MAEVE
The smell hit me before I even opened my eyes. Buttery, savory, the kind of warm, rich scent that felt completely out of place here. I lay there blinking in confusion, trying to convince myself this was real and not some strange breakfast-themed dream. Ronan, with his deadly Alpha seriousness, standing over a stove instead of pacing around brooding?
Impossible.
But the longer I lay there, the more I could hear the unmistakable sounds coming from the kitchen — the scrape of a skillet, plates clattering, and the steady rhythm of someone who clearly wasn't fumbling through a simple coffee brew.
No way.
For the life of me, I couldn't picture him elbow-deep in breakfast prep, not Ronan. I was always thinking that he has a maid or a cook, or whatever.
I rolled out of bed, barefoot and yawning as I wandered down the hallway. But when I rounded the corner into the kitchen, I nearly stopped in my tracks.
There he was, Ronan Westwood, the great Alpha of the West Coast, not just making coffee but fully immersed in some kind of serious breakfast mission. The entire kitchen was transformed into a gourmet setup. He stood by the stove, flipping something golden brown in a skillet, his entire focus locked on the pan as though he were forging a treaty. On the island sat an array of dishes — eggs, vegetables, cheeses. And was that… homemade bread?
A grin crept onto my face as I took in the scene. He even had a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder, looking less like the hardened Alpha I knew and more like some rustic chef in a travel documentary.
Oh, this was priceless.
"Well, good morning, Gordon Ramsay," I said, crossing my arms as I leaned against the doorway. I could barely contain my grin. "I thought Alpha types were more of the hunt your breakfast and tear it to shreds variety."
He didn't flinch, didn't even glance up, though I swore I caught the barest hint of a smile. "It's called being self-sufficient," he said calmly, reaching for a small stack of plates, completely in his element. "Not all of us survive on coffee and sarcasm."
"Self-sufficient?" I said, my eyebrow creeping higher as I let my gaze sweep over the surprisingly impressive spread. "I don't know… smells suspiciously edible. You sure you're not just trying to impress your houseguest?"
Ronan finally turned, lifting a brow as he plated a neat stack of eggs, each topped with some fancy little herb garnish. It looked like something out of a magazine, annoyingly enough.
"Beginner's luck," I said before he could respond, shooting him a grin. "It has to be."
Without even a pause, he reached into the fridge and pulled out a glass bottle of… was that strawberry milk? He poured himself a glass, set it beside his plate like he was about to toast the Queen, and took a casual sip.
I couldn't hold back my laughter. "You've got to be kidding me."
"What?" he asked, holding his glass with a look that bordered on defiance.
"Strawberry milk?" I bit my lip to keep from laughing harder. "I thought Alphas took their morning beverages with a bit more — oh, I don't know — seriousness? Like maybe – I don't know – black coffee made from the tears of your enemies or something?"
He met my gaze with the same level of intensity he'd use during that damned press conference. "It's been my favorite since I was a kid," he said, completely straight-faced, and took another long, completely unbothered sip. "The tears make it too salty."
I shook my head, trying to make sense of it. "The big bad wolf drinks strawberry milk. Just when I thought I'd seen everything."
"Got a problem with that?" His brow arched, almost like a challenge, as he set the glass down.
"Not at all." I finally broke into a smile as I slid into a seat at the island. "I think it's kind of adorable, honestly. The sweet tooth hidden under all that Alpha seriousness. Makes you seem… relatable."
"Glad to be of service," he replied dryly, adding a pinch of salt to his eggs without missing a beat.
"Don't worry, I won't ruin your big scary alpha reputation. Your secret is safe with me.."
We sat next to each other and started eating, and despite myself, I was impressed. The eggs were fluffy and seasoned just right, the toast golden and crispy, the vegetables somehow both tender and still vibrant. I took a bite, trying to keep my face neutral, but I seriously wanted to stuff myself with everything even at the cost of blowing up. It would not look pretty, but God this food was worth it.
Ronan's slight smirk told me he knew exactly what I thought of his cooking. For a heartbeat, everything went still as our eyes met, the faintest electricity crackling between us.
We were close, closer than I'd realized. I felt the warmth of his hand resting on the countertop, mere inches from mine. For a split second, the space between us felt charged, his gaze steady, intense, and unreadable — like he might lean in, close the distance, but then he pulled back, clearing his throat, visibly caught off guard.
"So," He said as he poured himself a second glass of his drink, "we have an event later."
So we are not gonna talk about that - fine by me.
I groaned, shoving my plate away. "Why am I not surprised?"
"Gallery opening. Local artist. The pack has ties to the gallery owner, and it's public enough that we'll be photographed," he said, voice steady as usual.
I poked at my eggs with a sigh. "Let me guess, we're supposed to look happy and in love."
"Exactly." Ronan took another sip unbothered. "We must make an appearance. Doesn't have to be over-the-top, but looking like we tolerate each other wouldn't hurt."
"Great. Nothing like a public display of grudging respect to win over a crowd," I muttered, taking a sip of coffee.
"Oh, and…" He hesitated. Just for a moment, but I caught it. "Some of the pack members wanted to take you shopping."
I nearly choked. "What?"
"They mentioned something about needing more… variety for events," he said, that tiny grimace giving him away. "They thought you might appreciate the help."
I let out a reluctant laugh, shaking my head. "So, this is their polite way of saying I'm underdressed?"
"Not… exactly," he said, though his expression gave it all away. "They're enthusiastic about helping."
I couldn't stop the grin, trying not to laugh at the rare awkwardness flickering in his eyes.
"Fine. I'll let them play dress-up if it means I don't have to scramble every time we're expected to show up somewhere." I gave him a pointed look. "Not all of us have an endless closet of pristine dark suits, you know."
He didn't answer, but the amused flicker in his eyes was undeniable. For the briefest moment, he looked almost… human. The silence between us settled into something strangely comfortable, a break from the usual edge to our interactions.
Maybe it was the breakfast, maybe it was the absurdity of it all, but I felt oddly at ease.
Feeling more comfortable than I expected, I leaned back in my chair, chewing thoughtfully. "You know, I was thinking," I started casually, "I don't know any werewolves who are… together with another werewolf." I shrugged. "It never occurred to me to ask Liam, but… why is that?"
Ronan's glass paused halfway to his lips, surprise flickering over his face. He set it down, considering the question. "That's… not a question I get often."
"Humor me," I said, my curiosity piqued. "It's not like us humans know much about your world. Or maybe we don't want to know, even though supernaturals have been openly part of the world for, what… two decades now?"
Ronan let out a quiet breath, his gaze shifting slightly, as if searching for the right words.
"More or less," he replied, his tone measured. "A lot of humans think they've adjusted to the idea of supernaturals, but there's a difference between knowing we exist and understanding what that really means."
I nodded, catching the weight behind his words. The world had adjusted to the idea of supernaturals, sure, but a deep understanding? Hardly. Most people were content to keep that door firmly closed.
He took a deep breath, looking like he was picking his words carefully.
"It's complicated. Pack bonds are… strong. There's a closeness, a sense of loyalty that makes it hard to look at another werewolf as anything other than family. Think of it like… growing up with a sibling. It's instinctual."
I raised an eyebrow. "So every other werewolf feels like family? Doesn't that make dating a bit… impossible?"
"It can," he admitted, his tone carrying an odd weight. "But there's more to it. Even if we could look past the bonds… two werewolves can't have children together."
My head tilted in curiosity. "Can't have kids? Like, ever?"
He shook his head, his gaze distant. "If two werewolves have a child, it rarely survives long. They either don't make it to term, or they're born with… issues. Their minds can't handle it. They're too wild to survive, too unstable."
I absorbed this in silence, realizing there was a layer to his world I hadn't considered.
Werewolves always seemed invincible, bound by strength and tradition, but here was something that even they couldn't control.
"So… no future, no chance of a family with someone who truly understands what it means to be a werewolf," I murmured, softer than I meant.
"Exactly," he replied, his voice quieter. "Which is why most werewolves end up with other supernaturals. They understand — at least a bit of what we carry." He paused, a trace of something complicated flickering in his eyes. "Personally, I was… surprised when Liam told me he was dating a human, even before he admitted it was you."
The words hung between us, and for a moment, I wondered what he had really thought back then.
I nodded slowly, the weight of his words sinking in. It shifted something in how I saw him, a pang of sympathy creeping in. Not that I'd say it out loud — I doubted he'd appreciate it, and I didn't need to ruin this rare civil moment between us.
"Anyway," he said, clearing his throat, as if shaking off the moment himself, "we should get going soon. You'll need a full day of shopping to prep for the event."
I rolled my eyes, trying to keep my tone light. "Great. I'll try to keep my fashionably reluctant image intact while they parade me around like a life-sized doll."
"I'm sure you'll manage," he replied, his smirk breaking through his calm as he took another long sip of strawberry milk, entirely unbothered.
I shook my head, still smiling, still entirely mystified. "Unbelievable."