Serving the Line

POV: Trishelle

"Let me drop my stuff off first, then I'll give you a hand." Sammy grabbed the bag he'd tossed aside the second he'd spotted me, slinging it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. We walked toward the house together, falling into step easy, the kind of easy that only came from years of knowing someone inside and out.

True to his word, he threw himself into the last of the party prep, ending up behind the bar for most of it, mixing drinks with way more enthusiasm than skill. I knew this kitchen like the back of my hand, so I found myself helping serve food even though the whole thing was buffet style. Old habits died hard. I couldn't sit still while there was work to be done, and some small, restless part of me still felt like a guest in my own life whenever my hands weren't busy.

The party was pushing two hours in when Sammy caught my hand and pulled me toward the food table, his grip warm and a little too insistent. He grabbed himself a plate and shoved one into my hands, nudging me forward with a look that said don't argue with me.

"My first meal back and it's not even your cooking," he grumbled, though the grin on his face said he didn't mind nearly as much as he pretended to. "Glad you actually got the night off for once. Feels like things changed while I was gone."

We moved down the line together, sampling everything, bumping shoulders, trading quiet jokes about who'd made which dish.

While we ate, Sammy's eyes drifted over the crowd, sharp and assessing out of pure habit. His job for the Gamma ran heavy on surveillance, and old instincts didn't just switch off because he was technically off duty tonight. He caught himself cataloguing faces without meaning to. Who stood too close to who. Who laughed too loud. Who watched a little too carefully.

Everyone's calling her Trishelle. Not Trash. Since when?

He frowned, turning that thought over, letting it settle uneasy in his chest. Something had shifted here and he meant to find out what. He also clocked more than a few guys sneaking looks my way, subtle, but not subtle enough to slip past someone trained to notice everything. A flicker of something possessive rose up in him, fast and unbidden. I didn't seem to notice any of it, too busy laughing at something on my plate to catch the attention trailing after me like smoke.

He leaned in without warning and took a slow, deliberate breath near the curve of my neck.

I jumped, twisting around to look at him, one brow raised. "Sammy!"

"I wanted to know how you smell outside of the kitchen," he said, easy, unbothered, though his eyes lingered a beat longer than the joke called for.

I rolled my eyes and went back to my plate, clearly used to his nonsense. He wasn't exactly lying. Just not handing me the whole truth. Part of him had been checking for something else, whether some idiot had gotten handsy while he wasn't around to watch my back. Not on my watch. But my scent came back clean, pure, unchanged in the way that mattered most, and something tight in his chest finally let go.

There was something else underneath, though. Faint. Tucked under my usual scent, familiar in a way that scratched at the back of his mind without ever settling into an actual memory. Like a word sitting right on the tip of his tongue, refusing to drop.

His thoughts circled back around to the name change. Only one person had the pull to order something like that, pack wide.

He glanced across the yard toward the birthday boy's table, where the Alpha sat, and found James's eyes locked dead on me. Steady. Unmoving. Didn't matter who walked between them, that gaze didn't break. The weight of it sent a slow, uneasy prickle crawling down Sammy's spine, something instinctive and wary clawing beneath his ribs.

What's his deal? Why's he staring at my girl like that?

He caught himself on the word girl and shoved it down hard, jaw tightening. Friend. She's my friend. That's all this is.