The packhouse smells like food and nerves.
I notice it the moment I step inside. Warm bread. Coffee. Meat on the griddle. Underneath it all, that low hum of awareness that comes from too many wolves in one space, all of them tuned slightly outward instead of relaxed.
Breakfast should feel normal.
I grab a plate and move automatically, muscle memory guiding me through the line. Eggs. Toast. Something green I do not plan to eat but put on the plate anyway because people notice habits. I pour coffee and nearly overfill the mug because my attention is split between the room and the quiet tension under my skin.
Landon is not here yet.
That should not matter. It does.
I sit at the long table near the windows, back straight, shoulders loose, posture controlled. I eat slowly, even though I a
