The scent of pumpkin and cider hits me as I cross the threshold, along with fresh-baked bread. “Smells incredible.”
She takes the bag from my shoulder, as if this is normal, too. “You brought work?”
I slip off my shoes, lining them up beside her work boots by the door. “I just need to go over the committee packet for this month and finish my speaking notes before Monday. It won’t take long.”
Emily peers at the papers jutting from my bag. “Sure that’s all you brought?”
“Plus the subcommittee assignments,” I admit as I take the bag back, and I follow her into the kitchen, where a large pot bubbles on the stove. “Carson wants all faculty representatives to have unified messaging.”
I don’t add how, after I agreed to take on the extra jobs Carson demanded, the Alpha had backed off. He’s content for now to have gotten his way.
It’s an uneasy truce I can live with.
She stirs the stew, tasting with a wooden spoon. “Table’s clear. I figured you’d need the space.”
Warmth spreads through me at the thoughtfulness of the gesture.
I spread my materials across the kitchen table, laptop, printed agendas with handwritten margin notes, and a color-coded spreadsheet of parent concerns sorted by priority.
A month ago, I might have felt self-conscious about the administrative minutiae of school politics invading her home. Now I claim the table without apology, aligning the papers into clean right angles before opening my laptop.
“Here.” Emily slides a mug of tea beside my laptop. “Peppermint with honey.”
Steam curls from the dark surface, carrying the bright scent of mint to my nose. “Thank you.”
She returns to the stove without comment, stirring with focused attention while I pull up my presentation notes. The document overflows with phrases designed to sound concernedyet reassuring, progressive yet traditional, firm yet open to feedback.
My cursor hovers over a tortured sentence about community-integrated support mechanisms. Carson praised this section last week, calling it perfect.
“What time does the meeting start on Monday?” Emily asks, her back still turned to me as she reaches into a cabinet for bowls.
“Six thirty. But Carson wants the faculty representatives there by six.” I highlight key phrases in electric yellow. “He wants us to be seen mingling.”
Emily’s spoon slows. “How many hours are you putting in at the school these days?”
The question catches me off guard. I run a mental tally of morning drop-offs with Quinn, afternoon pickups, committee meetings, documentation sessions, parent conferences, and Carson’s informal check-ins that somehow always stretch to forty minutes.
“It’s manageable,” I say, adjusting the font size on a bullet point. “Quinn’s still my priority. Everything else fits around her schedule.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Emily turns, bracing her hip on the counter, arms folded. “But I can do the math myself.”
I busy myself with reordering my talking points, grateful she doesn’t push further. The kitchen fills with the soft sounds of her moving around while my keyboard clicks form a counterpoint rhythm.
“Blake said Quinn’s thriving,” she comments after several minutes of comfortable silence. “No issues with her accommodation?”
“None.” My shoulders pull back with pride. “Sprinkles will pass the quarterly assessment just fine. And Carson mentionedthat several parents have commented positively on Sprinkles’s presence.”
A small victory, but one I cling to when doubts creep in during late nights like these.
The light above the table casts a warm circle around my work, turning ordinary administrative tasks into an almost homey ritual. Through the window, darkness claims the yard, transforming the glass into a mirror that reflects Emily moving between the stove and the sink, and me at the table, surrounded by papers.
I catch myself staring at this reflection, struck by how natural it appears. As if I’ve always belonged at this table with this Alpha moving through the kitchen behind me.
Emily appears at my shoulder, refilling my mug without asking if I want more, and her comforting crushed clover scent envelops me. “How’s the presentation coming?”
“Almost done.” I gesture at the screen where bullet points march down the page in neat rows. “Just need to finalize the language around the new policy changes.”
She leans closer, reading over my shoulder, her silver hair brushing my temple. “Is this for the service animal review committee?”