31. First Thankful Taste Of Home #2
The water glasses are an exercise in chaos theory: mason jars mixed with actual glassware mixed with one coffee mug because we're apparently short on drinking vessels.
The centerpiece makes me smile every time I look at it.
This afternoon, while the turkey rested, I'd wandered the property with an old basket, collecting pinecones and late-blooming wildflowers, arranging them with sprigs of sage from the herb garden River pretends he doesn't tend obsessively.
It's nothing fancy— no florist would claim it —but it smells like the ranch and looks like autumn decided to take up residence on our table.
"Our table." The words slip out before I can catch them, and I have to press my hand to my chest where something flutters like a caged bird. When did I start thinking of things in terms of "ours"?
"Looks beautiful," Austin says from the doorway, Luna perched on his hip like she owns the place. Which, honestly, she does. "Very homey."
"Homey is code for 'I had no idea what I was doing,'" I admit, adjusting a fork that doesn't need adjusting. "Martha Stewart would weep."
"Martha Stewart can bite me," Cole rumbles as he carries in the turkey platter. The sight of him in his good flannel—the dark green one without any visible stains—handling my attempts at poultry with such care makes my throat tight. "This is better than anything from a magazine."
River and Mavi appear with various dishes, and suddenly the table transforms from my makeshift attempt at festive to something that actually looks like Thanksgiving.
Steam rises from the dishes in delicate spirals, carrying scents that make my stomach growl despite the fact that I've been taste-testing all day.
"Let's get the princess situated," Austin says, moving to Luna's high chair.
What follows is a production worthy of Broadway—Luna decides she doesn't want to sit, arching her back and making sounds of protest that echo off the walls. River tries distraction with a spoon. Mavi makes faces. Cole attempts reasoning with her like she's a tiny adult who understands logic.
"You're all ridiculous," I mutter, hiding my smile as I approach with secret weapon: a small piece of turkey.
Luna's protests cease immediately, her mouth opening like a baby bird.
"See? Simple."
"Bribery," River says solemnly. "The foundation of all good parenting."
Once Luna's secured and happily gumming her turkey piece, I start serving.
This feels important somehow, ladling food onto their plates, making sure everyone has what they need. In Iron Ridge, omegas served because it was expected, demanded. Here, I serve because I want to see their faces when they taste what I've made, want to be the one who provides this comfort.
I catch myself giving Cole extra stuffing because he mentioned once that it was his favorite.
River gets the crispy skin from the turkey because I've seen him sneak it when he thinks no one's looking.
Mavi gets the biggest helping of mashed potatoes because the man has an unholy relationship with carbs.
Austin gets a little of everything because he'll eat whatever's put in front of him with genuine enthusiasm.
Luna gets a dollop of everything soft enough for her developing teeth, arranged on her tray like a painter's palette of beige and orange foods. She immediately smashes her palm into the sweet potatoes, giggling at the squish between her fingers.
"Hands," Austin says once I've served myself and taken my seat. "Family tradition."
My breathing hitches as they all extend their hands. Cole's calloused palm engulfs mine on one side, River's gentle grip on the other. The circle completes with Austin reaching across to Mavi, Luna included by virtue of Austin's other hand resting on her tiny shoulder.
We're connected, all six of us, and I have to blink hard against the sudden burn in my eyes.
"I'll keep it short," Cole says, his voice dropping into that register that makes my omega instincts purr. "We're thankful for this food, for this home, for this pack." His thumb brushes across my knuckles. "For new beginnings and second chances. For family, both blood and chosen."
"For Luna," River adds softly. "Who brought us together."
"For Willa," Austin continues, and I have to look down at my plate. "Who makes us complete."
"For all of us," Mavi finishes. "Broken pieces that somehow fit."
"Amen," we say in unison, though it comes out wobbly on my end.
The first bite of turkey renders them silent.
Cole's eyes close as he chews, something like reverence crossing his features. River makes a sound that's borderline indecent. Mavi just stares at his plate like it holds the secrets of the universe.
"Holy shit," Austin breathes, then immediately glances at Luna. "I mean, holy shirt. This is incredible."
"You brined it," Cole says, not a question but a statement of wonder. "You actually brined the turkey."
"The cookbook said to," I admit, fidgeting with my fork. "Is it okay? I worried it might be too salty, or maybe not salty enough, and the timer went off but the thermometer said?—"
"Willa." River's voice cuts through my rambling. "It's perfect. Everything is perfect. Where did you learn to cook like this?"
Heat floods my cheeks. "I didn't. I mean, I can follow a recipe, but this is my first time making most of these dishes. I might have watched seventeen YouTube videos about gravy alone."
"Seventeen?" Mavi loads his fork with mashed potatoes. "That's dedication."
"That's insanity," I correct. "Do you know how many ways there are to supposedly make perfect gravy? Everyone has opinions. Flour or cornstarch, butter or drippings, to strain or not to strain?—"
"You went with butter and flour," Cole interrupts, already reaching for the gravy boat. "Good choice. Traditional. Like my mom used to make."
The compliment settles warm in my chest.
We eat in comfortable conversation, topics flowing from Luna's check-up results — perfectly healthy, hitting all her milestones — to ranch business — hay delivery scheduled for next week — to town gossip — Mrs. Henderson is apparently dating the new pharmacist, scandal of the century.
Luna provides entertainment between bites.
She's discovered that mashed potatoes make excellent art supplies, painting abstract expressionism across her tray, her face, and somehow the back of her head. Sweet potato ends up in her ear. Green bean casserole becomes a hat.
Through it all, she babbles happily, occasionally offering food-covered fingers to whoever's closest.
"Luna, sweetheart, that's not how we eat green beans," Austin says, trying to intercept her before she can stick one up her nose.
"Let her explore," River argues, camera phone already out. "It's sensory development."
"It's a mess is what it is," Cole grumbles, but he's smiling as Luna offers him a fistful of something unidentifiable.
"I'll get more napkins," I start to rise, but Mavi's already moving.
"Sit," he orders gently. "You've done enough. Let us take care of things for a bit."
And they do.
That's what strikes me as the meal continues— how seamlessly they work together.
River notices my water glass is empty and fills it without being asked.
Cole carves more turkey when the platter runs low, making sure everyone gets the pieces they prefer.
Austin manages Luna's chaos with practiced ease, somehow eating his own meal between cleanup attempts.
Mavi clears empty dishes as they accumulate, keeping the table from becoming cluttered.
There's no hierarchy here, no rigid roles or expectations.
They move around each other like dancers who've long memorized the steps, each contributing what's needed when it's needed.
Even Luna plays her part, her joy infectious enough to keep everyone smiling despite the sweet potato now decorating the wall behind her chair.
"Pass the stuffing?" River asks, and Cole's already handing it over before the words fully form.
"Anyone want the last of the turkey?" Austin offers, and Mavi's plate appears beneath the serving fork.
It's like watching a well-oiled machine, except machines don't laugh at baby antics or tease each other about portion sizes or share quiet smiles over successful recipes.
This is organic, natural, the way puzzle pieces don't force themselves together but simply fit.
This is how a pack is supposed to be.
Not the rigid structure of Iron Ridge where every interaction was weighted with politics and power plays. Not the constant jockeying for position, the careful calculation of who served whom and in what order.
Not Blake's iron fist disguised as leadership, making everyone dance to his tune or face consequences.
This is partnership. Mutual support. Care given freely without expectation of payment or submission.
"You okay?" River asks quietly, and I realize I've stopped eating, fork suspended halfway to my mouth.
"Yeah," I manage around the lump in my throat. "Just... taking it all in."
His dark eyes soften with understanding. "First real Thanksgiving is always emotional."
But it's more than that.
It's the first time I've seen what I was missing all those years. The first time I've experienced pack dynamics based on love rather than control. The first time I've felt like a contributor rather than a servant, valued for more than my designation or what I could provide.
"Thank you," I whisper, not sure if I'm talking to River or all of them or the universe itself. "For this. For letting me do this."
"Thank you," Cole counters firmly, "for giving us something we didn't know we needed."
Luna chooses that moment to sneeze, sending mashed potatoes flying in an impressive radius.
The spell breaks as everyone scrambles for damage control, but the warmth remains, settling into my bones like a promise.
This is pack. This is family. Finally…this is home.
And I'll be damned if I let anyone take it away.