Chapter 7
1038 Words
Adrian leaned back in his chair, Haven’s latest letter resting in his hands, the edges already warm from how long he’d been holding it. Her handwriting was neat, precise, almost too perfect most of the time—as if she were afraid one wrong curve of her pen might disappoint whoever was reading. But not this time. The words at the bottom, her hurried postscript, were messy and full of misspellings. Her excitement practically burst from the page.
He chuckled softly, shaking his head. He could almost see her there, scribbling fast, her tongue caught between her teeth as she tried to get the words out before the moment slipped away. She had probably written it in the backseat of a car, pen pressing too hard against thin paper until it tore. He imagined her bouncing with impatience, unable to wait for a fresh sheet to rewrite it. It was uncharacteristic of her, this recklessness with her words, but it made her seem more real—more human.
It made her seem closer.
Adrian traced his finger over the ink blot where she’d pressed too hard. For weeks, their letters had been cautious, almost guarded, as if both of them were afraid to reveal too much. But here—here was a glimpse of the girl behind the careful penmanship. Spirited. Playful. Longing to be seen.
He tucked the letter back into the manila folder his father had given him for safekeeping. It was already half full with her words, each one carefully preserved like they were treasure. And in truth, they were.
The scent of his mother’s famous bolognese sauce drifted in from the kitchen, warm and familiar, making his stomach growl. He rose, carrying the glow of Haven’s words with him as he went to find her.
The packhouse kitchen was alive with the smell of simmering tomatoes and herbs. His mother stood at the stove, humming under her breath as she stirred the sauce, her apron dotted with tiny stains from a morning’s worth of work.
“Smells delicious, as always, Mom,” Wesley said, leaning against the counter.
She turned, her face softening at the sight of him. “How’s Haven?” she asked, a spark of curiosity in her eyes. “I saw the envelope in the mail pile. Don’t worry, I didn’t read it this time.”
Adrian laughed. His mom’s nosiness about his letters was as endearing as it was infuriating. “She’s… good,” he said, and though he didn’t elaborate, warmth threaded through his tone.
He reached for a spoon, hoping to steal a taste of the sauce, but his mother swatted his hand away before it got close. “Not yet,” she scolded lightly.
Rolling his eyes, Adrian shoved his hands into his pockets, leaning back against the counter. “I want to get her a Christmas gift,” he said suddenly.
His mother’s head tilted, her brows lifting in surprise before understanding softened her features. “For Haven?”
Adrian nodded.
“Oh, of course!” She pulled off her apron with sudden urgency. “Come on. We need to hurry before the best shop in town closes.”
“Mom, the sauce—”
“I’ll mindlink your father,” she interrupted, already bustling toward the door. “Come, Adrian. We’re wasting precious time!”
He sighed, shaking his head with a reluctant smile. There was no stopping her once she had her mind set on something.
Minutes later, they were stepping into the crisp winter air, coats pulled tight around their shoulders. Even with the warmth that came naturally with being wolves, Adrian still felt the sting of the cold. He hadn’t shifted yet, not like the others, and so he was always more vulnerable to the bite of winter.
The shop bell jingled as they entered, drawing a few curious looks from pack members browsing inside. His mother greeted them all with a gracious smile, earning nods of respect and warmth in return. She was beloved as luna, not because she demanded reverence, but because she gave kindness freely.
Adrian trailed behind her, scanning the shelves with increasing frustration. Nothing seemed right. Haven wasn’t just anyone; he couldn’t give her something ordinary. She deserved something thoughtful, something that said I see you. Something that showed he paid attention to the details she tried to hide between her words.
Closing his eyes, he let the hum of the shop fade into the background. Then, faintly, he heard it—a delicate tinkling melody. Ballet music.
His eyes snapped open.
He followed the sound to the back corner, where a shelf of music boxes stood, each one crafted with care. Some were simple, small enough to hide in a pocket, while others gleamed with ornate designs. Adrian’s gaze landed on one in particular.
It was elegant yet understated, crafted of pale wood with a carved ballerina poised delicately inside. When he wound the key, the figure began to spin, the music filling the air with the same haunting beauty Haven had once written about in her letters—the Nutcracker, the moment she first fell in love with ballet.
He reached for it, his chest tightening with certainty. This was the gift.
His mother appeared beside him, her eyes falling on the music box in his hands. She smiled knowingly. “Perfect,” she whispered, as though she could hear the unspoken thoughts in his head.
But Adrian wasn’t finished. His grip tightened around the box. “There’s something else I want to do for her,” he said slowly, his eyes meeting his mother’s. “But I’ll need your help.”
Her hand came to rest over his, warm and steady. “Of course, Adrian,” she said softly. “Whatever it is, we’ll make it happen.”
And in that moment, as the music played its gentle tune, Adrian felt a promise forming in his chest. A promise to Haven. That she wasn’t just another letter in a folder, another fleeting friendship. She mattered. She was worth the effort, the thought, the care.
And someday, when she stepped fully into his world, he hoped she would know—she was already home.
- Writer
