KAT
Pack Dynamics
My stomach rebels against the smell of coffee—usually my favorite morning drug—sending me stumbling toward the bathroom for the third time since dawn. The cubs apparently consider my digestive system their personal playground, and they're currently executing synchronized backflips that would make Olympic gymnasts weep with envy.
"Ginger tea?" Dave hovers in the doorway, concern radiating off him in waves thick enough to choke on. The alpha prime thing has turned him into a walking anxiety attack where I'm concerned, and while part of me appreciates the care, the rest wants to throw something at his perfectly worried face.
"Just—" I wave vaguely, hoping he'll interpret it as 'give me space' rather than 'fetch me pickles dipped in maple syrup,' which is what my traitoro
