare at my reflection in the black surface of my mug and wonder when exactly my life became a country song about three losers who can't figure out how to function like normal fucking adults.
Griff's takeout containers from last night are still scattered across the counter because apparently cleaning up after himself is beneath his royal fucking highness. His sandalwood scent carries hints of sawdust and that particular brand of morning arrogance that means he's expecting someone else to deal with his mess while he swans off to build houses for people who actually pay him to give a damn.
"Sleep well?" Griff asks without looking up from his phone, scrolling through whatever social media bullshit contractors waste their time on.
"Like a fucking toddler teething."
Griff snorts. "Ouch! Someone's extra cheerful this morning."
He's not fucking wrong. Savannah. I haven't thought about her in eight years. One mention from Dax and she's screwing with my fucking mind like she never left. I'm a control freak. Not that I would ever admit it out loud. Is it too much to expect Griff to not only eat his goddamn takeout, but maybe clean up the containers afterward? And for once, maybe cook something that doesn't come in a grease-stained paper bag?
Xavier plates the eggs, while I glare at Griff's mess. Thai food containers, pizza boxes from three days ago, and what looks like the remains of a sandwich that's achieved sentience and started its own ecosystem.
"We need to discuss last night." Xavier adjusts his glasses.
