Chapter 11 Savannah
SAVANNAH
The wine glasses sit empty on the table, dinner plates scraped clean, and the three of them are already moving toward the kitchen like they have an actual system for this.
“I can help," I offer from the doorway, but all three of them whip around like I just suggested burning the house down.
"Absolutely not," Griff says with the kind of authority usually reserved for natural disasters. "You've done enough for one day."
"More than enough," Logan agrees, and I can practically see the guilt radiating off him. "You turned our disaster zone into something civilized. We can handle washing a few dishes without destroying the place."
"Even if we break half the china in the process," Xavier adds dryly, like he's already calculating replacement costs.
I lean against the doorframe, watching them with the choreography, and grace of elephants in a ballet class.
Griff treats every dish like it's made of pure gold and might spontaneously combust. Logan follows what appears to be a military-level cleaning protocol.
Xavier hovers like a nervous parent watching toddlers near expensive electronics.
It's domestic chaos disguised as cooperation, and for some ridiculous reason, it makes my chest do weird fluttery things I'm choosing to ignore.
"The pasta really was excellent," I say, because compliments are safer than analyzing why watching them do dishes is giving me feelings.
Griff's face lights up like I just told him he won the lottery. "My grandmother's recipe. She taught me when I was twelve because she was convinced I'd starve to death otherwise."
"Smart woman,” I say.
"Terrifying woman. Made me practice until I could make sauce without turning it into something suitable for spackling walls."
"How long did that take?"
"Two summers and enough wasted tomatoes to supply a small Italian restaurant," he admits, looking sheepish. "But she finally declared me competent enough to feed myself without requiring medical intervention."
"High praise from a terrifying grandmother."
"The highest. She didn't believe in participation trophies. If she said you could cook, you could actually cook instead of just creating edible disasters."
Logan finishes wiping down the counter with the thoroughness of someone who's seen what happens when you don't properly sanitize surfaces. Occupational hazard of the firefighting business, I suppose.
"My grandmother taught me first aid instead of cooking," he says, hanging the towel with military precision. "She figured I was more likely to need medical skills than culinary ones, given my talent for finding creative ways to injure myself."
"Was she right?"
"Considering I chose a career that involves running into burning buildings for fun and profit, absolutely." His grin is self-deprecating. "Though I did eventually master three meals that won't kill anyone."
"Three whole meals?" I raise an eyebrow. "Such culinary diversity."
"Spaghetti, scrambled eggs, and grilled cheese. The holy trinity of 'please don't let me starve' cooking."
"And all perfectly edible," Griff adds loyally.
"Edible is generous," Xavier corrects with clinical precision, earning glares from his pack mates. "But they meet basic nutritional requirements and rarely result in food poisoning, which puts him ahead of most adults."
"Such ringing endorsements," Logan says, but he's grinning.
Xavier finishes his supervisory duties and turns to me with the kind of assessment that makes me feel like I'm about to get a medical evaluation whether I want one or not.
"You must be exhausted," he says with that clinical authority that brooks no argument. “Nearly four hours of intensive cleaning, social interaction, and a full meal. Your stress hormones are probably elevated."
"I'm fine," I start, but he cuts me off with the kind of gesture that suggests arguing is pointless.
"You're running on adrenaline and stubbornness. Admirable, but not sustainable." His voice carries the weight of someone used to making medical pronouncements. "You need rest, hydration, and time to process today's emotional chaos."
The observation hits uncomfortably close to home. My body is tired from the cleaning marathon, but my brain is fried from the emotional complexity of being back in their space, surrounded by their scents and their weird pack dynamics and this domestic fantasy I definitely shouldn't be entertaining.
"Maybe he's right," Griff says with concern that makes my omega instincts sit up and take notice. "You've done way more than anyone should have to do. Go upstairs, get comfortable."
"What about you three?" I ask, because leaving them alone with my newly cleaned kitchen feels like abandoning a daycare full of toddlers near fragile objects. "Are you going to have a dishwashing technique argument the moment I'm gone?"
"Probably," Logan admits with characteristic honesty. "But we'll try to keep the property damage to a minimum."
"The dishes we broke earlier are already repaired," Xavier adds with the efficiency of someone who treats household accidents like medical emergencies. "Professional-grade ceramic adhesive, properly applied. They'll be stronger than the originals."
"You already fixed them?"
"Emergency protocols. Immediate intervention prevents permanent damage and reduces replacement costs."
"Right," I say, because arguing with Xavier's organizational systems would probably require more energy than I have left. "Try not to break anything else that needs emergency intervention."
"We'll do our best," Griff promises with the solemnity of someone taking a sacred oath.
I head toward the stairs, pausing to look back at three men standing in their actually functional kitchen.
The evening light catches the gold in Griff's hair, makes Logan's eyes look like silver, shows off Xavier's sharp intelligence behind those glasses.
Logan reaches over to brush a streak of flour from Griff's cheek, and Xavier leans in to press a quick, soft kiss to Logan's temple in passing.
They look good together. Right together, like they've figured out how to make this whole pack dynamic work despite their individual quirks and apparent inability to handle fragile objects without turning them into expensive confetti.
The thought sits in my chest like a warning I should probably listen to.
Sure, they've built something here, but these are the same man babies who just destroyed half their dishware making pasta.
If they can't keep wine glasses intact for one dinner, what exactly makes me think they can handle something as breakable as my heart?
Which I'm definitely not risking again. Because if I let them in, then I could be spending another eight years rebuilding myself after three alphas prove that good intentions don't equal follow-through.
One decent meal and some flirty banter doesn't erase the fact that these idiots broke my heart once. And if tonight's ceramic casualty count is any indication, they're still in the business of breaking things they claim to care about.
No thank you. I've learned my lesson about trusting pretty alphas who cook well but can't be trusted with anything delicate.
"Goodnight," I say, the word carrying more weight than a simple farewell.
"Goodnight, Savannah," Xavier responds with precision, but his voice is warmer than usual.
"Sleep well," Griff adds, genuine concern in his tone.
"Sweet dreams," Logan concludes, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that makes my pulse stutter.
I climb the stairs listening to their voices drift up from below. No arguing yet, just the comfortable murmur of people who know each other well enough to coordinate cleanup without bloodshed.
The guest room feels different now. Not just clean and comfortable, but welcoming in a way that suggests it could be more than temporary if I wanted it to be. Which I don't. Because that would be insane.
I change into pajamas and settle into the reading chair with my romance novel, but the words blur as my mind processes today's emotional minefield. The house settles around me with peaceful evening sounds. Footsteps on stairs, water running through pipes, doors closing softly.
Normal domestic sounds. The kind that make a house feel like home instead of just a place to crash between disasters.
I'm almost dozing when I hear a soft knock.
"Come in," I call, expecting someone to check on me or deliver something I forgot downstairs.
Griff appears in the doorway, wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt that's clearly seen better days but looks comfortable enough to sleep in. His hair is damp from the shower, and he smells like soap and his usual sandalwood.
"Sorry to bother you," he says carefully, like he's not sure this visit is welcome. "I wanted to thank you again. For today. For everything."
"You already thanked me," I point out, though my voice is softer than intended because there's something vulnerable in his expression.
"Not properly." He steps inside, closing the door with deliberate care. "What you did today, turning our disaster into something that actually feels like home. I know we don't deserve that kind of effort."
"Griff..."
"Let me finish," he says with gentle authority, his brown eyes serious. "Twenty-two and stupid, too scattered to keep track of who I'd asked out, too young to understand what I was throwing away."
"What changed?" I ask, because I need to know if this is just nostalgia or something deeper.
"These days I can build a house from foundation to roof, remember every measurement and deadline," he says simply, and the honesty in his voice catches me off guard. “Also, you’ve only been here one day, and we’ve actually had a meal together."
“Because of me?”
He steps closer, close enough that I can see gold flecks in his eyes and smell his skin beneath the soap. “Yeah. Tonight was the best night we’ve had in this house. I just want to know if you're willing to give us another chance."
"There needs to be a lot more groveling, than one dinner."
“Of course!” he says. "We know it's complicated, and that we hurt you before."
"I don't know if I can do this again," I admit, the words tasting like fear and hope.
"We have three months. No pressure, no expectations. Just time to see if what we had before can become something better."Griff says.
The offer sits between us like a gift I'm not sure I deserve. Two months to explore possibility instead of just surviving proximity.
"What if it doesn't work?" I ask, because the fear of failure feels overwhelming.
"Then we'll know we gave it an honest chance," he says with pragmatic acceptance. "And you'll plan the best wedding Pine Hollow has ever seen, and we'll all be better for having tried."
The logic is sound. The emotional risk is still terrifying. But the recognition that they're offering partnership instead of just romance makes something flutter in my chest.
"I'll think about it," I say, because that's all I can promise.
"That's all we're asking," Griff responds with a smile that could power the entire town. "Sleep well, Savannah."
He heads toward the door, pausing to look back. "For what it's worth, having you here feels right in a way I'd forgotten was possible."
The guest room feels different as I settle into bed with my novel, but the words can't compete with the real-life emotional complexity happening in this house. Maybe some second chances are worth the risk.
The mountain air through the window smells like pine and possibility, clean and sharp and full of futures I'm not ready to name but am brave enough to consider.
Tomorrow will bring wedding planning and professional boundaries and navigating pack dynamics I thought I'd left behind. But tonight, I'm falling asleep in a house that feels like home, surrounded by the scents and sounds of people who want to take care of me the way I took care of them today.
Sleep pulls at me like a tide, and I let it. Because tomorrow I'm going to find out if second chances can be better than first attempts when everyone involved has finally learned what love is supposed to look like.
And despite everything I've told myself about staying safe, about keeping my distance, I think I want to find out.
The house settles around me like a promise I'm not quite ready to make but can't bring myself to refuse.
Thank you, universe, for turning my perfectly reasonable avoidance strategy into me falling asleep surrounded by the same three alphas who broke my heart once.