Chapter Thirty-Five
Beau
My dad’s truck is already in the drive when we pull up.
My chest tightens automatically, old instinct kicking in before I can stop it. Emery must feel it through the bond, because her fingers twitch from where she’s sitting in the passenger seat, then settle more deliberately. She glances at me, not questioning—just… there.
“You okay?” she asks quietly.
“Yeah,” I say, because that’s what I always say. Then, after a second, I add, “He’s… not great. Just—don’t take him personally.”
Her mouth curves, small and steady.
“I won’t.”
The house looks the same as it always has: squat and sturdy, white siding dulled by years of weather, porch light glowing warm against the snow. This place raised me: taught me how to be careful, how to be quiet.
How to take up as little space as possible, even when everything in me wanted to expand.
I cut the engine and sit there a beat longer than necessary.
“Thank you,” I say finally, staring straight ahead.
“For what?”
“For coming.”
“Of course.” She doesn’t hesitate. “I wanted to.”
That lands somewhere deep and tender, and I open the door before I can sit with it too long.
Inside, the house smells like tomato soup and antiseptic cleaner—warm and sharp at the same time, comfort braided with decline. It’s the scent of home as it’s been for years now: love and vigilance, routine and quiet grief.
My mom’s voice drifts from the living room, light and animated, aimed at someone who isn’t there anymore.
“—and then Beau said he didn’t want the red one, which I thought was ridiculous because red is very striking, don’t you think? You should never turn down red, it makes people notice you—”
“Mom,” I call gently as I shrug out of my jacket, hanging it on the hook she insists still works even though it wobbles. “I’m here.”
There’s a beat of silence, then movement.
She appears in the doorway like she’s been waiting just out of sight, eyes brightening instantly when she sees me.
“Oh! There you are,” she says, relief flooding her expression.
Then her gaze slides past me, landing on Emery, and she stills.
Her head tilts, curiosity lighting her face.
“And you brought a friend.”
I step aside deliberately, opening the space between us in a way that feels oddly ceremonial.
“Mom,” I say, carefully, “this is Emery.”
Emery steps forward without hesitation, her posture calm and open. She doesn’t shrink under the scrutiny; she never does.
“Hi, Mrs. Wolfe,” she says, offering her hand with a soft smile that feels genuine, not placating. “It’s really nice to meet you.”
My mom takes her hand in both of hers immediately, warm and firm, as though she’s afraid Emery might vanish if she lets go. She studies her face with open fascination, eyes softening.
“Oh,” she says decisively. “You’re lovely.”
Emery blinks, then laughs quietly.
“Thank you.”
Beaming now, my mom turns to me with a conspiratorial look. “Beau never brings home lovely people,” she announces.
Heat crawls up my neck.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Emery says easily.
“It is,” my mom replies, just as easily. Then she squeezes Emery’s hand once more and peers at her more closely. “Are you hungry? You look like someone who forgets to eat when she’s busy.”
Before Emery can answer, a low sound cuts through the room.
My dad clears his throat from the armchair.
The shift is immediate and visceral. The air tightens, alpha pressure rolling outward from him in a way that’s purely invasive: meant to assess and dominate, and pointedly not to welcome.
It always has been.
He looks up slowly, eyes tracking Emery from her boots to her face, then flicking—too pointedly—to the faint mark at her collar before returning to me.
“So,” he says. One word, heavy with judgment. “This is her.”
I feel Emery tense beside me, and something in me surges forward instinctively, my own alpha presence rising to meet his without conscious thought.
“Yes,” I say evenly, stepping half a pace closer to her without touching. “This is Emery.”
My dad’s gaze stays on me now, measuring. We’ve been doing this dance my whole life—his dominance pressing, mine learned through resistance rather than guidance.
“You didn’t waste any time,” he says flatly.
There it is.
“No,” I reply, just as flat. “I didn’t.”
My mom frowns, glancing between us as the silence stretches.
“Don’t start, Ken,” she says mildly, like she’s scolding children. “You could at least say hello.”
My dad grunts, unimpressed, but his eyes return to Emery.
“You know who I am,” he says.
“Yes,” Emery replies calmly. “We’ve met. Briefly.”
“And you’re still living in town,” he adds, not a question.
“Yes,” she says again.
The corner of his mouth tightens. “In my son’s house.”
I feel it then—the subtle hum of the bond responding to the pressure, reinforcing, steadying.
I don’t raise my voice, but when I speak again, it carries.
“Our house,” I say.
The silence that follows is dense, layered with years of unsaid things: expectations I never met, instincts I learned to cage instead of understand, and a father who taught discipline but never safety.
My dad holds my gaze for a long moment. Then, finally, he exhales through his nose.
“Hmph,” he says. “We’ll see.”
It’s not approval, by any means, but it’s not rejection, either; and for the first time, I don’t feel like I’m bracing for impact alone.
*
We sit at the small kitchen table, knees nearly brushing beneath the scarred wood, the radiator clicking softly against the cold. My mom chats as if the world is simple again, her voice bright and unburdened, asking Emery about her work, about the team, about where she grew up.
She asks the same question twice without realizing it, then laughs when Emery answers it twice without hesitation.
“I forget things when I’m excited,” my mom says, waving a hand dismissively, like it’s a charming flaw instead of the slow erosion of herself.
“That’s okay,” Emery says gently. “I do that too.”
It’s a small kindness, and it lands like a gift.
I watch my mother closely—how she leans forward when she’s engaged, how her eyes dim for a moment when she loses the thread, then brighten again when it returns.
The light in her hasn’t gone out yet, but it flickers more often now. The gaps are longer. The way back takes more effort.
Some days, she’s sharp and present, making jokes, correcting my grammar, reminding me I always liked my toast burnt. Other days, she withdraws into herself like she’s bracing against weather only she can feel.
She comes back eventually. Just… slower than she used to.
My dad sits at the head of the table, stoic and silent with his arms crossed, his attention sharp but detached.
He listens like he’s taking notes, not like he cares.
His gaze lingers on Emery too long, assessing in that way he always has—like everyone in the room exists to be weighed and found wanting.
At one point, my mom turns to me, her expression softening with sudden clarity.
“You seem calmer,” she says. “Less… tight.”
She gestures vaguely at her chest.
“You used to carry everything like this.”
I feel Emery’s attention settle on me, steady and patient.
“I am,” I say finally.
It feels strange to admit it out loud. Vulnerable, but true.
My mom nods, satisfied, like she’s solved something important.
“Good,” she says. “You always worried too much. Even as a boy.”
Ken snorts quietly. “Pathetic.”
The word hits like a bruise I never stopped protecting.
After lunch, my mom grows tired in that sudden way that still catches me off guard. One minute she’s animated, the next her shoulders slump, her focus drifting. She moves toward the couch, and Emery rises immediately, sitting beside her and letting my mom lean against her shoulder.
I watch as Emery listens to a story I’ve heard a hundred timesabout a road trip to Duluth, and a diner with the best pie she’s ever had. She laughs in the right places, asks questions, and doesn’t correct my mom when the details begin to blur.
The sight of it hits me hard enough that I have to look away.
This—this—is what care looks like. Not control, or endurance, but presence. Patience.
My dad corners me while they’re distracted, his voice dropping into something meant to feel confidential.
“You sure about this?” he asks.
There’s no concern in it: the old man couldn’t give two fucks about me, really. It’s just… full of doubt.
“Yes,” I nod.
“She complicates things.”
“So did Mom,” I reply flatly.
His jaw tightens.
“That’s not the same.”
“No,” I say, meeting his gaze. “But it is.”
He studies me for a long moment, eyes sharp, trying to find the boy he used to intimidate into compliance.
I don’t give him that satisfaction.
“Just don’t lose yourself,” he says finally, failing at passing it as advice instead of a warning.
I think of all the years I spent shrinking—learning to repress instinct, desire, softness—because nothing I did was ever enough.
I think of how I learned restraint before I ever learned want.
“I already did,” I say quietly. “I’m finding something better.”
When we leave, he claps a hand on my shoulder—hard, not affectionate.
I shrug it off the second we’re out the door.
The drive home is quiet, but it isn’t empty.
Snow drifts lazily across the road, catching the headlights and dissolving into soft flashes of white.
The sky has settled into that deep indigo that only comes after a full day of gray, the kind that makes the world feel hushed and smaller, like it’s holding its breath.
Emery sits beside me, her coat still zipped high, hands tucked into the sleeves and keeping warmth close. For a long while, she just watches the passing lights, her expression thoughtful and unguarded in a way she rarely allows herself when she’s working.
I don’t rush the silence. It feels earned.
Eventually, she turns slightly in her seat, voice low and careful, as if she doesn’t want to disturb something delicate.
“Your mom is wonderful,” she says. “She’s… still there. Very much.”
“She is,” I reply, the truth catching in my throat. I keep my eyes on the road because if I don’t, I might not get the next part out. “Even when she forgets.”
Emery’s hand moves slowly, giving me time to pull away if I want to.
I don’t.
Her fingers lace with mine, warm and sure, her thumb brushing over my knuckles in a quiet, grounding motion that feels more intimate than anything loud ever could.
The bond responds immediately, wrapping around the ache I didn’t realize I was still carrying.
It doesn’t erase it, but it does make it lighter.
And maybe that's important.