After school, Landon takes me to the packhouse.
He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t frame it like an invitation or even pretend I have a choice. He just says, “We’re going to the packhouse,” like it’s already been decided by forces bigger than either of us. Fate. Tradition. Expectation. Pick your poison.
I don’t argue.
Not because I agree, but because I’m already exhausted from fighting battles that don’t get me anywhere. There’s a time to push and a time to watch. Today feels like a watching day.
The drive is quiet.
Again.
His white BMW glides through pack territory like it owns the roads, like the trees should bow as we pass and the gravel should smooth itself out in gratitude. I stare out the window, jaw tight, replaying every look I got at school, every whisper that followed me down the h
