Page 23

ALICE

J ason’s hanging upside down from the rafters, grunting as he tries to pin a string of fairy lights to a rafter beam with nothing but stubbornness and the wrong size hammer.

“You sure you don’t wanna wait for a ladder?” I call from below, holding a box of mason jars and trying not to sound too worried.

He grins—upside down, which is annoyingly cute. “Where’s the fun in that?”

I shake my head and gently set the box down by the window, brushing sawdust off the windowsill. Our new shared cabin is still half-finished, with paint samples on the wall and a mysterious leftover cauldron in the closet that neither of us wants to claim.

But it’s ours.

I peek up again. “If you fall, I’m not sewing your ear back on.”

“I heal fast,” he mutters, then yelps as the light string slides off the nail. “Usually.”

I can’t help it—I laugh.

This is what nesting with a werewolf looks like.

Hammers. Bark-scented body spray. And fairy lights tangled in clawed hands.

And somehow, I feel completely at ease.

Jason’s shirtless.

Again.

Because apparently, painting a cabin is a shirt-optional activity if you’re a werewolf.

And I’m trying really hard not to stare, even though he’s currently rolling a mint green stripe across the wall like it owes him money.

“Careful,” I say, laughing. “You’re one swipe away from painting the window.”

“Details,” he mutters, but slows his roll slightly. “Besides, this color slaps.”

I snort, dipping my own brush into a dusty rose that I insisted would “balance the vibe.”

“You said that about the lava lamp .”

“And I stand by it.”

I shake my head and step back, assessing our shared color choices. The left wall is forest green, the right is a warm honey wood, and now this one’s turning into a pastel mash-up of soft mint and pink.

It should be chaos.

But somehow... it works.

Just like us.

I crouch to open a crate of old camp décor, sifting through twinkle lights, enamel mugs, and a faded pennant that reads Camp Lightring 1996.

Jason leans over my shoulder, brushing paint off his fingers onto my arm— on purpose.

“Hey!” I swat at him, grinning.

“You looked too clean,” he says, all innocent.

“You’re a menace.”

“You love it.”

Unfortunately, I do.

By mid-afternoon, the place is a gorgeous mess. Paint splatters everywhere, including a pink splotch on Jason’s shoulder in the shape of a questionable heart. We’ve strung the fairy lights— with a ladder, thank god —and hung two mismatched tapestries to frame the bed.

We eat sandwiches on the floor, our knees knocking occasionally. I brush glitter off the pillow he’s leaning on.

“This feels... unreal,” I say softly.

Jason nods. “Like summer camp and a Pinterest board had a baby.”

“Exactly.”

We sit in the quiet for a beat.

Then he says, almost too casually, “Julie asked if I’d be open to taking the guidance counselor position next season.”

I blink. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious.” He sets the sandwich down on his knee. “Apparently she thinks I’ve got the right instincts for it.”

“You do, ” I say, without hesitation.

He shrugs, suddenly unsure of himself. “It just… surprised me. People don’t usually look at me and think ‘trusted emotional support entity.’”

My heart squeezes.

“I do,” I say.

He looks at me. Really looks.

And whatever smartass comment was forming on his tongue just melts.

“Yeah?”

I nod, voice soft. “You’re patient. You listen. You care more than you let on. That’s what kids need. Not just rules or structure—they need to feel safe. And you do that.”

He’s quiet for a second.

Then he says, “I think I’m happy.”

It’s not loud.

It’s not dramatic.

Just honest.

Like the way his hand finds mine on the floor between us.

“I think I’m really, actually happy,” he says again, a little wonder in his voice.

My throat goes tight.

I lean my head on his shoulder, paint and all.

“Me too,” I whisper.

And somehow, in the chaos of dried glue, pastel walls, and our two stupid mugs sitting side-by-side on the window.

I realize we’ve made something real.

Later, we sit on the floor in the middle of the mess—paint cans, canvas bins, mismatched throw pillows stolen from the staff lounge—and eat sandwiches out of wax paper wrappers.

Jason’s got paint on his forearm. There’s glitter in his hair. He looks like the aftermath of a birthday party thrown by feral children.

And I love him so much it makes my chest ache.

He takes a bite of his sandwich, chews, then glances sideways at me like he’s about to admit he burned down the kitchen.

“So,” he says slowly, “Julie asked if I’d be open to taking the guidance counselor position next season.”

I blink. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious.” He sets the sandwich down on his knee. “Apparently she thinks I’ve got the right instincts for it.”

“You do, ” I say instantly.

He shrugs. “It just… surprised me. People don’t usually look at me and think ‘trusted emotional support entity.’”

My heart squeezes.

“I do,” I say.

He looks at me. Really looks.

And whatever smartass comment was forming on his tongue just melts.

“Yeah?”

I nod, voice soft. “You’re patient. You listen. You care more than you let on. That’s what kids need. Not just rules or structure—they need to feel safe. And you do that.”

He’s quiet for a second.

Then he says, “I think I’m happy.”

It’s not loud.

It’s not dramatic.

Just honest.

Like the way his hand finds mine on the floor between us.

“I think I’m really, actually happy,” he says again, a little wonder in his voice.

My throat goes tight.

I lean my head on his shoulder, paint and all.

“Me too,” I whisper.

Later, after the brushes are rinsed and the last string of lights finally stops sagging, I curl up on the cabin’s only finished couch with my knees tucked under me and a warm cup of mint tea in my hands.

Jason’s in the tiny kitchen nook, humming something tuneless as he stacks leftover sandwiches into a container with far more concentration than necessary.

The lamp glows soft in the corner. There’s music playing low on the speaker—something dreamy and slow. Outside, crickets chirp and a soft breeze rustles through the pine just beyond the screened windows.

It’s home.

I take a long sip of tea and just let myself sit in it.

The quiet.

The closeness.

The peace.

It’s the kind of moment I used to think I didn’t deserve. Too soft. Too safe. Too steady.

But now? It feels like breathing for the first time.

Jason glances over his shoulder. “You good, babe?”

I nod, smiling into my cup. “Yeah. Just... soaking this in.”

He grins. “Pretty decent for two days’ work and one minor glitter explosion.”

“Feels like a real home.”

“Damn right it does.”

And it does.

It really, really does.