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“Did you make her comfort you?”

I gave her a bewildered look. “Of course not.”

Julie gave my shoulders a small squeeze. “Then stop comparing yourself to a man who used power to erase consent. And don’t you dare compare yourself to the man who abandoned you and your mother.”

The words settled deep. I looked at my mother. Her face held pride and something more complicated, perhaps regret that my father still occupied even a small amount of space in my decisions.

“You are your mother’s son,” Julie said. “You inherited her sense of responsibility, her loyalty, and her tendency to believe rest is an attack on productivity.”

Mom frowned. “That last part was unnecessary.”

“It’s accurate.”

“I rest,” she said.

Julie smirked. “You reorganized the pantry during your last vacation.”

“It needed reorganizing.”

Julie looked back at me. “But you’re not just Hilary’s son. And you’re not just Dean’s son in every choice you make either. You are your own person.”

The sentence reached that part of me I’d kept guarded for years. So much of my life had been defined by inheritance. Future alpha. Hilary’s eldest son. Dean Blackwell’s abandoned son.

The dependable guy. The person everyone called.

I had spent years proving I wasn’t my father and preparing to become worthy of my mother’s role. Somewhere along the way, I’d forgotten to think about what I wanted outside of those comparisons.

Julie seemed to understand that before I did.

“You don’t need to earn the right to be different from him,” she said. “You already are.”

My throat tightened. I pulled her back into the hug before she could see too much.

“Thank you,” I said.

She kissed my cheek. “You’re welcome.”

After several seconds, Jason spoke from the table. “This is nice, but is anyone else eating the bread?”

Mom handed him the basket. Julie released me. The conversation had rearranged something inside me, but I finished my soup, then the sandwich.

By the time I returned to my apartment, the decision had already been made. I would call Sloane instead of texting her.

A message could be revised. I could type, erase, change tone, check punctuation, and pretend the entire question had been casual.

A call offered no protection from awkward silence, but it would also allow me to hide myself less.

I took out my phone and tapped on her name, my thumb hovering over the call button.

I paced from the dresser to the window. This was ridiculous.

I had spoken at council hearings, mediated territory disagreements, handled frightened parents during first shifts, and once explained to an angry bear shifter why his truck had been towed from protected land.

None of those situations had made my palms sweat.

I wiped a hand on my jeans. “What are you doing, man?” I muttered.

I opened our conversation and reread the most recent messages.