Page 94 of Knotted By my Pack

“You okay?” I ask.

She nods. “Yeah.”

I kiss her again, slower this time. This one isn’t about need. It’s about everything else.

It’s about making sure thatmy Omegais okay.

Mine.

27

JULIAN

Istayed home the rest of the day, pacing through the silence like a man trapped in his own skin. I told myself rest would help, that I could sit with everything and let it settle.

It didn’t.

It never does.

By midnight, I’m wide awake, staring at the ceiling, pulse ticking with agitation. There’s a kind of itch beneath my skin, and nothing short of movement will silence it.

I lace up my shoes and step out into the night.

The town is quiet, still draped in sleep. Streetlights glow with soft halos, casting gold across pavement lined with worn storefronts and sleepy porches.

A dog barks once, then fades into silence. The breeze carries the scent of fresh earth and dew-slick grass. It’s peaceful in a way that makes everything inside me more noticeable.

I start running, feet hitting the pavement in a steady rhythm. Past the florist with its hand-painted window, the diner with its flickering “open” sign left on by mistake, and the row of silent brownstones that sit with their curtains drawn and lights off.

The whole town exhales under the moonlight, completely unaware that its favorite son is nothing more than a carefully dressed wound.

My legs carry me farther than I planned.

I stop in front of the bakery without meaning to. The place has been cleaned, the walls repainted, the trim touched up. New light fixtures. Probably someone’s idea of keeping it alive.

I hesitate before walking toward the side door. It’s locked, but I know how to get in. Some things you don’t forget.

Inside, the air is laced with the faint scent of sugar and yeast. Flour dust still clings to the corners. There’s an ache in my chest I don’t address as I step behind the counter. Everything in here has been scrubbed, polished, and made whole again.

Everything but me.

I walk past the racks and the cooling trays, stopping at the frosting station. It’s busted. The motor whines when I test it, but it’s not mixing right.

I drag a stool over, kneel beside it, and start pulling the machine apart with hands that shouldn’t remember how to do this but do.

It takes three tries, one jammed finger, and a cracked gear before I figure out the issue. I Google replacement models, then Google again when I find out they’re out of stock.

I curse quietly and find a workaround using pieces from another machine in the back. Trial. Error. Spit and prayers. Eventually, I get the thing to spin smoothly.

The espresso machine is next. I sit on the counter and strip it down part by part, referencing repair videos of this same model online.

I tighten the last valve and stand there, looking at my reflection in the darkened display. My jaw’s tight. My eyes are red. I feel like a stranger in this space now. And yet, I know exactly where everything lives.

What kills me most is knowing I’ll never tell anyone the truth about what happened here. Not really. Not about my father. This guilt is mine to carry.

No matter how much this town thinks it’s moved on, it still lives under my skin like rot.

I check my phone. 4:47 a.m.