Chapter 16
Ash
"You're in charge of the spicy one."
Jason hands me a block of pepper jack cheese and points to the cutting board he's set up at the end of the counter.
The kitchen is warm and smells like butter and garlic, steam rising from three different pots of pasta water coming to a boil on the commercial stove.
He's got an apron on—a ridiculous thing with a cartoon lion that says "Mane Cook"—and there's a smear of flour on his cheek.
He looks happy. Truly, deeply happy, in his element, doing what he was born to do.
"Mac and cheese night," he'd explained when he texted me earlier. "It's a thing. Everyone picks their toppings, I make the bases. You should come help."
So here I am, sleeves rolled up past my elbows, learning to cube cheese while Jason works on three different sauces simultaneously, moving between pots with the easy grace of someone who's done this a thousand times.
"Smaller cubes," he says, glancing over while whisking something creamy. "They'll melt better."
"How small?"
"Like this." He sets down his whisk and comes up behind me, wraps his hand around mine on the knife, and guides me through a few cuts.
His chest against my back, solid and steady, and he smells like cheese and butter.
"See? Half-inch cubes, give or take. You want them uniform so they melt at the same rate. "
"This feels very precise for comfort food."
"Good food is always precise. Comfort doesn't mean sloppy." He kisses my shoulder, right where it meets my neck, and goes back to his sauces. "The spicy one gets pepper jack, habanero cheddar, and a splash of the ghost pepper hot sauce in the pantry. Top shelf, behind the vanilla."
"You have ghost pepper hot sauce?"
"I bought it for you. After the Spice King thing." He's stirring the roux now, not looking at me, but I can see the tips of his ears going pink. "Figured you might want it around. For when you're here."
He bought hot sauce for me. Weeks ago, before we were even together, before we'd done more than trade looks across the bar. He went out and bought something just because I mentioned I liked spicy food, just in case I might someday be in his kitchen wanting it.
"Jason."
"It's just hot sauce. It's not a big—"
"Come here."
He turns, whisk still in hand, and I pull him in by the apron strings and kiss him properly. He makes a soft sound against my mouth—surprise melting into pleasure—and leans into me, his free hand coming up to rest against my stomach. He tastes like the sauce he's been tasting, buttery and rich.
"The roux is going to burn," he mumbles against my lips.
"Let it."
"Ash." But he's laughing as he pulls away, hurrying back to the stove to stir. The roux is fine—barely starting to darken—but he fusses over it anyway, adjusting the heat, adding milk in a slow stream. "You can kiss me all you want after we feed everyone."
"Promise?"
"Promise." He shoots me a look over his shoulder, heated and wanting. "Now focus. Those cheese cubes aren't going to cut themselves."
I go back to my station, and it's strange how natural this feels. Being in his space, doing tasks he assigns me, working alongside him toward a shared goal. It's not that different from a mission, really. Clear objectives, defined roles, teamwork. Communication.
Except in missions, no one ever looked at me the way Jason does when I finally get the cheese cubes right—uniform little blocks, exactly the size he asked for.
"Perfect," he says, and he means it. "Now add them to that pot, the one with the cayenne base. Stir constantly while they melt."
I stir. The cheese melts into the sauce, orange bleeding into cream, and the smell that rises up is sharp and rich and makes my mouth water.
"More hot sauce?"
"Little more. You want it to build, not punch."
I add another splash, stir, taste on the spoon he hands me. Heat blooms across my tongue, spreading slow, settling into a glow rather than a burn.
"Good," I say.
"Yeah?" He comes over, tastes from the same spoon, and his eyes light up. "Oh, that's perfect. That's going to destroy people. I love it."
"Is destroying people the goal?"
"For this one? Absolutely." He grins at me, bright and mischievous. "Vaughn thinks he can handle spice. He cannot. This is going to be hilarious."
I find myself grinning back. "You're evil."
"Sometimes, yes."
---
By six o'clock, the mac and cheese bar is assembled on the big table in the main room.
Three bases arranged in a row: classic (sharp cheddar and gruyère, golden and bubbling), truffle (darker, richer, with actual truffle oil and parmesan), and spicy (my contribution).
Toppings in little bowls around them: bacon crumbles that Jason fried fresh, panko breadcrumbs toasted in butter, caramelized onions, fresh herbs from the windowsill garden, three kinds of extra cheese, and hot sauce for the brave.
The pack descends like they haven't eaten in weeks.
"This is incredible," Toby says through a mouthful of the truffle one, eyes half-closed in bliss.
He's sitting on Knox's lap because apparently there aren't enough chairs, even though there are clearly enough chairs.
Knox just grunts in agreement, already on his second bowl, one arm wrapped around Toby's waist to keep him steady.
"Ash made the spicy one," Jason announces, and I feel my face heat.
"You cook now?" Robin raises an eyebrow at me from across the table. He's got the classic, loaded with extra bacon, and there's a smear of cheese on his chin.
"I cubed cheese. Jason did everything else."
"He's being modest," Jason says, bumping his shoulder against mine. "He did the whole sauce. Picked the heat level, got the balance right. I just supervised."
"Ash. Being modest." Robin pretends to check my forehead for fever. "Are you feeling okay? Do you need to lie down? Should I call a doctor?"
"Eat your mac and cheese."
"Seriously, though." Robin's expression softens. "It's good to see you in here. Being part of things. Instead of lurking in the corner like a gargoyle."
"I don't lurk."
"You absolutely lurk. You've been lurking most of my life." But he's smiling as he says it, and there's relief in his eyes. Like he's been waiting for me to find this, to find people, to stop standing on the edges of things.
Vaughn reaches for the spicy mac and cheese, loads up a huge spoonful, and takes a confident bite.
The coughing starts almost immediately.
"Jesus Christ." He's red-faced, eyes watering, reaching for his water glass. "What the hell is in that?"
"Ghost pepper," I say mildly. "And habanero. And cayenne."
"Why would you—" More coughing. "Why?"
"You said you could handle spice."
"I said I liked spice! I didn't say—" He breaks off to chug water, which only makes it worse. Rookie mistake.
"Lightweight," Ezra says, taking a huge bite of the same dish and showing absolutely no reaction. He catches me looking and shrugs. "I grew up in New Mexico. My abuela put green chile in everything. This is mild."
"It's not mild," Vaughn wheezes.
"For you."
Silas hasn't said much—he never does—but he's on his second helping, which Jason told me earlier is the highest compliment Silas gives.
Jason himself is moving around the table, refilling bowls before people ask, adjusting toppings, making sure everyone has what they need. He's not eating yet—he never does, I've noticed, until everyone else is taken care of. It's automatic for him, this caretaking, as natural as breathing.
This is what he does. Feeds people. Makes them comfortable. Creates space where everyone belongs.
And now I'm part of it. Not just eating but helping create. Not just present but participating.
"Hey." Jason appears at my elbow with a bowl. "You haven't eaten yet."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine, you're hungry. I can hear your stomach from here." He guides me to the couch, one hand on my lower back, and puts the bowl in my hands. "Sit. Eat. That's an order."
The bowl is a mix of all three bases—classic on one side, truffle in the middle, spicy on the other—with extra bacon on top and a sprinkle of fresh chives. Exactly how I would have made it if I'd thought about it. Exactly what I wanted without knowing I wanted it.
"How did you know?"
"Know what?"
"That I'd want all three. Mixed together like this."
He shrugs, settling in next to me, his own bowl finally in his hands.
"You like trying things. Comparing. You wouldn't want to pick just one when you could have all of them.
And you'd want to see how they taste together, how the flavors interact.
" He takes a bite of his own—classic with extra breadcrumbs—and watches me with fond eyes. "Was I wrong?"
"No." I take a bite, and the flavors bloom across my tongue—rich and sharp and spicy all at once. "You weren't wrong."
He knows me. This man who I've known for just a few weeks has figured out how I work, what I want, who I am beneath the walls and the distance and the careful control. He pays attention in a way no one ever has.
"Thank you," I say.
"It's just mac and cheese."
"Not for the food." I lean over and kiss his temple, tasting salt and butter on his skin. "For everything."
---
After dinner, someone puts on a movie—some action thing with explosions and car chases that no one's really watching. The pack spreads out across the room, food comas setting in, the kind of comfortable silence that only comes after a good meal.
Knox and Toby take the big armchair, Toby curled in Knox's lap like a cat, already half-asleep. Knox's hand moves in slow circles on his back, absent and tender.
Robin's claimed the loveseat, sprawled out with his feet hanging over the arm, eyes closed but not sleeping—I can tell by the way he breathes, the slight tension that means he's listening.
Vaughn and Ezra are at the card table, playing some game I don't recognize, keeping score on a napkin.
Silas is in his usual corner with a book, occasionally glancing up at the screen when something explodes. He's always reading, always slightly separate, but he's here. That counts for something.
And Jason is tucked against my side on the couch, legs thrown over my lap, head on my shoulder. His weight is familiar now, his breathing slow and even. Not asleep, but close. Comfortable in a way that makes my throat tight.
"This is nice," he murmurs, barely louder than the movie.
"Yeah."
"You fit here, you know." He tilts his head to look up at me. "With everyone. It's like you've always been here."
I look around the room. At Robin, finally surrounded by people who care about him the way he deserves.
At Toby, who's grown so much since I first met him—from Robin's shy college roommate into someone confident enough to love an alpha lion.
At this pack of shifters who've somehow adopted me without question, without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"I'm not a shifter," I say quietly.
"So?"
"So I'm not pack. Not really. Not the way you all are."
Jason lifts his head fully now, propping himself up to look at me. His expression is serious in a way that makes me pay attention.
"You think pack is about what you are?"
"Isn't it?"
"No." He takes my hand, presses it to the mark on his neck—my mark, still healing, permanent. I can feel his pulse under my palm, steady and strong. "Pack is about who you choose. Who chooses you back. You chose me. I chose you. Knox approved it. That makes you pack."
"Jason—"
"Knox already considers you one of us. He's protective of the pack—you've seen how he is with Toby, with Robin. He doesn't let just anyone in. But he let you in. That means something."
I start to see what he's saying.
"So does everyone else," Jason continues. "Vaughn asks your opinion on the bikes. Ezra saves you a seat at the bar. Silas nods at you when you walk in, and trust me, Silas doesn't nod at people." He settles back against my shoulder, satisfied. "You're pack, Ash. Deal with it."
On screen, something explodes—a building, maybe, or a helicopter, it's hard to tell. Robin startles, mutters "I was watching that," and immediately closes his eyes again.
I wrap my arm around Jason and pull him closer.
Pack.
I've never had that before. A family that works, people who show up, a place where I belong without having to earn it fresh every day.
The military was close, but there was always the mission, always the ranking, always the awareness that any of us could be reassigned or deployed or killed and the unit would close ranks and move on.
This is different. This is permanent.
"Hey," Jason says softly.
"Mm?"
"I'm glad you came to check on Robin."
"Me too."
"Even though you called my bike cute."
I can hear the smile in his voice. "Your bike is cute."
He pinches my thigh, hard enough to sting. "My bike is a work of art."
"It's a cute work of art."
"I'm going to smother you in your sleep."
"You'd miss me."
"Yeah." He tilts his head up and kisses my jaw, soft and brief. "I really would."
The movie plays on—explosions, gunfire, the kind of noise that should feel familiar but feels distant now, like something from another life. The pack breathes around us, content. Robin snoring slightly. Toby murmuring something to Knox. Silas turning a page.
Jason's hand finds mine in the dim light, fingers interlocking, squeezing once.
A place to land. A person to come home to. A pack that claims me even when I don't know how to claim myself.
I press my lips to Jason's hair and let myself have it.