Tuesday’s cafeteria was the usual wall of noise — trays clattering, voices overlapping, the smell of fryer oil and something calling itself “beef stew” drifting through the air. Gabriel and I claimed our usual spot near the back, away from the crush, where you could see everything and not get boxed in.
Halfway through my Salisbury steak, I saw him. Mark, tray in both hands, pausing just inside the doorway like he wasn’t sure where to land. He scanned the room, the kind of searching look you give when you don’t know a soul and hope somebody waves you over.
Two kids at a nearby table smirked at each other, whispering. One of them muttered loud enough for me to catch it: “Pastor’s kid. Easy pickings.” He half-pushed his chair back like he was ready to intercept.
Then his eyes flicked past Mark… and landed on us.
Me, leaning back with a fork in hand. Gabriel, quiet but coiled, blue eyes cutting sharper than any blade.
That chair never moved another inch. The smirk cracked, and suddenly those two found their mashed potatoes very interesting.
Mark noticed. I saw his brow furrow, just a little, before he tightened his grip on the tray and started walking toward us.
“Uh—hey,” he said, voice quiet but steady when he reached the table. “Mind if I sit?”
Gabriel shrugged. “Go ahead.”
Mark slid into the seat, careful with his tray, like he was trying not to spill on anyone. He glanced between us, clearly aware of what just happened.
“So…” he started, a faint smile tugging his lips. “Do people usually… scatter like that when you’re around?”
Gabriel smirked faintly. “Sometimes.”
Mark blinked, clearly unsure if that was a joke. “I mean, I swear that guy was about to—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Never mind.”
I leaned in a little. “You’re not imagining it. They thought about it. Then they thought better.”
Mark’s eyes narrowed with curiosity, not suspicion. “Because of you two.”
“Maybe,” I said, keeping it casual.
For a few beats he just studied us, like he was trying to understand a puzzle no one had given him the pieces to. Then he cleared his throat, soft smile returning. “So, introductions — again. I’m Mark Harcourt. We just moved here from Titusville, Pennsylvania. My dad’s Philip. He’s a Lutheran pastor — just took the call to First Lutheran over in West Barnstable. Mom’s Betty. I’ve got four siblings — Miranda, Andrew, Linda, Chris. Big family.”
Gabriel gave a low whistle. “Five kids. That’s a lot of names to keep straight.”
Mark chuckled, sheepish but proud. “Yeah, it’s… loud at home. But it’s good. My family’s… close. We kind of have to be.”
I tilted my head. “And you? What do you do besides survive your brothers and sisters?”
That earned me his first real grin. “I play trumpet. Concert band, marching, jazz — pretty much anything with brass, I’m in. And I’m decent with computers. Okay, more than decent.”
Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “Music and tech? Not a bad combo.”
Mark shrugged modestly. “Keeps me busy. Keeps me… me, I guess.”
The three of us fell into a rhythm after that — trading questions, half-jokes, and the kind of easy conversation that usually takes weeks to build but somehow clicked in an hour. Mark wasn’t flashy, wasn’t tough, but there was something solid under the quiet.
When the bell rang and trays started scraping, Mark looked at us again, still thoughtful. “So… I gotta ask. Why do people back down when you’re around?”
Gabriel smirked without answering, slinging his case over his shoulder.
I gave Mark a small, knowing smile. “Guess you’ll find out sooner or later.”
The confusion on his face was almost enough to make me laugh. Almost.
But the wolf in me already knew: sooner or later, he’d understand exactly why.