Chapter 6 of Howl To My Heart

‎If there's one thing I didn't expect from a fated mate situation, it's room service.

‎Because apparently, the mighty Alpha Rowan Blackthorn, terror of my teenage years, breaker of hearts and janitor closet doors decided to show up at my cabin the next morning with... soup.

‎And not just any soup.

‎Homemade, steam-still-rising, smells-like-heaven kind of soup.

‎The man brought comfort food.

‎Which is somehow more terrifying than claws or fangs.

‎I spot him through the kitchen window first, standing on the porch like a misplaced lumberjack holding a thermos and a container. His truck's parked a little too neatly by the path, and he's wearing that damn soft flannel shirt again, the one that makes his shoulders look like a crime against self-control.

‎For a second, I consider pretending I'm not home. But the scent hits me before I can even think, his scent, pine, rain, something warm. It slides under my skin like a promise I didn't ask for.

‎Then comes the knock.

‎I sigh, clutching my mug of coffee like a shield. "You can do this, River. He's just a guy. A big, emotionally confusing guy who happens to be cosmically tied to your hormones."

‎Another knock. Louder this time.

‎Of course he's persistent.

‎I open the door halfway, peeking out. "If you're here to discuss the 'bond' again, I've legally changed my name and moved to Canada."

‎He blinks, clearly not expecting that greeting, then exhales a quiet laugh, the kind that makes his eyes crinkle just slightly. "Good morning to you too."

‎He holds up the container. "Brought soup."

‎"Soup?" I repeat like it's an alien word.

‎"You didn't eat last night. I thought you might want something warm."

‎He hesitates, like he's unsure whether to hand it over or retreat. "It's chicken noodle."

‎"Do I look like someone who can be bribed with soup?" I ask.

‎"Yes," he says without missing a beat.

‎And the worst part? He's right.

‎I take the container, still refusing to meet his eyes. "Fine. But if this is some weird Alpha dominance thing where you feed me and I imprint or something..."

‎"It's just soup, River."

‎The way he says my name low, careful, like it's something fragile, makes my chest ache. I hate it. I hate that he sounds so sincere. I hate that my pulse stutters every time he's close.

‎"Thanks," I mumble finally. "You can... uh, go now."

‎He doesn't move.

‎Instead, Rowan leans against the doorframe, studying me with that unreadable expression. "How are you feeling?"

‎"Emotionally? Like I got hit by a truck made of bad decisions."

‎He smiles faintly. "Physically, I meant."

‎"Oh." I shrug. "Still cursed, still me."

‎He nods slowly, his gaze flicking over my face like he's memorizing something. "You don't have to do this alone, River."

‎That does it, the sincerity, the warmth, the way he says it like he actually means it.

‎I panic. Because that's what I do when people care too much.

‎"Okay," I blurt. "Time to close the door before things get dangerously close to emotional intimacy!"

‎I move to shut it, but his hand presses gently against the frame not forceful, just steady. "River."

‎I meet his eyes. Mistake.

‎There's so much there; regret, longing, a touch of something I can't name. It hits me like lightning.

‎"Don't run from me again," he says softly. "Please."

‎"I'm not running," I lie. "I'm strategically avoiding heartache."

‎"Same thing," he says.

‎The bond hums again between us, electric and alive. It's like the air itself knows we're on borrowed time, like the Moon is holding her breath.

‎I step back, breaking the moment before it breaks me. "You should go before I start saying things I'll regret."

‎He hesitates, jaw tight, then nods. "Alright. But I meant what I said last night, I'll give you space. Just... don't disappear on me, okay?"

‎"Can't promise anything."

‎He gives me a small, almost sad smile. "Figured as much."

‎Then he turns and walks down the steps, back toward his truck. I watch him go, the thermos still warm in my hands, the smell of his soup clinging to my kitchen like a memory I can't scrub away.

‎When he's gone, I let out a long breath I didn't know I was holding.

‎The bond inside me pulses faintly again not painful, not overwhelming. Just... there. Steady, persistent.

‎Like him.

‎I pour the soup into a bowl and sit at the table, staring at it for a full minute before taking a bite.

‎Of course, it's perfect.

‎Of course, it tastes like comfort and home and all the things I've been avoiding for years.

‎"Damn it," I whisper. "I'm in so much trouble."

‎Outside, the morning wind carries a faint echo of his scent through the open window. The bond hums in agreement, smug as ever.

‎And all I can think is:

‎If this is what soup does to me, I am not ready for whatever comes next.

‎