12. Kozue #2
Guests began trickling out from the lodge's rear entrance, their voices carrying excitement and anticipation. The Martins, a retired couple from Portland who'd been coming to Hale Lodge for five years, approached the refreshment table with warm smiles.
"Kozue, you've outdone yourself again," Mrs. Martin said, accepting a steaming mug of hot chocolate. "This smells absolutely divine."
"Thank you, Margaret." He managed his characteristic smile despite the turmoil in his chest. "Make sure you try the banana bread while it's still warm."
The familiar rhythm of hosting began to work its magic, drawing him out of his brooding thoughts.
More guests approached—the young couple celebrating their anniversary, the group of college friends on their annual reunion trip, the family with two energetic teenagers who'd been skeptical about a wilderness retreat until they'd discovered the lodge's extensive hiking trails.
Kozue greeted each group by name, remembering their preferences and asking about their day's activities with genuine interest.
This is what I'm good at, he reminded himself as he helped a guest navigate the s'mores supplies. Making people feel welcome. Creating community. Supporting others.
But even as he fell into the comfortable role of host, his enhanced senses remained hyperaware of who wasn't present.
No sign of Ronan's commanding presence or the steady confidence that naturally drew people to him.
No trace of Sloane's distinctive lavender and vanilla scent that had become as essential to Kozue as breathing.
Twenty minutes passed in a blur of pleasant conversation and laughter.
Kozue found himself seated in one of the camping chairs closest to the fire, a slice of his own banana bread balanced on his knee and a mug of hot chocolate warming his hands.
The familiar comfort foods did nothing to fill the hollow ache in his chest, but he maintained the appearance of contentment for the sake of the guests who'd settled around the fire.
The flames painted shifting patterns of gold and orange across the faces of the people gathered in the circle, creating an atmosphere of intimate warmth that usually made him feel deeply satisfied.
Tonight, though, he felt like he was performing a role rather than truly participating.
His thoughts kept drifting to the conversation he needed to have with Ronan, to the apology he owed for complicating their situation with Sloane, to the growing certainty that he'd destroyed any chance they might have had at making their unprecedented triad bond work.
"Is this seat taken?"
The familiar voice sent electricity shooting down his spine.
Kozue looked up to find Sloane standing beside his chair, her hazel eyes reflecting the firelight in ways that made his wolf surge toward the surface with desperate recognition.
She held two long roasting sticks, each topped with a perfectly white marshmallow, and graham crackers and chocolate bars were tucked under her other arm.
A small, tentative smile played at the corners of her mouth—the first genuine expression of warmth he'd seen from her since their night together.
The mate bond flared between them, carrying a complex mixture of nervousness, hope, and something that felt remarkably like want. For the first time in over twenty-four hours, the constant ache in his chest began to ease.
"No," he said, his voice roughened. "Please, sit."
She settled into the camping chair beside his, close enough that her lavender and vanilla scent wrapped around him like a physical embrace. The simple act of her choosing to sit next to him felt like absolution and possibility rolled into one perfect moment.
"I haven't done this since I was a kid," she said, extending one of the roasting sticks toward him. "And nothing this elaborate. I don't really remember how to make a s'more."
The admission carried layers of meaning that hit him hard. Another reminder of all the simple joys she'd been denied. His protective instincts roared to life, mixing with the fierce tenderness that she inspired in him.
Kozue accepted the roasting stick, his fingers brushing hers in the exchange. The contact sent familiar sparks of awareness through his system, but more importantly, it felt like a bridge—a tentative step toward rebuilding whatever had been damaged between them.
"I can show you," he said, surprised by how much warmth had crept into his voice. "The key is patience. Most people rush the process and end up with burnt marshmallows and disappointed—"
"The most accurate way to toast a marshmallow is two seconds on each side."
Ronan's deep voice came from directly behind Kozue's chair, carrying that subtle thread of dry humor that few people ever noticed. Kozue turned to find his best friend approaching with his own roasting stick, his blue eyes fixed on Sloane with a piercing intensity.
Sloane turned toward Ronan, and the smile that spread across her face could have powered the entire lodge for a week. The pure radiance of it hit Kozue like a physical force, and through the strengthening bond, he felt an echo of the joy and relief that flooded through her at seeing Ronan approach.
She wants us both here, he realized with startling clarity.
Ronan settled into the empty chair on Sloane's other side, positioning himself so she sat between the two men like the missing piece of a puzzle they hadn't known was incomplete.
The arrangement felt natural in ways that defied logic—as if fate had designed the three of them to exist in exactly this configuration.
Kozue felt the tight knot of anxiety in his chest begin to unravel.
This moment—the three of them together by the fire, surrounded by the warmth of community but focused entirely on each other—felt like everything he'd been unconsciously craving since the night Sloane had first walked into their lives.
"Two seconds?" Sloane asked, looking between them with raised eyebrows. "That seems awfully precise for marshmallow toasting."