"He is. His mate walked out on him a few years back, but he's one of those people who deals with grief by taking care of everyone else. Half the town's probably had dinner at his place at some point."
Something flickered across Kit's face. Recognition, maybe, or sympathy. "That's hard. Someone treating you like that."
"Yeah." I looked at Charlie, who was listening with the intensity she applied to everything. "But he's building something good here. We all are."
The implication hung in the air between us. That she could be part of that building, if she wanted. That there was space for her in the small community that had become home for Charlie and me.
Kit's phone chimed, and she glanced at it with a frown. Whatever she saw there made her shoulders tense, her scent shifting subtly from warm contentment to something sharper. More guarded.
"Everything alright?" I asked.
"Fine," she said quickly, but she was already standing, gathering her plate. "I should probably get going. Let you two get on with your Saturday."
"But we haven't talked about the nest yet!" Charlie protested.
"Later, buttercup," I said gently, though I was watching Kit with growing concern. Whatever that text had said, it had spooked her. "Kit probably has things to do."
"Of course," she said, but there was a brittle quality to her smile now. "Thank you for breakfast. It was wonderful."
"Kit," I started, not sure what I wanted to say, but knowing I couldn't just let her leave like this.
"I'm fine," she said, reading the concern in my voice. "Really. Just... something I need to deal with."
I wanted to push, wanted to demand to know what had put that look in her eyes. But I recognized the walls going back up, the careful distance she was putting between herself and whatever comfort she'd found at my table.
"You know where to find us," I said instead. "If you need anything."
She nodded, already moving toward the door. "Thanks again."
I watched her go, noting the tightness in her shoulders, the way she seemed to be steeling herself for something unpleasant. Every instinct I possessed was screaming at me to follow her, to make sure she was safe, to stand between her and whatever had put that fear in her scent.
But she wasn't mine to protect. Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
"Dad?" Charlie's voice pulled me back to the present. "Is Kit okay?"
"I don't know, buttercup," I said honestly. "But I hope so."
The kitchen felt too quiet without her laughter, too empty without her presence. I started clearing the dishes, trying to ignore the way the lingering traces of her scent made my alpha want to pace and snarl at invisible threats.
"Dad?" Charlie's fork clinked against her plate as she set it down. "Can we still help Kit with her nest later?"
"We'll see, buttercup. She might need some time to herself today."
"But she promised." There was a wobble in Charlie's voice that made my chest tight. "She said she wanted my help."
I crouched down beside her chair, meeting her worried eyes. "Hey. Kit's not going anywhere, okay? Sometimes adults have things they need to take care of, but that doesn't mean they don't want to spend time with you."
"Like when Mom had to go to the hospital?"
The innocent question hit me like a punch to the gut. Charlie rarely brought up Sarah anymore, but when she did, it was always with this matter-of-fact acceptance that broke my heart.
"No, buttercup. Not like that." I smoothed her hair back from her forehead. "Kit just got a message that made her worry about something. But she'll be okay."
"Can we make sure?"
"What do you mean?"