When the last page was complete, Nick set down the pen with deliberate care. His hands had stopped shaking, which felt like winning a small battle against his own body.
“Done?” Ash asked.
“Done.” Nick slid the folder back across the desk, suddenly aware of how small and unfinished he probably looked. Small and desperate and clearly struggling to keep it together.
Ash reviewed the application, his expression unreadable. Nick held his breath, waiting for the rejection. They always came eventually. He just never got used to them.
“You can start tomorrow,” Ash said finally. “Five p.m. We’ll start you on dinner service, see how you handle the rush. If you work out, we’ll talk about expanding your hours.”
Relief crashed through Nick so forcefully his eyes stung. He blinked rapidly, refusing to let actual tears happen. That would be pathetic.
“Really?”
“Really.” Ash smiled, something warm and genuine in it. “Everyone deserves a chance to prove themselves.”
Nick nodded, not trusting his voice. He stood on legs that still felt a little unreliable and headed back out to the bar.
The space hit him differently now. Less overwhelming, more like a puzzle he’d have to learn. He spotted an empty stool at the counter and claimed it, settling onto the vinyl seat. The cushion was worn smooth, shaped by countless other bodies.
“What can I get you?” A different bartender appeared, this one younger with kind eyes.
“Soda,” Nick said. “Whatever you’ve got. Ginger ale if you have it.”
The bartender nodded and disappeared. Nick swallowed against the lingering queasiness, watching the bar operate around him. Waiters moved with practiced efficiency, balancing trays and remembering orders. The bikers laughed louder, one of them slapping the table hard enough to make glasses jump.
His soda arrived in a tall glass, ice clinking as the bartender set it down. Nick wrapped his fingers around the condensation, the cold grounding him. Lifting the glass to his lips, he drank slowly, letting the carbonation settle his stomach.
Tomorrow. He’d start tomorrow. He had a job. That was something. That was more than he’d had this morning.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from Myron: How’d it go?
Nick typed back one-handed: Got the job. Start tomorrow.
The response came immediately: Yes! I’m proud of you. Dinner’s on me tonight. We're celebrating.
A genuine smile tugged at Nick’s mouth. Myron was a good guy. Annoying about the bills and definitely not Nick’s type but fundamentally good in a way that made Nick feel less alone in the apartment.
In the world.
He took another sip of ginger ale and let himself sit with the small victory. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges—the noise, the rush, the constant interaction with strangers. But this afternoon, he’d gotten a yes.
For someone like Nick, that was almost enough to make the darkness feel a little less heavy.
* * * *
The pack’s descent into town felt like freedom on wheels. Sunlight glinted off chrome and leather, wind pushing at their backs as they rumbled down the mountain in a loose, easy formation. They weren’t on a mission. They weren’t hunting. They were just men enjoying a good day and each other’s company—laughing, shit-talking, and letting the summer air scrub the weight off their shoulders.
The gravel crunched under their tires as they pulled into the Frothy Pine’s lot. Logan was the first to kill his engine, immediately getting smacked on the arm for some joke he cracked during the ride. Another guy shoved him back, more bark than bite, and the pack dissolved into that familiar chorus of laughter.
Zeppelin swung his leg off his bike last, tall and broad and effortless. No tension, no posturing, just that natural authority that settled around him like a shadow. He shoved his sunglasses up his nose with two fingers, mouth curving in that quiet, knowing half-smile his men recognized as yeah, I heard you talking shit back there.
One of the packmates muttered something about Zeppelin taking the corners too slow.
Zeppelin didn’t even bother looking at him as he drawled, “If I went any faster, you’d still be trying to catch up.”
The guys burst out laughing, because that was their alpha. Dry as dust, amused, never ruffled, always in control.
Preston slid off the back of Zep’s bike a second later, curls catching the light, small frame moving with that quick, warm energy that cracked every wolf’s grin a little wider. Zeppelin’s whole demeanor shifted a fraction—a subtle softening—and then he draped his arm over Preston’s shoulders like it was instinct. Not a display. Not a warning. Just a man keeping what mattered close.
