Alpha Mate at the Gas Station

Chapter 17: appetite ruined

In my arms, she began to shake.

The cold air hit her all at once, and that was all the explanation I needed. I shrugged out of my jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders, drawing her closer so she could borrow my warmth without feeling trapped.

When she looked up at me, her eyes glassy and red, it took everything in me not to kiss her—to seal my words with something physical, something undeniable. But this wasn’t about desire. This was about trust.

She needed to believe me.

I wanted her to know that every word I had spoken was real. That my care for her wasn’t temporary or convenient. That if the world ever demanded it, I would stand between her and anything that meant her harm—without hesitation.

A link brushed against my mind.

‘Alpha, is everything alright? We can see our Luna is crying. Has there been any threat from her former workplace?’

My jaw tightened, but I kept my hold on her gentle.

‘No threats,’ I answered. ‘She’s breaking under the weight of what her ex and his new companion put her through. Have any of you learned more?’

Around us, my wolves were alert—present but distant, respectful of her space. The pack had been on edge since the young she-wolves visited the house. They knew now. All of them did. They knew who their Luna was, and why she was hurting.

I stroked my thumb slowly along her back, right over her spine, grounding her, remembering something my mother once told me when I was still a restless pup learning how to lead.

I lowered my voice so only she could hear me.

“Cry,” I said softly. “If you don’t let it out, the pain stays and eats at you from the inside. Being strong doesn’t mean hurting yourself to prove it. And the pain someone else gave you—” I paused, choosing my words carefully. “—that pain doesn’t belong to you unless you decide to keep it.”

She clung to me then, and I held her without tightening my grip, without rushing her through it.

Behind my calm, information filtered through the link—confirmation that the woman who had replaced her had officially moved in with her ex. The knowledge stirred something dark and protective in my chest, but I didn’t let it touch her.

Instead, I focused on what mattered.

She was here.

She was alive.

And for the first time in days, she was no longer holding everything alone.

She loosened her grip on me slowly, like she was afraid the moment might shatter if she moved too fast. When she stepped back, I expected her to say something about us, about what she’d been holding in.

Instead, she asked something else entirely.

“Have you heard anything from my jobs?” she said quietly. “I know what you said earlier, but… I really don’t know if I got fired or not.”

The fear in her voice hit me harder than tears ever could.

This—this—was where her mind always went. Survival. Stability. The next thing that could be taken from her without warning.

I kept my tone steady, gentle, as if we were discussing something ordinary instead of something that could unravel her.

“I did hear back,” I said. “Not because I wanted to interfere—just because I didn’t want you blindsided.”

She tensed immediately, and I raised my hands slightly, a silent reassurance.

“I didn’t make decisions for you,” I continued. “I wouldn’t do that. I only asked questions.”

Her eyes searched my face, measuring truth the way someone does when they’ve been lied to too many times.

“The family restaurant put you on medical leave,” I said. “They were worried about you—not angry. They want you back once you’re cleared.”

Her shoulders dropped a fraction.

“The gas station…” I hesitated, choosing transparency over comfort. “The owner checked in because he was concerned. You’re not fired. Your shifts are covered for now, and your job’s there when you’re ready.”

I paused before adding the last part.

“The third job didn’t answer yet. That one’s still up in the air.”

I didn’t dress it up. I didn’t soften it into false certainty. She deserved honesty, not reassurance built on air.

“I know work makes you feel safe,” I said quietly. “Like if you stop moving, everything will fall apart. But one night of rest isn’t failure, Thumper. It’s recovery.”

I met her gaze, steady.

“We can talk more over dinner—about what you want to do next. Not what I think you should do. What you want. And hopefully what we want together.”

I gave her space then, letting her breathe, letting the choice stay where it belonged.

With her. Even if it was about us.

She looked nervous—too tight, too alert—and I knew better than to tell her to calm down.

Every woman in my life had drilled that lesson into me.

The younger she-wolves.

My Beta’s mate.

My own mother.

Never tell a woman to calm down when she’s already drowning.

Their voices echoed in my head, firm and unyielding, and for once I listened without questioning it.

It was my Beta’s mate who had explained it best: Feed her. Not as control. Not as distraction. As care. Food grounds people. It tells the body it’s safe enough to pause, even if the mind hasn’t caught up yet.

Food is love, she’d said. Especially for women who’ve spent too long surviving instead of being cared for.

I understood that instinctively with my pack. I made sure they ate before difficult discussions. Before grief. Before rebuilding.

But with her?

I was still learning.

Food makes me happy too—but I’d spent so long without a partner, so focused on leading, protecting, surviving, that I’d convinced myself I didn’t need to learn the softer things. I thought I would one day be mated to another werewolf. Someone who understood instinct without explanation. Someone who didn’t need patience spelled out.

That assumption was my failure.

Because standing in front of me now was someone far better than any future I’d imagined. Someone who felt deeply, who carried pain with quiet dignity, who still tried even when the world gave her no reason to.

She wasn’t weak.

She was exhausted.

And I loved—truly loved—that fate had given me someone who would challenge me to grow beyond the Alpha I thought I already was.

She wasn’t what I’d dreamed of.

She was better.

And I would learn how to care for her the way she deserved—even if it meant unlearning everything I thought I already knew.

I took her hand and guided her toward the restaurant, and the moment we stepped inside, she inhaled deeply. The scent of meat on the grill, warm bread, spices—real food—washed over her, and I saw her shoulders loosen just a little.

She smiled.

Not wide. Not bright. Just… relieved.

Seeing her react to the warmth, to the safety of a place meant for rest and nourishment, eased something tight in my chest.

One of my pack members noticed us immediately and reached for two menus, already knowing better than to ask questions. A young waitress approached, polite and professional, and as she did, I instinctively took Thumper’s hand again.

She slipped my jacket from her shoulders and handed it back to me. I took it without comment and nodded for her to follow the waitress.

She did—without hesitation.

And I… completely lost my train of thought.

The way the dress moved when she walked, the quiet confidence she didn’t realize she carried, the contrast between her vulnerability and the strength in her stride—it caught me off guard. My gaze followed her before I could stop myself.

Thank you, I thought silently, half-amused, half-stunned, for this mercy.

I didn’t even register what the waitress asked me until Thumper glanced back over her shoulder, eyes questioning.

Caught.

Heat crept up my neck, and I cleared my throat, forcing myself back into the moment. The waitress’s opinion meant nothing to me—but Thumper’s did.

The last thing I wanted was for her to feel self-conscious, or worse, to think she was being looked at instead of seen.

I met her gaze and offered a small, sheepish smile—one meant to reassure, not claim.

I didn’t want her appetite ruined.

I wanted her to eat.

To feel cared for.

To feel wanted—not as an object, but as herself.

And for the first time since this night began, I felt like we were finally moving forward instead of bracing for impact.