The lunchroom was already loud when we walked in—metal chairs scraping, trays clattering, the low roar of a hundred half-finished conversations. But as soon as we stepped through the doorway, it was like someone dialed the volume down a notch. Not silence—just… awareness.
Gabriel and I didn’t slow. We cut a direct line toward the far table in the back corner, the one with the best sightlines and the wall at our backs. No one ever sat there, not because they couldn’t, but because it was prime territory and unspoken rules kept it open.
Today, we claimed it without asking.
I slid my tray onto the table, sat down facing the room. Gabriel dropped into the seat beside me, draping one arm over the back of his chair like he’d been here his whole life.
The jocks who’d gone quiet in the hallway earlier were sitting three tables over. One of them risked a glance our way, but when our eyes met, he looked down so fast you’d think he’d remembered something urgent in his mashed potatoes.
Two kids from the chess club gave us a cautious nod as they passed. Gabriel returned it without hesitation. Pack wasn’t about labels.
I peeled open my sandwich wrapper, but I wasn’t really watching my food. I was watching the way the room kept bending around us—how the usual troublemakers gave our corner a wide berth, how even the loudest voices dipped a little when we looked in their direction.
Gabriel leaned in, his voice low. “Feels different in here today.”
“Because it is,” I said. “Territory shifts when you take it.”
We ate like that for a while, quiet but aware, a bubble of calm in a place that usually chewed people up. And the whole time, I could feel the stares—curious, wary, a few maybe even impressed.
By the time the bell rang, the message had sunk in: two wolves had walked into their territory, and no one had the teeth to push us out.