Page 96 of Knot Baked Out For This
"Pack means pack," I echo, and find I mean it. The three of us have been through everything together—Rowan's dad's death, Luca's brutal residency, my mom's cancer scare. We can handle this, too.
Rowan opens one of the high cabinets, the one that requires reaching, and pulls out a bottle of whiskey that looks older thandirt. "My dad's," he says by way of explanation, grabbing three glasses that almost match. "Seemed like the right time."
He pours generous measures, the amber liquid catching the last of the sunlight. The smell of it—oak, smoke,and time—mixes with our combined scents, creating something new. Something that smells like pack.
I raise my glass, feeling the weight of the moment.
"To Hazel."
"To not fucking this up," Luca adds with a wry smile.
"To second chances," Rowan finishes quietly.
We clink glasses, the sound ringing through the kitchen like a bell, and drink. The whiskey burns, but it's a good burn, warming me from the inside out.
"So what now?" Luca asks, setting down his empty glass.
"Now we let her know we're here," I say, pulling out my phone. "All of us. Together."
I type carefully, aware of both men reading over my shoulder:
We're here if you need anything, Hazel honey.
Simple. Direct. No pressure, but a promise all the same.
"Send it," Rowan says roughly.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself. The message shows delivered, then read almost immediately. My heart jumps.
But no response comes.
"She needs time," Luca says, though he's staring at his own phone like he can will a reply into existence.
"Yeah." I pocket my phone, ignoring the urge to stare at it. "We should probably?—"
"Stay for dinner," Rowan interrupts. "I've got steaks. We can talk strategy."
"Strategy?" I raise an eyebrow.
"How to court her without scaring her off. How to show her we're different." Rowan is already pulling meat from the fridge, falling back on the familiar routine of feeding people when emotions get too heavy. "Besides, when's the last time the three of us actually hung out? Without work or women or drama getting in the way?"
He has a point.
We've been friends forever, but adult life has a way of pulling people in different directions. Maybe this—pack—will bring us back together in more ways than one.
We grill as the sun sets, painting the sky in purples and pinks that remind me of the lavender Hazel grows behind her shop. We drink beer and talk about safe things—Luca's latest nightmare patient, Rowan's pregnant mare, my upcoming bathroom renovation project. But underneath it all is the awareness of what we've agreed to, what we're trying to build.
It's nearly midnight when I finally head home, slightly buzzed from the whiskey and beer, feeling something I haven't felt in a long time: hope. Real, tangible hope that maybe we can do this. Maybe we can show Hazel that not all Alphas are like Korrin. That she deserves to be cherished, protected, loved properly.
My phone stays silent the whole drive home.
But the next morning, when I open my front door to grab the paper, there's a white bakery box sitting on my porch. I recognize it immediately—from Hazel's shop. My heart hammers as I lift the lid.
Six perfect cinnamon rolls, still warm, the icing melting into the spirals of cinnamon and sugar. The scent of them—butter and spice and something uniquely Hazel—makes my mouth water and my chest tight.
No note. But then, there doesn't need to be.
I pull out my phone, find the group chat with Luca and Rowan.
