“And what kind of pack are you part of, Noel?” someone else asks. “What values do you have?”
Lily jumps in instantly. “Say: loyalty, honesty, and minding our own damn business. But soften that last part. Maybe.”
“I value loyalty,” I say aloud. “Honesty. And giving people space to live their own lives without judgment.”
Hannah’s father is definitely laughing now. He tries to disguise it with a sip of wine. Fails.
An older aunt leans forward, eyes narrowing like she smells blood in the water. “And children? Do you want children, Noel?”
“Eventually,” I say honestly. “When the time is right.”
“And you, Hannah?” she continues mercilessly. “You’re not getting any younger, dear.”
Hannah goes rigid beside me. “I’m twenty-six.”
“Exactly. Your mother had you at twenty-two.”
Before Hannah detonates, I step in. “Hannah is building a career right now. She’s talented. Driven. And I’m not rushing her into anything.”
The aunt’s lips thin. “Biology waits for no one.”
Lily mutters in my ear, “Say: then biology can book an appointment and wait outside.”
I don’t go that far, but close. “Hannah’s not here to follow deadlines designed by other people.”
Silence. Tight. Sharp.
Then Hannah’s father clears his throat. “Hannah and Lily are both very free spirited, just like their mother.”
But he’s smiling. And under the table, Hannah’s fingers brush mine—the smallest thank-you.
Silence drops over our section of the table.
“How about we focus on the food? This turkey is excellent, Martha,” Hannah’s father says.
The conversation shifts, thank God, fragmenting into smaller groups.
“That was perfect,” Lily whispers in my ear. “You just made half of those women fall in love with you, and the other half hate Hannah even more. Mission accomplished.”
I’m fielding questions from a couple of the men now about bounty-hunting techniques while Martha’s interrogating Hannah’s father about the bakery. I keep my hand on Hannah’s thigh the entire time, a constant reassuring pressure that reminds her I’m here.
After what feels like an hour but is probably only thirty minutes, Hannah pushes back her chair. “Excuse me. I need to use the restroom.”
I’m on my feet immediately. “I’ll come with you.”
“To the bathroom?” Sasha raises an eyebrow.
“To make sure she doesn’t get cornered,” I say bluntly.
Hannah leads me through the house, past family photos that chronicle decades of gatherings, past a living room that’s decorated within an inch of its life, down a hallway that’s quieter, darker.
She pushes open a door to what looks like an old study with dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and leather furniture that’s probably older than I am.
I follow her inside, shut the door behind us. “So this is the hiding room,” I observe.
She moves toward the bookshelves, running her fingers along the spines without really seeing them. “God, I hate this. The questions, the judgment, the constant pressure.”
“Your family is intense,” I murmur.
