Three yearslater and I’m still up before the dawn. Again. My hair is a mess—normal these days—and twisted in a salt-licked coil at the base of my neck. I’m already two blinks behind on sleep, but the little, wooden sign in front of Seamuse Bakery says, with its cheery, blue paint and hand-lettered curls, OPEN AT SIX.
I don’t think Cole anticipated there’d be a baby involved in the staffing situation when he chose that opening hour forever ago. But Cole is also already here making sure the bakery is ready for the day.
I let myself in through the back and shift the baby in his wrap until Jordan’s warm, little cheek is pressed up against my sternum. The bakery is quieter than I expected for a Friday morning.
Zane is also already here. Both him and Cole are in aprons with their sleeves rolled up and hands dusted with flour or cinnamon. The kitchen is an opera of motion: the low hum of the industrial mixers and the clatter of trays. Even the occasional musical snipe between Cole and Zane as they out-alpha each other over loaf timing or the merits of airier dough.
Cole’s grin brightens when he sees me. He wipes his brow, leaving a white streak above his eyebrow. “You’re up.” Then, he adds, a little softer than usual when he notices Jordan dozing, “You were out cold when we left this morning.”
“He wouldn’t settle after five,” I explain, patting the little bundle. “I figured if I can’t sleep, I can at least help.”
Cole crosses the kitchen in three strides, not bothering to dust off his hands before he cradles Jordan’s head with a gentle, floury palm. “He’s getting big. And looks more like his mother every day.”
“Maybe,” I say dryly. “But he hasyourinability to sleep past sunrise.”
Zane glances up from where he’s lining tart shells. His lips twitch at our back-and-forth. “Helena,” he greets, then gestures with his chin toward the office. “There’s a fresh pot of tea. Figured you’d want it when you came in.”
I slip into the office. It’s barely more than a closet stacked with invoices and flour bags at this point, but there’s a battered armchair that Zane lugged up the stairs for me after I had Jordan. I pour a cup of strong tea and enjoy the perfection of a quiet bakery in the morning and Jordan’s slow, even breathing as he tucks his feet under my ribs. Because of course he’s asleep again the second I hit the bakery.
There are worse ways to live. Hell, I’ve lived them. But not anymore.
Day in and day out, I now care for Jordan when Lucas is at work. When he’s home, we swap so I can work marketing or the front of the bakery for Cole. Zane fills in the in-between bakery shifts when not life-guarding. Even Lucas puts in some hours here when not teaching swim or lifeguarding classes, although his days actually in the lifeguarding chair are over. Having Jordan brought up memories of every close call he ever hadeither himself or with people he’s rescued, and it’s scared him away from actively lifeguarding again.
Our little pack has grown into our own, and our family continues to build our own path forward. Our families’ traditions—strong bonds, this bakery, being part of the community—are our northern star, but the legacy we’re building is all our own.
Exactly as it should be.
It’s subtle at first. Cole keeps checking his watch, which is odd, because bakery time is his entire reality. He can tell you the minute, the temperature, and the humidity just by licking his finger and holding it up to the breeze inside these four walls. Then Zane disappears for a ten-minute phone call and comes back tense, jaw ticking. Lucas, never one for secrets, keeps glancing at his phone and then putting it away with a guilty sort of flourish, like a child hiding sweets before dinner.
The bakery is busy today despite the drizzle. It’s Thursday, which means old Mrs. Trowbridge will want her double order of saffron buns, and the afternoon rush will bring half the school faculty in for coffee and whatever is left on the pastry racks. I keep my head down, trying to read the signs.
Is something wrong with my alphas? Is there a health inspector coming?
Jordan, for his part, is completely oblivious. He spends the entire morning napping in the playpen Cole built. Every so often, one of the alphas comes by to poke their head in and check on him while I work.
Around noon, Lucas vanishes. I don’t notice until the lull, when I’m rolling dough in the back with Zane.
I dust my hands off. “Where’s Lucas?”
“Errand,” Zane says, too quick. “Something about the school. He’ll be back.”
I study his face. “Are you all right? You’ve been off all day.”
Zane says nothing. Then he sighs, sets down the rolling pin, and leans back against the counter. “Iamfine. Just a busy week.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw, leaving a smear of flour. “You’re sure you don’t need anything? Cole told me you were up early again.”
“Don’t deflect.”
He blinks, like he’s startled to be read so easily, and then—surprisingly—he laughs. “I forget sometimes that you see through all of us.”
“You most of all. Is that so bad?”
“No, not bad at all.”
It’s enough to drop my suspicion.
For now.
The day goes on. We feed the lunchtime crowd, and Cole takes Jordan for a “scenic tour” of the shop, which mostly means bouncing the baby up and down the counter while he chats with regulars. There’s a moment, as the sun slants in through the front window, where I catch Cole looking at me as if to commit something to memory. When he realizes I’m watching, he smiles a private upturn that he saves for quiet mornings and midnight walks.
