“But I’m not a wolf.” My voice wavers between teasing and uncertainty.
“Neither am I,” Evelyn says from somewhere nearby. “Yet here I am.” She stretches out beside Jericho and Evan, who are arranging their own blankets in near-perfect symmetry. They’re wearing matching black and red pajama bottoms, and it makes me smile.
The laughter and small talk feel easy—like background music I didn’t know I needed. Aster is giggling hysterically, crawling over his mom and tossing his teddy bear around. Ivy is on the other side of the room, fluffing her pillow while talking to Sage.
As I lie down beside Rowen, someone turns the record player on, and they all start telling stories about Christmases past: Forest’s disastrousattempt to roast a turkey, Sage’s glitter explosion while attempting to make some ornaments, and Red getting snowed in at the shifter clinic one year.
But for each laughable story, they have an endearing one too. How Taren and Sasha joined the pack just a few weeks before Christmas, and how Jasmine broke the news she was pregnant with Rowen at Christmas Eve dinner. Even Grant cracks a few jokes from the corner while half-watching the fire.
The warmth of the room seeps into me, each laugh pulling me closer and closer to the people I’ve grown to care about. For once, I don’t feel like an outsider watching through glass. Everyone is talking around me—laughing, teasing, half-asleep as they share a few more stories.
And I just… listen.
Not because I feel separate from it. Because I can feel myself falling into it. Weaving myself into these moments without even realizing it.
I know these people now. They’re my friends, people I love. I can easily picture their faces in each of these moments, hear their laughter. And it feels wonderful, yet at the same time, it feels like something I shouldn’t touch. Like if I hold on too tightly, it’ll dissolve right through my fingers.
But gods, I want to. I want this so badly it scares me. Not just to imagine I was a part of the stories, but tobecomethem. Be a part of their future.
I reach for Rowen’s hand, threading our fingers together. His warm brown eyes meet mine, a gentle smile tugging at his lips.
“How about you, Tobias?” Forest asks. “Do you have any Christmas stories you’d like to share?”
The room goes quiet as they wait for my turn. I bite my lip. I spent most of my Christmases worrying that Mom would hurt herself or run into the street screaming. But there’s one memory that stands out.
“When I was seven,” I start slowly, picking at the edge of my blanket, “the power went out on Christmas Eve. It was freezing in our apartment, so we built this fort in the living room, adding pillows, blankets, anythingwe could find for warmth.” I pause, realizing how similar it is to how we’re sleeping now. “We ate cookies, and she read me some books with a flashlight. The wind was howling outside, rattling the windows, but it didn’t bother me. I felt warm and safe. Like the world couldn’t hurt me. The next day, there were two gifts by the Christmas tree.”
It was one of the rare times Mom remembered to buy gifts.
Rowen’s thumb brushes over my skin, warm and inviting, like the memory pleases him. But he can’t know how rare that was for me. Or how fleeting. After we opened gifts, Mom slipped into her usual chatter and incoherent talk, and I spent the rest of the day listening to her argue with a shadow on the wall.
I shrug and tug at the blanket. “That was probably my favorite Christmas.”
No one says anything at first. The fire pops softly, and the only other sound is of Aster cooing sleepy words at his mother.
“That’s really sweet,” Ivy says.
I look away quickly, pretending to focus on the blinking lights. When I roll to my side, Rowen pulls me against him. The shift is small, almost thoughtless, like it was natural. It catches my breath. I settle in, squished between him and Neal, and my heart races—not from nerves. It’s just… this. The warmth. The closeness.
That night had always felt so magical to me, more than any present Mom could’ve given me. And being here, cocooned in the safety and belonging of the Clearwater Pack, I’m starting to feel it again. Like I can dare to believe I belong.
How do I make it last?
Something soft and terrifying unfolds in my ribs.
The possibility of it all.
A future I’m afraid to want.
Eventually, the voices fade one by one, replaced by the steady rhythm of breathing and the faint hiss of the fire.
Rowen touches my face, his thumb tracing my cheekbone, like he’s trying to memorize something. For the briefest moment, I think he’s going to kiss me, but he doesn’t.
“Night, Toby,” he murmurs.
I tuck my head against his chest, breathing him in. “Night.”
It should be enough—this closeness, this warmth, this belonging. It’s everything I’ve wanted. It feels the same as all those years ago. The fort. The flashlight. The warmth.
