Standards

Everything still looks the same as I pull into the covered carport at the front of the house. Two cars are parked. Someone is home. Outside the boundary, autumn is settling in — leaves gathering along the roads, the air turning sharp — but here, it still looks like the height of summer. That is what happens when one of the people who lives here tends every living thing daily. Do you think she’s even here? Calix asks. Sometimes she’s too focused to respond, I mutter, having called out for Mum the moment I crossed the pack boundary. Sundays here are different from other packs. No training. No combat. Just borders patrolled by senior ranks on rotation. Sundays are for family. Not that I expect mine to be here. We are a little scattered now. I press my thumb to the security lock and step inside. Silence greets me. Long gone are the days of noisy children tearing through the halls. I move down the corridor, checking rooms as I go. The living room is empty. At the end of the hall, I push open the door to the kitchen diner, where you could usually find somebody. Or at least evidence of somebody. The fridges, mostly. The space is exactly as I remember. And wrong because of it. I open both fridges without thinking, following learned behaviour, then grab a piece of cheese from the door shelf and tear into it as I wander. Everything is in its place. The table is aligned. Chairs tucked in. Counters clear. No mug beside the sink. No jumper over a chair. No half-read book abandoned on the table. No distant voices. No one shouting from another room. No one telling me to stop standing in front of the fridge with the door open. It feels... off. Not because anything has changed. Because nothing is happening. I slide the patio doors open, relieved to find them unlocked. We never lock this door. Locking it would feel worse than the silence. Stepping outside onto the sandstone patio settles something in my chest. Realistically, it won’t be long before you’re back here full-time, Calix says. In what capacity, though? That depends on you. On us. I head down the side path towards the cabin. It has always been the alpha’s space. A proper log cabin, fire and all. When Dad is home, this is usually where he is. I had not planned on finding him. But now I am here... I knock. A moment later, the door opens. "Josh." Dad’s brows lift slightly. "I felt you cross the boundary, but I didn’t expect you here." "Why wouldn’t you?" I ask, stepping inside. Ask him why he texts Sage more than you, Calix says. Absolutely not. The room tells me almost everything I need to know. No stacks of paperwork. No scattered plans. Just one laptop open on the desk, the screen dimmed. The old armchairs still sit opposite each other by the fire. Calm day, then. Or as close as Dad ever gets. I drop into the green chair, which has always been the most comfortable, no matter what anyone else claims. Dad watches me for a second before closing the door. "I figured you’d be relaxing," he says. "With Owen. Or even a girl." "Definitely not a girl," I mutter. His expression shifts by a fraction. Too small for most people to notice. Unfortunately, I am not most people. That gets his attention. It should, considering the conversations we were having a year ago. Dad sits opposite me, tilting his head slightly. "That sounded loaded. Everything all right?" "Where’s Mum?" I ask, as if that answers him. A flicker of irritation crosses his face. "She’s gone to the Fae realm for a whole day." I exhale sharply. Time in the Fae realm does not run like it does here. Last time she went for three days, six months passed for us. One day there... "She’ll be back at Christmas," Dad says. "Why?" "Mostly for Sen. There’s a plant there we can’t grow here, and it helps with some of her health issues." I frown. "She didn’t seem any different when I saw her." "Sen wouldn’t want to worry you. But she’s run out of the supply she had." "So Sen’s gone too?" "Yes. It takes two fae to travel through the trees these days." I huff under my breath. "Damn. I was hoping I wouldn’t need the car for long." "You’ll need it for a while yet," Dad says evenly. "Things are better, but they’re not back to what we would consider normal. The mate bonds returning didn’t fix everything. The damage had already been done." He leans back slightly. "We’ve got more rogues than ever, and they’re stronger. You know that." I glance at him. "We’ve not had any issues at Exton." "Not yet. But there have been reports in the southern parts of Surrey in the last day alone." I nod slowly. Then, after a pause— "That’s... frustrating, about Mum. I needed to ask her something." Dad gestures openly. "Ask me." I hesitate, then lean forwards slightly. "Do you know anyone who could tell me if I’m still under a hex?" His brows lift. "I can call the triad," he says. "But magic is usually your mother’s area. I only knew about the hex after the fact. It was entirely her idea." A low growl slips out before I can stop it. I clear my throat. "I know you’re still angry," he says lightly. "I was." I drag a hand through my hair. "I get why she did it now. I know what could have happened. I know I was a risk, and I know it would have brought this family down." Dad nods once. "Then why do you think it’s still there? It was meant to break when you returned to Exton. That was the agreement." I press my lips together. This is not exactly a conversation I want to be having with my dad. But after weeks of trying not to think about it, I need to ask someone. "There’s a beta who recently transferred. Wimpole pack," I say eventually. "She came onto me after the last full moon shift." Dad’s expression remains carefully neutral. Too carefully. "And?" he asks. "And nothing." His mouth twitches. "Nothing?" "Not even a twitch." He tries to hide the laugh behind a cough. Fails. "Sorry," he says quickly, though he does not look especially sorry. "I can see why your head has gone there. But have you considered you might just be growing up?" I stare at him. "No." "Josh—" "It’s not that." My voice comes out flatter than I intend. "That part of me is not functioning the way it used to." Dad presses his lips together. Still trying not to laugh. Traitor. Then his expression sobers. "Is this the first time you’ve noticed?" I look away. That answers him. "It’s been two weeks," I add. "And I’m basically a joke. More than I was at the start of term." "Why would you be a joke?" "Because that hex made me boring." The word tastes bitter. "And a boring alpha isn’t exactly what people expect. Or want." Dad studies me for a moment. "At your age," he says, "it’s very easy to tie your worth to things like that. To how people react to you. How much they want you. Whether you can prove something." "Easy to say." "No," he says calmly. "Because I lived it." That makes me look at him. "In my final year, before I met your mother, I made a decision. I wasn’t going to indulge every instinct just because it was there. They’re distracting. Short-lived. They make you lose focus. I needed to step up, and being caught in cupboards with wood nymphs was not on the cards for me." I grimace. "That was one time." His brows lift. "Josh." "Fine. More than one time." The corner of his mouth twitches, but his expression sobers quickly. "Look. Part of growing up is deciding what, and who, is actually worthy of your time." That word again. Worthy. "So I just... ignore it?" "No." His answer is immediate. "If you think something magical is wrong, we check. I’ll speak to the triad. I’m not telling you to ignore that." Some of the tightness in my chest eases. "Then what are you telling me?" "That until we know, you stop letting it define you." He leans forwards slightly. "Be judged by your character. Not by meaningless encounters. Not by rumours. Not by whether some girl from Wimpole thinks you lived up to whatever version of you she invented before she ever sat in your lap." I stare at him. "Please never say that again." "Gladly." I drag a hand over my face, but despite myself, something in me loosens. Not enough. But something. What if you simply didn’t want her? I frown. That doesn’t explain the rest of it. Calix goes quiet. Not because he disagrees. Because he can’t. No, he admits eventually. It doesn’t. My grip tightens on the wheel. She was one thing. Fine. Maybe I didn’t want her. Maybe the timing was wrong. Maybe whatever she thought she was doing just didn’t work. Possible. But when I’m alone? When there’s no one else there? No pressure, no audience, no Kirsten? Calix does not answer. That is answer enough. Something is still wrong, I say. Or something is still waiting, he replies. I glance sharply at the empty passenger seat, as if that will help. Waiting for what? I do not know. He says it too carefully. I hate that. You know something. I know instinct, Calix says. And instinct is not always quick to explain itself. I stare at the road ahead. That’s not helpful. No, he agrees. But it may be true. By the time I step into the atrium, the usual reaction is waiting for me. Whispers. A few amused looks. Nothing new. Nothing I have not dealt with for the last fortnight. I walk past a group of seniors who start watching, murmuring to each other. I keep my pace steady, refusing to look like I am making a break for my room. When I get there, Owen is stretched out on one of the sofas, reading. Reading. For pleasure. Suspicious behaviour. “How’s it going?” he asks, casual enough to be insulting. I am not stupid. Dad has definitely called ahead. Owen knows I need someone, especially now Sen will not be back for another two months. “I know I’ve been grumpier than usual since the moon—” “Hadn’t noticed,” Owen cuts in. I let out a short laugh and drop onto the opposite sofa. "You know, if you’re going to be my beta, you can’t lie to me," I tell him. "From now on, I want real honesty." Owen leans forwards, resting his forearms on his knees. "I won’t promise brutal honesty," he says, "but I’ll be honest when it matters." "Deal." He studies me for a moment. "You have been grumpier." "Brilliant." "And I’ve heard why." I lean back with a groan. "Even better." "It’s only embarrassing if you decide it is," he says. "You can either let it bother you, or frame it differently." "Differently how?" "You tell me." I huff out a breath, trying to take another angle. One thought lands first. "Who even is she?" "Kirsten?" "Yeah. Beta from Wimpole. Photography class. Gorgeous, obviously." I pause. "But they all are. So who actually is she?" Owen watches me. "And who are you to her?" I frown. "No one." The word lands strangely. "An alpha," I add. "A Landry." "Right. So you don’t know each other." "No." "And she came onto you because of your rank and your name." "Yeah." He lifts his brows slightly. "And now you’re annoyed she judged you on those things?" I hesitate. "...When you put it like that." "A girl you don’t know made a move because of your surname and rank," he says. "You weren’t interested. End of story." "It’s not the end, though," I mutter. "She’s talking. People are laughing. I’m more of a joke than I was at the start of term." "Because you didn’t want to have s*x with someone you barely know?" I grimace. "When you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous." "That’s because it is." "Not entirely." Owen’s expression shifts. I look down at my hands. "Kirsten is one thing," I say quietly. "Fine. Maybe I didn’t want her. Maybe it was shallow. Hollow. Maybe something about it was wrong because she didn’t know me and I didn’t know her." I exhale. "But that doesn’t explain the rest of it." Owen goes still. He understands quickly. Annoyingly quickly. "Right," he says. Heat crawls up the back of my neck. "When I’m alone, there’s no rank. No name. No audience. No girl from Wimpole making assumptions." I force the words out. "And still, nothing works properly." Owen does not laugh. That helps. A lot, actually. "Then you get it checked," he says simply. "Your dad said he’d speak to the triad?" I nod. "Then let him. But until you know, don’t let Kirsten Delacroix become the measure of anything important." I look up. "That sounded suspiciously like advice." "It was. I’m broadening my skill set." He pushes himself up and heads to the fridge. A moment later, he comes back and tosses me a can. "For what it’s worth," he adds, dropping back onto the sofa, "I’d be more concerned if you had that problem with your mate in the future." I catch the can, turning it in my hands. The man has a point, Calix says. "But not being interested in someone who only picked you for your name?" Owen continues. "That’s not a problem. If anything..." He lifts his own drink slightly. "I respect it." I c***k mine open, taking a mouthful. Not my usual, but it will do. "Cheers," Owen says. I tap my can lightly against his. For the first time in days, some of the pressure in my chest eases. Not gone. Not fixed. But shared, at least.