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“The north clearing makes the most sense,” Hamilton says now, pointing to one of the sites. “Better access to roads, less disruption to wildlife corridors.”

“But the eastern site has that amazing view,” Percy argues. “Imagine watching the sunrise through those trees.”

“I like the western site,” I chime in. “It’s where my grandma used to bring me to practice howling when I was little.”

All three look at me with varying degrees of surprise. I don’t often share pack memories.

“Then western it is,” Hamilton decides, surprising me. When I raise an eyebrow, he shrugs. “Cultural significance should be preserved. That’s… important.”

Coming from Hamilton, that’s practically a love sonnet.

No more condos, parking lots, or golf courses. Wolfstone—aside from the observation platform, a small eco-friendly education center, and Prescott’s preservation tech—will remain untouched.

The Lightning Oak and Echo Valley preserved. Wild and perfect, just as nature intended.

“How’s the funding coming along?” I ask, changing the subject before things get too mushy.

Hamilton straightens, shifting into business mode—a mode I once found insufferable, but now recognize as his comfort zone.

“We’ve secured commitments from three major conservation organizations.

The tax benefits of the land dedication offset much of our initial investment loss.

And the positive publicity has increased investment in our other ventures by nearly twelve percent. ”

“Translation: we’re doing fine,” Percy simplifies with a wink.

“Better than fine,” Prescott adds. “Our new eco-friendly tech subsidiary is already attracting major interest. Turns out, there’s a market for technology that works with nature instead of against it.”

“Who would have thought?” I say with mock wonder.

"You would have," Hamilton says unexpectedly. "You did. That's why we're here."

I stare at him, genuinely speechless.

Three months ago, Hamilton Porkwell would rather have gone to a luau as the guest of honor than admit I was right about anything.

"Well," I manage after a moment, "even stubborn wolves occasionally stumble onto good ideas."

“You’re exactly what we needed,” Percy says softly.

“Okay, enough with the sentimentality,” I protest, my ears flattening slightly in embarrassment. “I’m starving.”

“I’ll go get the picnic basket,” Prescott says, reappearing a few minutes later. “I grabbed some sandwiches and drinks from the fridge. Thought we could eat by the lake.”

“Perfect,” I say, my tail swishing behind me with anticipation. “Race you there?”

Without waiting for an answer, I take off running, hearing shouts of protest behind me. I could easily outpace them in full wolf form, but I stay just human enough—just wolf-eared and tailed enough—to give them a fighting chance.

To my surprise, it’s Hamilton who catches up first, his expensive shoes abandoned somewhere along the trail, pig ears standing straight up with exertion.

“Cheater,” he pants, grabbing for my waist.

I dance away, laughing. “Can’t cheat if there are no rules, Ham.”

Percy and Prescott arrive moments later, carrying the picnic basket and looking equally winded.

“You two are ridiculous,” Percy complains, but he’s smiling.

We settle by the lake’s edge—the same spot where, three months ago, everything changed. Prescott lays out the food while Percy uncorks a bottle of wine.

I watch them, marveling at how each has transformed since I first stormed into their office.

Hamilton, once rigidly formal and coldly calculating, now occasionally lets his pig ears show even during video conferences. “It keeps competitors off-balance,” he claimed when I caught him, but I know better. He’s finally embracing parts of himself he spent decades suppressing.

Percy’s transformation has been subtler but no less profound. The passionate energy he once poured into luxury developments now fuels educational spaces. His eyes light up differently now—not with the pride of imposing his vision, but with the joy of enhancing what already exists.

And Prescott—quiet, brilliant Prescott—has perhaps changed the most visibly.

Once hiding behind screens in climate-controlled rooms, now spends hours tracking wildlife, his technology serving as an extension of his curiosity rather than a barrier between him and the world.

I caught him last week in full pig form, watching a racoon family from a respectful distance, completely transfixed.

“A toast,” Hamilton says, raising his glass once we’re all served. “To unlikely partnerships.”

“To conservation,” adds Prescott.

“To new beginnings,” says Percy.

I look at these three males—these three pigs who were supposed to be my enemies—and feel something warm unfurl in my chest.

“To breaking the rules,” I offer, clinking my glass against theirs.

“So,” Percy says eventually, “now that the cottage is almost done and Wolfstone Preserve has been preserved… what’s next?”

It’s a good question. One I’ve been asking myself lately.

“There’s the North Campus development,” Hamilton says.

“I was thinking more about us,” Percy clarifies. “This… arrangement.”

Ah. That.

“What about it?” I ask cautiously. We’ve been existing in a strange, wonderful limbo these past months—working together by day, exploring each other by night, but never really defining what “this” is.

“I like it,” Percy says simply. “I want it to continue.”

“As do I,” Prescott adds, taking a bite of his sandwich.

Hamilton is silent, and my stomach twists.

“I’ve purchased the adjacent property,” Hamilton says abruptly. “Thirty acres, including the ridge overlooking the valley.”

We all stare at him.

“Why?” I finally ask.

His ears twitch in that defensive way again. “It seemed prudent for the expansion of the reserve.”

“And?” Percy prompts, clearly sensing there’s more.

Hamilton sighs. “And I thought perhaps we might want a more permanent residence. Something with enough space for four shifters.”

My heart skips a beat. “Are you suggesting we all live together?”

“Not in this cottage,” Hamilton clarifies quickly. “It’s charming but impractical. I was thinking something custom-designed.” He glances at Percy. “Something that blends with the environment while providing adequate space.”

“You want to build us a house,” I say, stunned. “A home.”

“It’s a practical consideration,” Hamilton insists, but his ears give him away. “The commute from the city is inefficient, and monitoring the reserve would be easier with a permanent residence, and—”

I cut him off by leaning over and kissing him soundly. When I pull back, his expression is dazed.

“Yes,” I say simply.

“Yes, what?” he asks.

“Yes, to whatever you’re really asking beneath all that practical business talk.”

Percy laughs and drapes his arm around my shoulders. “I think she’s saying yes to us, brother. All of us.”

Prescott is practically beaming.

Hamilton clears his throat, regaining his composure. “We should discuss logistics. Schedules. Boundaries. There are practical considerations—”

“Hamilton,” I interrupt. “Shut up and enjoy the moment.”

It won’t be simple. Nothing worth having ever is. There will be challenges, disagreements, and moments when our fundamental differences clash.

But as the sun shines over Wolfstone—our Wolfstone—I find myself thinking that the best fairy tales are the ones you write yourself.

Sometimes, the Big Bad Wolf gets to keep all three little pigs.

Sometimes, happily ever after looks nothing like the original story.

Sometimes, they just need a forest, a lake, and the courage to see each other for who they really are in their hearts, regardless of the package they come in: wolf or pig.

And sometimes, they all live happily ever after.

Or at least, happily for now.

Which, honestly, is enough for this wolf.