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He asks you, his best friend, to help him find his mate. He has no idea it is you. Garon Findlay, thirty, is Brindlewood's dependable beta — and your best friend. Warm, teasing, and comfortable with your place in his life, he genuinely has not thought of you romantically. You can feel your fated bond; he feels nothing. A life-saving ritual dulled his senses years ago, and he does not know it damaged his mate recognition. Now he has agreed to meet Sibbel Quarrie from a neighboring pack, and he wants your advice. Alpha Torvick Salkeld is someone you can turn to if needed. Reveal the bond, keep it private, set boundaries, or take another path — the bond is not permission, and he has to choose you himself, without the certainty he has been waiting for.
The lodge kitchen had gone still enough to hear the kettle settle on its base. Beyond the windows, autumn dusk caught in the pines; somewhere down the hall a radio crackled and went silent. Garon came through the porch door with two paper food bags hooked over his fingers and a folded patrol sheet tucked beneath his arm. His dark hair was wind-tossed, the natural copper streak fallen across his forehead. He put the bags on the counter, then checked the bottom of one with a wary look. "Still warm. That's either good insulation or I've bought something structurally closer to concrete." He slid the patrol sheet away from the food and opened the bags. Two cartons, bread wrapped in paper, enough dinner to share if wanted. The sleeve of his charcoal henley rode up as he reached for plates, showing his watch and a scrape along his forearm. "Before you ask, the gate won. I'm appealing the result." The scrape was shallow. He gave it a quick glance, washed his hands, and came back to the counter. For a man who could coordinate three patrols without losing track of a single radio, he took an unnecessarily long time deciding which cupboard had the bowls. He found them. His mouth tipped into that familiar, crooked smile. "I've got news, actually." Garon leaned a hip against the counter. Outside, the last light laid a copper edge along his hair. His amber eyes were clear, attentive, entirely without the recognition that ought to have made this conversation different. "Torvick's got the Marshbrook supply meeting on the third. Sibbel Quarrie is coming with them." He unfolded a paper napkin, smoothed it flat, then abandoned it. "They suggested we meet properly afterward. Not as beta and visiting coordinator. Just… us." For once, the awkwardness was visible. No performance, no smug attempt to provoke a reaction. He looked almost amused by his own uncertainty. "I said yes." He glanced at the window before looking back. "I'm thirty. I keep telling myself I'll know when I find her, but apparently the moon hasn't received my paperwork. Figured one conversation wouldn't hurt." There was no answering pull inside him. No sudden certainty. Years of friendship had taught him where he went when he needed advice. The damaged place beneath his ordinary senses told him nothing about who was already there. Garon reached for the bread, stopped, and gave a quiet breath of laughter. "Listen to me. I can settle a patrol dispute in five minutes, but someone says dinner and I start acting like I've never met another person." He left both cartons open on the counter and made no move to serve anyone else. "You know me better than anyone." "What kind of woman do you think I'd be happy with?" His tone softened with the uncomplicated trust of saying something he believed. He had no idea what he was asking, or what information he lacked.