Page 62 of Who Let The Wolves Out?

I step inside, wringing my fingers together like a middle schooler with a confession note. “I, um. I’ve been thinking.”

She leans back, hands folded. “Go on.”

I take a breath. It feels like jumping off a dock in early June—bracing and sharp and right.

“I want to stay.”

Julie’s face softens instantly. “Yeah?”

I nod. “I mean—I’m terrified. But also… not? Which feels weird. But in a good way.”

She smiles, full and warm. “That’s how you know it matters.”

I laugh nervously. “I think this place is the first thing in a long time that’s felt like mine.”

Her smile doesn’t waver. “It is. And we’d be lucky to have you full-time, Alice. You’re a natural. The kids adore you, the staff respect you, and I’ve never seen anyone color-code a conflict resolution chart with that much finesse.”

I flush. “Thanks. I—I think I’m still figuring out how to belong.”

“You already do.”

The tears come before I can stop them.

Not the ugly kind. Just the kind that slip down your cheek when you finally breathe out something you’ve been holding too long.

Julie tosses me a tissue from the desk drawer. “That’s the official welcome package.”

I sniffle. “Thank you.”

She stands, walks around the desk, and pulls me into a hug. It’s brief, but grounding.

“You made the right call,” she whispers. “You’ve got roots here. Let ’em grow.”

And just like that—it’s real.

I’m staying.

Not because I have nowhere else to go.

But because this time, Iwantto.

I linger a little as Julie moves to grab the formal paperwork from a side drawer, my fingers fidgeting with the hem of my shirt.

“Um,” I say, too casual. “Are there… full-time housing options that… bunk two?”

Julie pauses mid-reach. Slowly turns to look at me, one perfectly arched eyebrow lifting.

“Two, huh?”

Heat flushes my cheeks immediately. “I mean—not like—it’s not—we’re not even technically?—”

She smirks, arms crossing. “Who’s the lucky guy? Wait. Don’t tell me. Let me guess.”

I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.

Julie grins wider. “Scruffy. Shirt-averse. Howls at the moon?”

“I didn’t say that,” I mutter.

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