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“Your dog has better manners than most people,” Luke observed, finally taking a sip. His eyes went wide. “Oh. Oh, wow.”

“Right?” I grinned. “Still ridiculous, though.”

“Absolutely ridiculous,” he agreed, taking another long drink.

We wandered through the square, watching the festival take shape. The college guys from the bookstore were now setting up a massive stage, their leather jackets somehow staying perfect despite the heavy lifting. Mrs. Rivera’s group had their booth nearly finished, the smell of cooking tamales already drawing a crowd.

“Johnson!” Caleb called out to the man directing the setup of the Stone family’s booth. “How’s it looking?”

“On schedule, sir,” Johnson replied, his team moving as they assembled what had to be the most elaborate churro stand I’d ever seen. “Jorge’s special recipe is prepped for tomorrow.”

“The line’s already forming.” I pointed to where several people were eyeing the booth hopefully.

“Tomorrow,” Johnson told them firmly, though he smiled as he said it.

Luke documented everything—the lights being strung up, the ancient oak tree in the square being decorated, Scout charming treats from various vendors who were already selling. His social media stories were going to make Cedar Grove look like some kind of fairy-tale town.

“Oh my God.” He suddenly grabbed my arm. “Is that a candied apple display made of crystal?”

Hours passed as we explored, sampling early festival treats and watching the town transform. By the time we headed back, the sun was setting and the first strings of lights were twinkling to life.

“Mind if we stop by the cottage?” I asked Caleb. “I should grab a few things.”

The cottage looked different in the golden evening light, less haunting and more… charming, in an old-world way.

“This is so cool,” Luke said, taking in the stone walls and climbing ivy. “Creepy, but in a good way? Like it should be in a movie about witches or something.”

“You have no idea,” I said, thinking about what actually lived in these woods.

The drive back to the manor was peaceful, Scout dozing in the back seat after his successful food-charming expedition. As we pulled up, the smell of pizza and Korean BBQ drifted from the manor.

“Eomma’s already taken over the kitchen, hasn’t she?” Luke sighed.

“Come on.” I tugged Luke toward the door. “Before they decide to fusion the entire dinner menu.”

So apparently, when you leave two protective maternal figures alone for a few hours, they either become best friends or develop an intense rivalry over who can stuff more food into their collective grandchild. Guess which way our afternoon went?

“What happened?” I whispered to Anna, who met us at the door looking like she’d witnessed a culinary war crime. “They were getting along fine when we left.”

“Everything was great until Luke’s photos hit social media,” she said. “Min-seo said you looked too thin; Maria agreed but said she’d been working on it, and then Min-seo said ‘clearly not working hard enough’ and…” She made a gesture that somehow conveyed both explosion and despair. “It’s been downhill since then.”

The manor’s back terrace—usually a magazine-worthy dream of natural stone and trailing vines—had transformed into what I can only describe asCelebrity ChefmeetsBattle Royale. The pizza oven blazed on one side like some ancient Italian deity, Jorge presiding over it with the intensity of a man guarding state secrets. On the other side, Imo had established what looked like a small Korean restaurant’s worth of banchan. I counted at least fifteen different side dishes, which meant she was actually holding back.

“Aigoo!” Imo spotted me with the heat-seeking precision of a missile defense system. “Kai-ya! Come, come! Too skinny in photos. These wolves not feeding you properly!”

Maria materialized from somewhere—probably the same dimension where she stored her endless supply of food and judgment—wielding a plate of fresh focaccia like a shield. “He’s been eating very well. Jorge’s nutrition plan is perfectly balanced.”

“Balanced for what? Bird?” Imo scoffed, though her eyes sparkled with the kind of competitive spirit usually reserved for professional sports. “Growing boy needs meat! Protein!”

“I’m twenty-two,” I pointed out, which was apparently the wrong thing to say because both women whirled on me with identical expressions of maternal outrage.

“Still growing!” they declared in perfect unison, then looked startled at their agreement before immediately returning to their standoff.

The outdoor dining area should have been peaceful, with its elegant pergola and subtle lighting. Instead, it had become ground zero for what I could only describe as extreme competitive feeding. My three wolves watched with poorly concealed amusement as I was herded to the head of the table like some prized show pony.

“Sit, sit,” Imo commanded, already preparing a ssam with the precision of a surgeon. The lettuce wrap was a work of art—perfectly grilled meat, garlic, and ssamjang with a precise amount of kimchi arranged in what was probably the golden ratio of Korean cuisine. “Open.”

“I can feed my?—”