Chapter 18 First Pack Dinner
First Pack Dinner
~ROWAN~
Pack dinner. She called it a pack dinner. Like we're something real, permanent, and worth feeding.
Ember whines beside me, tail wagging with the enthusiasm of a creature who doesn't understand social anxiety.
"Easy girl," I murmur to my station dog, who definitely wasn't supposed to come but Hazel mentioned she missed having pets around and I'm apparently incapable of denying her anything. "Best behavior."
Talking to the dog about behavior when you're standing here like a teenager before prom. Very Alpha of you, Cambridge.
The door opens before I can knock.
"You're early," Hazel says, but she's smiling, flour in her hair despite presumably spending the day cleaning, wearing an oversized sweater that makes her look soft and touchable and absolutely off-limits until she says otherwise.
"You said seven."
"And you're standing outside my door at—" she checks her phone "—six forty-eight."
"I was waiting for seven."
"On my doorstep?"
"Maybe."
"For twelve minutes?"
"Time is subjective."
She laughs, that bright sound that makes my chest tight, and steps aside.
"Come in before Mrs. Chen sees you and starts another newsletter about Alpha courting rituals."
Her apartment unfolds like a secret—small but perfect, every inch considered and cherished.
Fairy lights string along the windows because of course they do.
Cookbook collection taking up an entire wall, organized by cuisine, then alphabetized because she's secretly as type-A as Luca.
Candles that smell like vanilla and home scattered on surfaces I didn't know needed candles until now.
The October evening light paints everything golden through windows that overlook Main Street. From up here, the town looks like a snow globe before the shake—contained, perfect, waiting.
"Your place is—"
"Tiny?"
"Perfect."
"Liar."
"Hazel." I set the wine on her counter, notice the small collection of things we've been leaving for her—a ceramic owl from Levi, a perfectly organized spice rack from Luca, the antiquarian cookbook I found at an estate sale last week. "It's you. All of it. That makes it perfect."
Her cheeks are pink, and she busies herself with something on the stove that smells like heaven had a baby with garlic.
"Ember can explore. Muffin's around somewhere, probably plotting world domination."
Ember doesn't need to be told twice.
She bounds into the living room with the grace of a small horse who thinks she's a lapdog.
Within seconds, there's a yowl, a bark, and then—
"Are they... playing?" Hazel peers around the corner.
Muffin and Ember are indeed playing, or what passes for playing when a twenty-pound cat decides a seventy-pound dog needs to learn about hierarchy. Muffin bats at Ember's nose, Ember play-bows, and then they're racing through the apartment like furry tornadoes.
"Ember hasn't had a cat friend since—" I stop, not wanting to bring up the past.
"Since?"
"Since I lived in the city. My neighbor had three cats. Ember loved them more than me."
"Impossible. You're very lovable." The words slip out, and she immediately turns back to the stove, stirring something with violent enthusiasm. "I mean—dogs love you. That's a fact. Statistics."
"Statistics about my lovability?"
"Shut up and open the wine."
I'm searching for a corkscrew when the door bursts open.
"WE'RE HERE!" Levi announces like he's liberating France. "We brought flowers and dessert, and—is that a dog?"
Ember barrels into Levi, who goes down like he's been shot, laughing as she licks his face. Luca steps around the chaos with practiced ease, carrying what is obviously a store-bought pie in a container he's trying to pass off as homemade.
"You didn't make that," Hazel says immediately.
"How can you tell?" Levi asks from the floor where Ember's now sitting on him.
"The crust is too perfect. You burn water."
"That was ONE TIME."
"You. Burned. Water." She has to emphasize each word.
"The pot was defective!"
"The water, Levi. You burned WATER."
Luca sets the pie down, kissing Hazel's cheek in greeting like it's normal; like we're already what we're pretending to be. "Ignore him. He tried to help. I sent him to the store instead."
"Betrayal!" Levi finally extracts himself from under Ember. "See if I share my flowers with you."
The flowers are wildflowers again, but different—autumn asters and goldenrod, things that grow wild and refuse to be tamed. He sets them in a mason jar she produces, and suddenly her tiny apartment feels full. Not crowded—full. Complete.
"What are you making?" Luca peers at the stove. "It smells like... comfort."
"Pot roast," she says, suddenly shy. "My grandmother's recipe. It's nothing fancy—"
"It's perfect," I interrupt, because she needs to stop apologizing for existing.
Dinner is chaos that shouldn't work but does.
Her table is too small for four people, especially when three of them are oversized Alphas with territorial issues, but we make it fit. Knees bumping, elbows fighting for space, Levi stealing food from everyone's plates while complaining his portion is too small.
"This is amazing," Luca says, and coming from him—who orders food by nutritional efficiency—it's basically a marriage proposal.
"It's just pot roast—"
"It's the best thing I've eaten since—" Levi pauses, thinking. "Ever. It's the best thing ever."
"You said that about my cinnamon rolls yesterday."
"Those were yesterday's best thing ever. This is today's. I have a very sophisticated palate that appreciates variety."
"Your palate thinks gas station sushi is haute cuisine," Luca deadpans.
"Gas station sushi is underrated!"
"Gas station sushi is a war crime."
"You're a war crime."
"Children," I interrupt, but I'm smiling. This is what I wanted—not just Hazel, but this. Family dinners where we bicker about nothing and everything tastes better because we're together.
Hazel watches us with something soft in her eyes, like she's memorizing this moment. Her foot bumps mine under the table, and when I look at her, she mouths "thank you."
For what? For dinner? For the renovation? For waiting fifteen years for a chance to love her properly?
All of it. None of it. Everything in between.
"Oh!" She jumps up suddenly. "I forgot the rolls!"
She spins toward the oven, trips over Ember, who's chosen that exact moment to exist in the wrong place, and goes flying. The basket of rolls goes airborne. Time slows down in that special way it does when disaster's about to strike.
I lunge, catch Hazel around the waist,and pull her back against me. Luca snags the basket mid-air with reflexes that would make professional athletes weep. Levi catches exactly one roll, takes a bite, and declares, "Still good!" while everything else happens around him.
"Jesus," Hazel gasps against my chest. "That was—"
"Graceful," I say into her hair.
"I was going to say catastrophic."
"Catastrophically graceful."
"That's not a thing."
"It is now."
She's warm in my arms, smelling like garlic and vanilla and that underneath note that's just Hazel, and I don't want to let go. From the way she's not pulling away, neither does she.
"The rolls are saved," Luca announces, setting the basket on the table. "Crisis averted."
"My hero," Hazel says, still in my arms.
"Hey," Levi protests. "I helped."
"You ate evidence."
"Quality control is important."
We resettle at the table, but something's shifted. The casual touches come easier—Luca's hand on Hazel's when he passes the salt, Levi playing with her hair while he tells a terrible joke about a priest and a duck, my knee pressed against hers with intention now, not accident.
"Thank you," she says suddenly, seriously. "For the kitchen. It's... It's changed everything."
"You already thanked us," Luca points out. "This dinner is thanks."
"No, I mean—" She stops, gathering words. "I used to dread the morning rush because I knew I'd be fighting the space all day. Now I wake up excited to bake. There's room to breathe, to think, to create without constantly playing Tetris with sheet pans."
"That's the point," I say. "You shouldn't have to fight your space to do what you love."
"Most people do, though. Most people make do with what they have."
"You're not most people," Levi says simply. "You're ours."
The word hangs in the air—ours—heavy with promise and possibility.
After dinner, after we've cleared the table and washed dishes in an assembly line that shouldn't be as domestic and perfect as it is, we end up on her tiny balcony.
It's barely big enough for four people, just a strip of outdoor space with two chairs and a view of town square, but the October night is clear and cold and full of stars.
Hazel wraps herself in a blanket that has more holes than fabric, shivering slightly. Without discussing it, we arrange ourselves around her—Luca pulling her into his side, Levi taking her hand, me standing behind with my hands on the railing, caging her in safely.
"Aren't you worried?" she asks suddenly.
"About?" I prompt.
"The town. The gossip. Korrin." She says his name like it tastes bad. "Now that you've confronted him, he's not going to just let this go."
"How would he cause trouble?" Levi asks, genuinely curious. "What's his leverage?"
She's quiet for a moment, organizing thoughts. "He has connections. In the city, at least. Maybe not the same pull here where your pack has been longer—"
"We're not really a pack," Luca corrects gently. "Not officially."
"You move like one. Think like one." She tilts her head back to look at me. "What happens when he tries to get you fired? Or ruins your business? He already went after my bakery."
The fear in her voice makes my chest tight. I wrap my arms around her from behind, pulling her back against me until she's surrounded by us, protected, safe.
"Let him try," I say into her hair. "We can handle ourselves."
"But—"