Chapter 4 - Dina
I don’t believe in bad or good omens, but arriving at the address Skylar texted me and finding it literally half-built and dilapidated feels like a warning of some sort.
The road out here was paved with enough self-doubt to start with, and now the so-called “cabin” at the end doesn’t exactly look like somewhere a family should be living.
In the last fifty feet, my nerves get so loud I couldn’t even hear myself think.
It all happened so fast. I’d run into Luna and Skylar outside the bakery yesterday morning; Luna in her usual controlled chaos, Skylar with her arms full, both looking like they barely had time to stop.
But they did stop as soon as they saw me.
Luna’s eyes lit up, and she said, “Dina, perfect timing,” which no one has said to me since I arrived in Silvercreek.
They explained that a new family needed help, and it could be the perfect job for me.
Then Skylar scribbled an address on the back of a receipt and told me to show up for the interview.
“You’d be great for this,” she said, and I almost laughed in her face, but the way she looked at me, as though she actually believed I’d be good at something, made me pocket the address and nod.
I didn’t ask about pay, hours, or even the family’s name.
I’d sat for some of the younger pack kids before, before everything changed, but the idea of being responsible for someone else’s child now feels strangely uncomfortable.
I don’t feel very patient, or gentle, or good at whatever nurturing is supposed to look like.
My wolf is built for long runs and trying to manage the mess and grief I’ve dealt with, not for playdates or lullabies.
But the rent is coming due, and I can’t keep living on a trickle of handouts and the goodwill of strangers.
Besides, Luna asked. I owe her more than I can repay, so here I am, staring at a half-built cabin and debating whether to knock or run.
I think about turning back; the gig isn’t that important, and a nagging part of me says whoever this child is would be better off without me. But then I see movement behind one of the windows. Someone’s home. No more excuses.
I knock twice, then stand back and adjust my posture, as if there’s a correct way to look unemployed. Footsteps, a pause, and then the door swings open.
It’s him.
Caleb, looking so impossibly, unironically bedraggled that for a second I don’t recognize him.
There’s a baby in his arms. I’ve spent weeks avoiding this man, and the moment he’s in front of me, it’s like being hit with a brick.
His hair is all over the place, his shirt is covered in dried splodges of milk, and his wolf, which was always barely contained on his best days, now hovers sharply around the edges of him.
He blinks, hard, as if he doesn’t quite trust his eyes. “Dina?”
I nod, fighting the urge to step back, to shrink, to disappear.
His gaze flickers from my face to my jacket to my hands, as if he’s looking for something he’s misplaced.
The baby starts to fuss, and he shifts her up, one-handed, with the casual desperation of someone who’s been doing this a lot and is getting slightly confident but still overthinks every move.
I see him try to shore up his expression, crack one of his jokes, maybe, but it dies before it makes it to his mouth.
“I didn’t know it was you,” he says. “Skylar said…” He cuts himself off, and we just stand in silence for a moment, the air around us shifting uncomfortably.
My skin prickles. This is not what I expected.
I expected a woman, one of the families I see in the park.
I expected a child, not a baby, maybe two, with noses running and fingers sticky, not a man who will always remind me of Cheslem, no matter how much he rebrands himself in Silvercreek.
My brain scrambles the facts; Caleb, a dad?
The math doesn’t add up, and I hate how much I want to know the story.
I force myself to look at him, to not let my eyes dart around the unfinished cabin like I’m casing the place for monsters. “So,” I say, “I guess you’re the family that needs some help?”
He stands aside, and I can’t help noticing that the baby, who is tiny, round, and in pink pajamas, glares up at me with the same mild suspicion I feel. There’s something familiar about the set of her jaw, which makes my heart twitch in a way I don’t appreciate.
Caleb says, “Yeah, that’s me. Surprise.” He gestures me in, then mutters, “Sorry about the mess.”
Inside, it’s way less “half-built” than I was expecting.
Smells like cedar and a faint, not-unpleasant funk of laundry.
The walls are unpainted, but the floors gleam, and the beams overhead look solid.
There’s a big stone fireplace, stacked with split logs, and someone has repaired old cracks with care.
It’s…nice. I have to recalibrate; this isn’t some crash pad for a bachelor, it’s clearly a work in progress, but it’s evidence of someone trying to build a life from the ground up.
It stings a little, seeing how much farther along he is than I am.
My eyes automatically map exits, windows, and blind spots.
Dad drilled that habit into me before I could legally drive.
The kitchen is visible from the living room.
The island is littered with bottles, formula canisters, and a stack of baby wipes the size of a shoebox.
I wince on his behalf. There’s some attempt at order; he’s got the feeding schedule taped to the fridge and a battered copy of The Baby Whisperer wedged next to a bottle of whiskey, but it’s obvious he’s barely keeping it together.
For some reason, that makes me relax a bit more. Perhaps he’s not so perfect.
Caleb gently lays the baby onto a folded blanket on the sofa, then turns to face me. I keep my hands in my pockets, like if I move too fast, I might just make a run for it back to my apartment. “You want coffee?” he asks. “I just made some. It’s not…good, but it’s hot.”
I nod, and he disappears into the kitchen, talking over his shoulder.
“She’s called Alora. Eight weeks, give or take.
” I try not to stare at the baby, but she’s hard to ignore, and she’s why I’m here.
She’s got a head of dark fuzz, and her eyes are so big they draw me in.
She’s awake, but calm, tracking me as I move to the chair opposite her.
I clear my throat. “I didn’t know you…” I stop, realizing how idiotic it sounds.
Of course, I didn’t know; I don’t know anything about him except what I gleaned on the day he rescued me and the odd snippet of information about how he came to leave Cheslem.
“I didn’t realize you had a kid,” I finish lamely.
He returns with two mugs and sets one gently in front of me. “Neither did I,” he says, and flashes a crooked smile. “She just sort of…appeared.”
He tells me the story, and it’s exactly as weird as I should have expected.
The mother was a one-night stand, barely a name, who dropped the baby on his porch and vanished.
He does a whole routine where he makes it sound like it’s a hilarious sitcom plot, but I can see the tight line of his mouth when he thinks I’m not looking.
I wonder if it’s the lack of sleep or something deeper, but I don’t ask. Not my business.
He tells it quickly, with a lot of hand-waving and some self-deprecating sarcasm about “consequences” and “the universe’s impeccable sense of timing.
” I can tell he expects me to laugh, to commiserate, but I just fold my hands around the mug and listen.
His words pile up, then taper off, and I realize he’s waiting for me to say something.
I cough and take a sip of his coffee, which is as bad as advertised.
“So, you need a nanny,” I say, and the word tastes weird, too soft for the kind of life I picture him living.
His eyes flick up, the charm re-establishing itself as he grins.
“I need someone who can manage her when I’m on shift.
” He glances down at the baby and smiles softly.
It’s only a flash, but the tenderness makes my heart ache for a moment.
Looking back at me, he adds, “Turns out babies and shift work don’t mix. ”
I want to laugh at how easy he makes this look, the way he can just shift into being “Dad” without blinking.
The same way he’s slotted into Silvercreek without even breaking a sweat, while my life is still in ruins.
Maybe he’s faking it; maybe that’s the problem.
Even covered in baby puke and sleep deprivation, he still radiates that effortless, dangerous charm that probably got him into this mess in the first place. My wolf notices, she always does.
He takes another sip of his coffee and waits for my verdict, arms bunching in a way that makes his shoulders look broader, which I suspect is intentional.
He probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
I do, though. I see how women in Silvercreek look at him.
But all the charm and good looks can’t wash away the Cheslem stain, not for me.
I take another sip of coffee I don’t want, and stare at the baby, who is clearly sizing me up as competition for his attention.
She’s not wrong. I feel like a fraud, sitting here in this half-done house, pretending I might be cut out for this.
He’s watching me too, but in a different way; perhaps expecting me to bolt at any second.
I wonder if he’d even try to stop me if I did.
I set my mug down, hard enough to slosh a little onto the table. “I think there’s been a mistake,” I say, and my voice comes out sharper than I mean it to. “I can’t do this.”
He blinks, caught off guard. “Why not?”