Page 79 of Found by the Pack

The warmth that swells in my chest at the memory catches me off guard. I’d stayed up too late leafing through them, tracing the faded sketches of Driftwood Cove’s earliest buildings, the delicate pencil lines of old murals painted decades before I was even born. I’d felt connected, somehow—like the town had a heartbeat I could hear if I pressed close enough.

I nod quickly. “Yes. They were… perfect, actually. Seeing how artists here told stories with color, how they captured their time—it reminded me that this isn’t just decoration. It’s history.” My voice quiets. “It made me think harder about what I’m trying to leave behind.”

Shepard’s eyes soften, and for a moment, I think I see pride there. Then he just nods once, understated as ever. “Good. That’s what I was hoping.”

Boone leans forward, elbows braced on the table. “What’s your favorite mural you’ve ever done? I mean, the one that still sticks with you.”

The question twists my insides. I look down at my plate, pushing a piece of roasted carrot around with my fork.

“That’s… hard,” I admit. “A lot of them carry weight. But if I had to choose… maybe the one I did in Memphis, on the side of a community center. It was huge—three stories. A phoenix rising out of flames, wings stretching so wide they wrapped around the corner of the building.”

My lips curve despite myself. “Kids used to sit under it after school, sketching, almost like they were daring the world to tell them they couldn’t rise, too.”

Boone smiles, slow and genuine. “That sounds incredible.”

“It was,” I say softly. “I wish I’d had more time with it.”

“Everyone in town is excited to see yours work here,” Boone says, his tone easy, almost casual, but his eyes lock on mine. “You’ve brought color back to Driftwood Cove. People talk about it all the time.”

I don’t know what to say to that. My throat tightens, because the idea that my work—me—could be worth talking about without derision, without whispers of shame, feels foreign. I glance down, take a sip of beer to cover the way my cheeks heat.

Boone clears his throat. “Anyway. I’ve got cake for dessert, if anyone’s interested.”

Shepard chuckles. “Tempting, but I’ve got an early morning tomorrow. Marjorie will have my head if I don’t finish reorganizing that history section before the board meeting. Tonight was fun, though.”

“Yeah,” Gabe adds, setting his fork down and leaning back. “I’ve got an early shift too, but I’m glad I came.”

His voice is quieter than earlier, but not unfriendly. Just tired, maybe. Or weighed down by something he isn’t saying.

They both stand, the energy of the table shifting as they gather their things. Boone clasps Shepard on the shoulder, nods to Gabe, and just like that, I’m left blinking as the door closes behind them.

Silence fills the house.

I fidget with the edge of my napkin. It’s just me and Boone now. My chest tightens with self-consciousness until the words slip out before I can stop them.

“Is everything okay?”

Boone tilts his head, eyebrows pulling together slightly. “What do you mean?”

I shrug, eyes darting away. “I don’t know. They seemed… I don’t know. Different.”

His hand brushes against my wrist on the table. “They just haven’t had a woman in their company in a while,” he says gently. “It’s new for them. That’s all.”

I search his face, trying to read him. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.” His smile is small but sure. “Now—dessert?”

I laugh lightly, shaking my head. “I’m so full. If I eat one more bite, I’ll explode.”

“Fair,” he says. “Then let me handle cleanup. You relax.”

But that makes my skin prickle—sitting idle while someone else works, like I’m being waited on. I can’t stomach it. “No. Let me help. Please.”

Something in my tone must convince him, because he doesn’t argue further. Instead, we gather plates, carrying them into the kitchen. Warm light spills over everything, and there’s something achingly domestic about standing at the sink beside him, sleeves rolled up, water running.

He washes, I dry. For a few minutes, there’s only the clink of dishes and the low hum of the faucet.

Then—suddenly—cold splashes against my cheek.