Ava
A thin line of sunlight creeps across the floor, tracing its way over my legs and shining in my eyes. I wake with a slight twinge in my shoulder, a reminder that my mark still isn't healing right. Each ache and throb has become part of my routine yet so foreign. As I rise, I'm hit by a sudden flicker of unease.....or worry maybe..... that doesn't quite feel like mine. It flutters inside my chest, then vanishes before I can figure out where it came from.
When I find Caleb in the kitchen, he's already brewing the tea John prescribed. He glances over with relief bright in his eyes, like he's been waiting for me to show signs of life. I don't say much and just test my shoulder's range and smile in greeting. We're used to this silent dance, he brews, I sip, we wait for the pain to ease.
As I watch the steam curl from my mug, a flare of disappointment nudges the edges of my thoughts, intense enough to pull my attention away from my own lingering aches. I can't tell if it's mine or not—it's just there, out of nowhere, mingling with memories of the heat between us a few days ago. My cheeks flush, and I catch Caleb eyeing me, amusement and sympathy woven together in his gaze. Did he sense something, too? Or am I just projecting?
"Once you're better," he murmurs, voice dropping low, "we'll make up for lost time." My heart thuds at his promise, and a sly grin tugs at my lips.
"What?" I say, trying not to blush.... can he read my mind or something? We kill the morning by going through John's instructions, drinking the tea on schedule, reapplying the paste to my mark every few hours. Despite my best efforts to focus on the routine, odd flashes of emotion keep pricking at the back of my mind, bursts of longing or flickers of worry that I swear aren't mine. Maybe it's stress, or maybe I'm just losing my grip, but either way, This dull ache in my shoulder is to distracting to focus on the feeling. By midday, I'm restless, wandering circles around the small living room until Caleb takes pity on me.
"I'll cook," he declares, rummaging through the half-empty pantry. "My dad always said a decent meal could fix anything." He lines up pasta, sauce, and a few dusty spices on the counter. The faint hope in his expression lifts my mood, and I settle at the table, propping my chin on my hand, watching him with a little smile.
"You miss him," I say softly. "Don't you?" Caleb's shoulders tense for a heartbeat before he nods.
"A lot," he admits. "He was my hero, you know? Led the pack with this quiet strength, but the man I remember most is the one standing at the stove, making sure our bellies were full." He hesitates, gaze flicking to the sauce in the pan. "He was a pillar of the pack, rigid and unyielding with most folks. But with my mother? He was so gentle it almost shocked me. I "I used to think my dad was... obsessed with my mom," Caleb said, his voice low, almost fond as he stirred the tea. "Not in a bad way. Just... completely devoted. He'd come home from a long day with the pack, all stiff and serious, and the second he saw her? He softened. Always found her first. Kissed her cheek. Asked how she was doing before anything else." He smiled faintly, eyes unfocused, like he could still see it playing out in his memory.
"I didn't get it when I was a teenager. Me and the other guys, we thought love was a numbers game. Chasing girls, collecting attention like it made us important. Cool. And there he was, this Alpha of a pack, more powerful than any of us could dream of becoming—and all he wanted was one woman. Over and over again, just her."
He paused, shaking his head a little, eyes flicking to me with something reverent in his gaze.
"Back then, I didn't understand how a man could be content with just one person. Now? I think he knew something we didn't. Something most people spend their whole lives trying to figure out." A wave of warmth slips through me, though I'm not certain if it's the emotion I'm used to or another stray feeling I don't recognize as my own.
"Sounds like a great way to lead, I wish I could have met him." I offer, trying to focus on his story rather than the flickers dancing inside me.
"He taught me that looking after people is more than giving orders," Caleb says, eyes glinting. "Even something simple, like cooking, can bring folks together. I guess I'm trying to do the same for you right now." The corners of my lips twitch upward.
"Your dad would be proud." He chuckles, stirring the pot again. I trace small circles on the tabletop, reflecting on his words and the memory of my own mother in the kitchen. "You know," I say quietly, almost hesitant, "I've always felt like food is more than just eating, too. My mom rarely said she loved us out loud, but she'd spend hours making meals from scratch—pouring all that care into every dish. It was her way of saying she loved us without having to use words." I pause, glancing at Caleb, who's listening carefully. "When someone cooks for you, it's not just food," I continue softly. "It's their heart on a plate. It's…love." His eyes soften, the faintest smile playing on his lips.
"Then I guess I'm doing something right." When he ladles the pasta onto two plates, a wave of tomato-scented steam fills the kitchen. I take a forkful, savoring how warm and comforting it tastes. For a few moments, I almost forget why we're here, or that my shoulder still throbs with a reminder of danger.
Caleb leaned back, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a half-smile as he stared into the distance.
"My mom wasn't loud. She wasn't the kind of Luna who walked around barking orders or demanding respect. But people listened when she spoke. She had this… presence about her. Not because she was flashy or commanding, but because she was real. Solid. When she looked at you, you felt like you mattered." He exhaled slowly, as if letting go of the weight the memory carried.
"She'd let my father wear the crown in public, but we all knew who steadied his hand. She was the one who reminded him to rest. Who told him the truth when no one else would. And when he didn't listen? She'd let him fall flat on his ass and just raise an eyebrow, like, 'You good now?'"
We laughed softly, but there was something thick in his voice, too—something more vulnerable.
"She didn't try to outshine him. She didn't need to. She was the moon to his tide—quiet, constant, pulling him back no matter how far he drifted. And he loved her for that. Worshipped her, really." He looked over at me then, eyes a little glossy but steady.
"And now I get it. That kind of love? It's not about possession. It's about grounding. It's about seeing someone clearly and choosing them, every damn day. Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard." He reached for my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.
"I used to think it was weak—the way he looked at her like she hung the stars. But now? I know that's what real strength looks like. to have something so precious and not break it..."
His words settled into the quiet space between us, warm and steady like the hand still wrapped around mine. For a moment, I forgot about the ache in my shoulder, the flickering emotions that weren't mine, even the way the house seemed to breathe differently with John gone. Caleb's voice—so full of reverence and memory—wrapped around me like a blanket, and I let myself lean into it.
But the comfort didn't last and my thoughts drifted back to reality.
John hasn't returned.
By the third day, he's overdue, and each hour etches a new line of worry across Caleb's brow. By late afternoon, I'm pacing in front of the windows, peering out whenever I hear the wind or a bird flutter by, hoping—then deflating when it's nothing. Anxiety churns in my gut, but now and then, it's spiked by sudden jolts of dread that feel…foreign. Yet I can't escape them. Caleb places a steady hand on my arm, tension radiating from him.
"Let's give him until morning," he says, his tone resolute but gentle. "If he's not back, we go looking." I swallow hard, my heart drumming with fear.
"Agreed." Night drifts in, slow and heavy. My thoughts spiral around the worst possibilities: robbed, attacked, lost. A new pang of fear stabs at my ribs, and for a second, I'm not even sure if it's mine or some echo. Caleb senses my unease, coaxing me to bed. He applies the paste to my mark with meticulous care, brow knitting each time I flinch, but he never pulls away—only gentles his touch further, as if he can will the pain away.
We settle under the blankets, and he tucks me against his side. Despite the hum of tension in my veins, I find comfort in his presence, in the soft rise and fall of his chest under my cheek.
"Thank you," I whisper, not entirely sure which part I'm thanking him for—being here, being patient, or just him being him.
He presses a light kiss to the top of my head. "Sleep," he murmurs. "Tomorrow, we'll figure it out."
Exhaustion seeps into my limbs, and my eyes drift shut. For a while, it's just our mingled breaths in the stillness of the house.
'cccccrrrrrrrrkkkkkkk'
A sudden scrape downstairs jerks me awake. My pulse slams into overdrive. Beside me, Caleb stiffens and his arm tightens around me. In the darkness, we share a quick glance, and no words are needed. We both slip from the bed, feet silent against the floorboards as we edge toward the stairs.
The living room is pitch-black, shadows thick and shifting. I catch movement near the door. It's a large silhouette—definitely not John's slender frame, at least from what I can tell in the dark. A cold spike of fear grips me, and I sense an extra tremor of alarm that seems to flare out of nowhere.
Caleb inches forward, body coiled like a spring ready to strike. I press my back to the wall, heart hammering so loudly I'm convinced it'll give us away. The figure takes another step inside, pausing as if aware we're there but unsure what to do.
No one attacks. No one speaks. All I can think is:
Who is that? Where's John?
In the silence, the intruder's silhouette shifts, and a thousand questions crash through my mind. Caleb edges forward, breath drawn tight. I barely dare to blink.
And in that suspended moment, I know nothing will be the same once we learn who's standing at the threshold.