Chapter 5

Clara’s pov

Marnie set a plate of eggs and toast in front of me before the diner even opened.

“Eat,” she said. “You’re running on coffee and stubbornness again.”

I pulled the plate closer. “I ate last night.”

“Leftover soup doesn’t count. Sit.”

I sat. The kitchen was still quiet, just the low hiss of the grill warming up and the smell of fresh coffee. I ate without arguing.

The eggs were good. Everything Marnie cooked was good when she decided you needed it.

She leaned against the counter and watched me for a second. “You been sleeping?”

“Enough.”

“Liar. You’ve got that look again. The one you get when something’s chewing on you.”

I shrugged and kept eating. “I’m fine. Just thinking about the tips from last week. I want to put more away.”

Marnie nodded like that made sense. “Good. Bank’s open till three if you want to start an account. Or keep it under the mattress if you don’t trust banks. Either way, don’t leave cash in the apron overnight. Someone’ll walk off with it.”

“I won’t.”

She pushed off the counter and headed for the front. “Tables need wiping before we open. And don’t forget Frank likes his coffee black, no sugar. He’ll complain for ten minutes if you mess it up.”

I finished the eggs, washed the plate, and got to work.

The morning rush settled into the same rhythm it always did.

Frank came in at seven on the dot, newspaper under one arm. I had his coffee waiting.

“Morning, Clara. The weather's turning. You feel it?”

“A little.”

He took a long sip and nodded approval. “You’re getting better at this. The first week you looked like you might bolt any second. Now you look like you belong behind that counter.”

I almost smiled. “Just doing the job.”

“Doing it well. Don’t let Marnie work you to death.”

“I won’t.”

Denise came in next, same oatmeal, same quiet “how’d you sleep” that I answered with a short “fine.” The regulars had stopped asking where I was from. That helped. No one here needed the story.

Between orders I kept a running total in my head. Tips from yesterday. Tips from the day before.

The cash I’d already stashed in the old coffee can under the bed upstairs. It wasn’t much yet, but it was growing.

Enough for a second pair of jeans.

Enough for a real winter coat when the weather turned. Enough that I didn’t feel like I was one bad day from having nothing again.

My wolf stayed restless. She’d been like that since the letter. Not pushing hard, just pacing under my skin at odd moments.

when a truck rumbled past that sounded too much like the ones back in Moonridge, or when the wind carried a scent that made her lift her head for no good reason. I ignored her the best I could.

Work helped. Counting money helped more.

At the end of the shift I counted the till with Marnie, pocketed my share, and climbed the stairs.

The room still smelled like the thrift-store blanket and the soap I used in the tiny shower.

I sat on the floor, dumped the tips out, and sorted them into piles the way I did every night.

Ones. Fives. The occasional ten. I added today’s total to the notebook I’d started keeping in the dresser drawer.

The number at the bottom was higher than last week. Not by a lot. But higher.

I stared at it for a minute.

Back in Moonridge I’d never had anything that was only mine. Pack shared. Pack decided.

The pack watched. Here the money in the coffee can was mine.

The key in my pocket was mine. The fact that no one expected me to smile through a public rejection or stay quiet while an Alpha decided my worth, that was mine too.

I put the cash away, washed my face, and lay down on the bed. Sleep came easier than it had in days. Not perfect. But easier.

The next morning Marnie was already at the grill when I came down.

“You’re early,” she said.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Then make yourself useful. Coffee filters need changing and the sugar caddies are sticky again.”

I got to it. We worked side by side without much talk until the first customers started filtering in. Frank took his usual seat. Denise waved from the door.

A couple of construction guys I didn’t know yet ordered the special and left decent tips.

Somewhere in the middle of the lunch rush I caught myself moving without thinking, plate up, coffee refill, wipe the table, next order. My hands knew the work now.

My feet knew the path between the counter and the booths.

The constant low-level tension that had sat in my shoulders since the night I left Moonridge had loosened a little.

Marnie noticed.

“You’re settling,” she said when we had a quiet stretch in the afternoon. “Looks good on you.”

I shrugged, but it didn’t feel dismissive this time. “Trying to.”

“Keep trying. And put some of that tip money into something that isn’t just surviving. A book. A decent pair of boots. Whatever makes the room upstairs feel less temporary.”

I thought about that while I restocked the napkin holders.

Temporary had been the whole point when I first got here. Now the idea of buying something that stayed felt less dangerous than it used to.

That night I walked the three blocks to the small thrift store before it closed.

I bought a thicker sweater and a secondhand pair of boots that actually fit.

The woman at the register asked if I wanted a bag. I said no and carried them back under my arm.

Upstairs I hung the sweater in the tiny closet and set the boots by the door.

Then I sat on the bed, pulled the coffee can out, and counted again just to feel the weight of it in my hands.

It wasn’t a fortune. It wasn’t safe. But it was proof I could do this, wake up, work, save, keep going without anyone else’s permission.

My wolf stirred once, quiet, like she was listening.

I rested a hand against my sternum where the old bond still lived and told her the same thing I’d been telling her for weeks.

We’re staying.

This time, for the first time, it felt true.