Page 129 of Found by the Pack

I turn back to the door, about to close it—when another noise stops me. Heavy boots on the stairs.

And then he’s there.

Gabe.

His shirt sleeves are rolled up, arms corded, the faint sheen of sweat on his skin. His expression when he sees me is pure surprise, quickly shuttered.

“Hey,” he says, and before I can react, he pulls me into a hurried hug. His body is warm, solid, familiar in a way that makes me instantly remember the heat of his mouth between my thighs, the scrape of his teeth.

“Hey,” I whisper back, shaky.

He releases me too quickly, stepping into the apartment like nothing happened.

I shut the door and lock it, my hand tight on the knob for a second longer than necessary, bracing myself.

In the kitchen, Shepard is already passing Gabe a beer. He takes it without hesitation, lifting it to his mouth in a long swallow.

Boone wipes his hands on a towel, watching him carefully. “How was the fire?”

Gabe’s jaw tightens. “No casualties.” His voice is flat, clipped. “Mayor was there, already talking about forming some kind of task force. Crime’s climbing. Arsons, break-ins, assaults. He says we need to get ahead of it before it eats the town alive.”

Boone nods slowly, turning back to the stove. “I agree.”

He grabs the pan, muttering about putting the meat on, and the smell fills the apartment again, warm and grounding.

“Then maybe we can all sit and talk,” Boone adds, his voice steady.

I lean against the counter, my stomach tightening as I watch them—three men who mean so much to me, three men bound together by grief and loyalty and the strange, fragile web I’ve somehow become tangled in.

This could all go horribly wrong and I don’t know if I’m ready for that.

I carry the bouquet to the counter, rummaging through Boone’s cupboards until I find a jar wide enough to use as a vase. My hands feel clumsy as I fill it with water, trim the stems, and slide the flowers in. The colors brighten the kitchen instantly, but my stomach is too tight to enjoy the effect.

“Do you want wine or a beer?” Shepard’s voice comes from behind me, steady but tentative.

“Wine,” I say quickly, turning back.

He pours some into a glass, hands precise, then passes it to me without letting his fingers brush mine. Boone cracks open a beer, tossing one toward Gabe, who catches it like he’s been doing it all his life.

We drift into the living room, the four of us finding seats that feel both too close and too far apart. I settle at the end of the couch, wine glass cool between my palms. Boone drops into the chair across from me, one leg bouncing like he’s burning off nerves.

Shepard leans against the far arm of the couch, stiff, unreadable. Gabe takes the seat nearest the window, his body angled away from us, his eyes fixed on the dark street outside. He hasn’t looked at me once since he entered the apartment.

The silence stretches, thick and awkward.

Finally, Boone clears his throat. “I want to apologize. To all of you.”

My eyes lift to him. His expression is serious, jaw tight.

“I handled things badly,” he continues. “The fight. The way I let my temper get the better of me. I… should’ve trusted you. All of you. And I didn’t. That’s on me.”

Nobody speaks. Gabe takes a long pull from his beer, his throat working, but his gaze stays on the glass in his hand. Shepard studies the floor like it might give him answers.

I swallow, setting my wine down on the table. My heart beats fast, but I make myself speak. “This doesn’t have to be messy. It doesn’t have to break us.”

All three sets of eyes turn toward me.

“I’m not asking,” I continue, steadying my voice. “I’m not begging. I’m telling you how I feel. I like all of you. Each of you in different ways. I want to see what this could be, if we’re brave enough to try.”