Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Leif
The October air bites at my cheeks as I trek up the stone path to Emily’s cottage, my laptop bag banging against my hip with each step. Fallen maple leaves crunch beneath my shoes, their edges curled and damp.
It’s the fourth Wednesday I’ve joined Emily and Jared for dinner, and it’s starting to become a comfortable habit.
Through the windows, warm light spills out in honey-colored rectangles across the yard, illuminating the mist of my breath in the fading twilight.
Before I can knock, the yellow door swings open, and Emily fills the frame, the sleeves of her flannel shirt rolled to her elbows.
“You’re right on time,” she says, kissing my cheek. “The stew’s almost ready.”
The ease of it still catches me off guard, this quiet routine we’ve been testing with the unspoken agreement that I’ll keep coming back unless one of us says otherwise.
The scent of pumpkin and cider hits me as I cross the threshold, along with fresh-baked bread. “Smells incredible.”
She takes the bag from my shoulder, as if this is normal, too. “You brought work?”
I slip off my shoes, lining them up beside her work boots by the door. “I just need to go over the committee packet for this month and finish my speaking notes before Monday. It won’t take long.”
Emily peers at the papers jutting from my bag. “Sure that’s all you brought?”
“Plus the subcommittee assignments,” I admit as I take the bag back, and I follow her into the kitchen, where a large pot bubbles on the stove. “Carson wants all faculty representatives to have unified messaging.”
I don’t add how, after I agreed to take on the extra jobs Carson demanded, the Alpha had backed off. He’s content for now to have gotten his way.
It’s an uneasy truce I can live with.
She stirs the stew, tasting with a wooden spoon. “Table’s clear. I figured you’d need the space.”
Warmth spreads through me at the thoughtfulness of the gesture.
I spread my materials across the kitchen table, laptop, printed agendas with handwritten margin notes, and a color-coded spreadsheet of parent concerns sorted by priority.
A month ago, I might have felt self-conscious about the administrative minutiae of school politics invading her home. Now I claim the table without apology, aligning the papers into clean right angles before opening my laptop.
“Here.” Emily slides a mug of tea beside my laptop. “Peppermint with honey.”
Steam curls from the dark surface, carrying the bright scent of mint to my nose. “Thank you.”
She returns to the stove without comment, stirring with focused attention while I pull up my presentation notes. The document overflows with phrases designed to sound concerned yet reassuring, progressive yet traditional, firm yet open to feedback.
My cursor hovers over a tortured sentence about community-integrated support mechanisms. Carson praised this section last week, calling it perfect.
“What time does the meeting start on Monday?” Emily asks, her back still turned to me as she reaches into a cabinet for bowls.
“Six thirty. But Carson wants the faculty representatives there by six.” I highlight key phrases in electric yellow. “He wants us to be seen mingling.”
Emily’s spoon slows. “How many hours are you putting in at the school these days?”
The question catches me off guard. I run a mental tally of morning drop-offs with Quinn, afternoon pickups, committee meetings, documentation sessions, parent conferences, and Carson’s informal check-ins that somehow always stretch to forty minutes.
“It’s manageable,” I say, adjusting the font size on a bullet point. “Quinn’s still my priority. Everything else fits around her schedule.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Emily turns, bracing her hip on the counter, arms folded. “But I can do the math myself.”
I busy myself with reordering my talking points, grateful she doesn’t push further. The kitchen fills with the soft sounds of her moving around while my keyboard clicks form a counterpoint rhythm.
“Blake said Quinn’s thriving,” she comments after several minutes of comfortable silence. “No issues with her accommodation?”
“None.” My shoulders pull back with pride. “Sprinkles will pass the quarterly assessment just fine. And Carson mentioned that several parents have commented positively on Sprinkles’s presence.”
A small victory, but one I cling to when doubts creep in during late nights like these.
The light above the table casts a warm circle around my work, turning ordinary administrative tasks into an almost homey ritual.
Through the window, darkness claims the yard, transforming the glass into a mirror that reflects Emily moving between the stove and the sink, and me at the table, surrounded by papers.
I catch myself staring at this reflection, struck by how natural it appears. As if I’ve always belonged at this table with this Alpha moving through the kitchen behind me.
Emily appears at my shoulder, refilling my mug without asking if I want more, and her comforting crushed clover scent envelops me. “How’s the presentation coming?”
“Almost done.” I gesture at the screen where bullet points march down the page in neat rows. “Just need to finalize the language around the new policy changes.”
She leans closer, reading over my shoulder, her silver hair brushing my temple. “Is this for the service animal review committee?”
“Yes. I’m making recommendations based on Quinn’s experience.”
Her finger traces a line of text without touching the screen. “You’ve turned yourself into an expert on the topic.”
That’s exactly what I’ve done, building my expertise until I can’t be ignored. It began as survival, unexamined and instinctive. Only after the fact does it come across as tactical.
“It’s working,” I say quietly. “Carson’s pulled back on some of the additional requirements since I joined the committee.”
Emily straightens, her hand resting on my shoulder. “Smart.”
The simple approval sends a ripple of satisfaction through me, different from the empty relief of Carson’s praise.
I save my document, fingers following the familiar shortcut. This table, this chair, this corner of Emily’s world has become mine in small, repeated moments, until I’m no longer a guest but someone who belongs here.
“Five more minutes,” Emily says, checking the oven where bread warms. “Want to finish the section before we eat?”
“Almost done.” I type a final sentence, committing to memory the words I’ll deliver to a roomful of parents and administrators on Monday. Words meant to please Carson, protect Quinn, and preserve my careful balance between two worlds.
Jared bursts through the back door in a gust of cold air, bringing with him the scent of oil. His cheeks glow red from the outdoor chill as he kicks off his boots and rubs his hands together.
At the table, I continue typing while Emily sets a stack of bowls beside my laptop with a soft clatter.
“Hey, Leif.” Jared heads to the sink to wash his hands, the water running dark. He notices the bread coming out of the oven and smirks. “Told you I’d finish before you had dinner on the table.”
“Yes, yes.” Emily slides the load onto the cutting board. “You’re an oil-changing genius.”
He tilts his cheek toward her. “Give me my reward.”
She walks over to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Good job.”
He preens as he grabs a scrub brush to get under his nails. “How’s the education system coming along, Professor?”
The teasing adds a secondary layer of warmth to the evening. “Slow but steady.”
I wasn’t sure at first how this would work, since I have no romantic interest in Jared, and by all accounts, the lack of attraction goes both ways. I think it helps that he can’t sense my pheromones, so nothing about my Omega nature triggers his instincts.
So far, we’ve done well, with none of the in-pack jealousy or pressure I feared would crop up with me coming into their established relationship and taking some of Emily’s time away from him.
I accept the bowl Emily passes me, steam rising in fragrant clouds. “The parent advisory board is leaning toward revising the service animal policy. It’ll make things easier for future students like Quinn.”
Emily ladles stew into her own bowl, the thick orange liquid gleaming in the kitchen light. “That’s the third policy change you’ve helped push through.”
Her observation warms me more than the stew. She’s been keeping track.
Jared drops into the chair across from me, already spooning food into his mouth. “The muffler’s salvageable, too. The gasket needs to be replaced.”
Emily’s attention shifts to him. “Did you order the new part?”
“Yep. It will arrive on Tuesday.” He tears off a chunk of bread, using it to sop up the broth. “Leif, help me convince Em to buy a new truck.”
The casual inclusion in their practical planning catches me off guard. “I’m not sure I’m qualified—”
She reaches out to flick Jared’s ear. “Don’t bring Leif into this. If you want a new truck for the house, you need to be more convincing.”
“Leif.” Jared clasps his hands together. “Back me up here.”
I peek at Emily from the corner of my eye. “If the cost of keeping the current vehicle running outweighs its value, and you’re not attached to it for sentimental reasons, and you can afford it…”
Jared slumps back in his chair. “Not convincing at all.”
Emily beams at me. “All valid points to consider.”
Jared straightens. “Wait, they were?”
“But I am sentimental about the old truck, so you”—she points her spoon at Jared—“need to come up with a different argument or accept that it is now your job to keep my baby running indefinitely.”
He hunches over his stew. “Well, shoot.”
I shove a bite of bread into my mouth to stifle my chuckle.
Soft fur brushes my ankle as Mixie appears from whatever hiding spot she’s claimed for the afternoon. Her green eyes fix on me with feline calculation as she winds between the chair legs.