The Little Wolf
Chef Jack
Chef Jack had fed enough people to know the difference between hungry and hungry.
Most of the beta testers came through the canteen loud with it. They complained about the drive, about the early hour, about the line, about how much food they wanted before their first full day in Elysium. Hunger made them impatient. Dramatic. Easy to read.
The young woman at his counter was different.
She stepped up quiet as a shadow, all long limbs and worn denim, a dark gray shirt hanging loose on a frame that looked stronger than she seemed to think it was. Her shoes had seen too many miles. Her hair, brown threaded heavily with silver, slipped forward when she lowered her head over the notepad he had given her.
She wrote carefully.
Like the order mattered. Like getting it right mattered. Like asking for food was something that needed to be done with manners polished smooth from long use.
Jack glanced at the paper when she slid it back.
Breakfast burrito. To go.
A proper one, too. Eggs. Potatoes. Bacon. Sausage. Enough to sit warm and heavy in the stomach. Enough to tell him her appetite had not gone missing. She was not nibbling at toast and pretending she did not need more. She was hungry enough to ask for a meal that could hold her.
Good, he thought.
Then he looked at her face again.
Her eyes flicked once toward the sizzling griddle, quick and involuntary, before she pulled them politely back to him. Her attention followed the food the way a stray followed the smell of a kitchen door opening, not begging, not trusting, just aware.
Jack’s hand tightened once around the spatula.
Ah, lass.
The canteen noise rolled around them, bright and careless. Chairs scraped. Testers laughed. Someone shouted across the room about a quest. The girl stood in the middle of all that sound as if she had braced herself before entering and still had not quite found the safest place to put her feet.
He had seen that kind of hunger before.
Not just the empty belly part. That was simple enough. Food solved that.
It was the other part that made his chest go tight.
The kind that came from counting coins before meals. From deciding one lunch was enough for a trip because it had to be. From learning not to ask for extra because extra cost something, even when it was offered freely.
She kept one hand near her pocket, and not once did she look at the posted prices directly.
That told him plenty.
Jack turned back to the griddle.
If she wanted a breakfast burrito, then he would make her a breakfast burrito.
A large tortilla went down first, warming until it softened. Eggs followed, folded thick and golden. Then potatoes crisped at the edges, bacon, sausage, enough salt and pepper to make it taste like a meal instead of an apology. He added more than the usual portion and wrapped it tight before placing it into a paper sack.
The sack bulged.
Good.
When he turned back, she was still waiting with the kind of patience that did not expect anyone to hurry for her.
Then Mitchell stormed in and ruined what little peace the morning had managed to gather.
Jack saw the moment her body changed.
Not fear exactly. Fear was there, sure enough, but something sharper rose beneath it when Mitchell’s temper turned toward the counter. Her shoulders set. Her mouth tightened. A sound almost too low to hear moved in her chest.
Then her eyes changed.
The soft split color he had noticed when she first stepped up to the counter vanished beneath a harsh gold so sudden and complete it made his hand still on the spatula. Not anger alone. Not panic. Something older than either. Wild, defensive, and far too controlled for a girl who had just been cornered by a man twice her size.
For one blink, Jack had no name for what he was seeing.
He only knew Mitchell had just put himself within reach of a hungry, exhausted girl who had been trying very hard not to become dangerous.
Then Mitchell grabbed her.
Jack’s blood went hot.
The spatula hit the griddle with a crack loud enough to cut through the canteen.
“Mitchell. Put the lady down before I call security.”
The room froze.
The girl landed badly when Mitchell dropped her. Jack saw that too. Saw the pain flash through her body and vanish under control so fast most people would miss it. Saw the practiced way she pushed herself up. Saw the young woman who rushed to help her, all bright concern and barely contained outrage.
The gold in the girl’s eyes softened by degrees.
Not gone at once. Not normal, exactly. But gentler when she looked at the smaller girl beside her. Warm enough that Jack understood, with a strange certainty, that Mitchell had not seen the whole of what he had provoked.
The girl smiled like nothing had happened.
No harm done, she said.
Jack did not believe a word of it.
He filled the second bag for Mitchell with the grim efficiency of a man trying not to throw the whole thing at his nephew’s head. Then he picked up the first bag again. The one meant for her.
He looked at it.
Not enough.
He added another wrapped portion before folding the top.
When she reached for her money, Jack lifted a hand.
“This one is on the house,” he said. “An apology for my nephew’s behavior just now.”
Her hesitation was small.
Painfully small.
Not suspicion. Not pride exactly. More like her mind had gone looking for the catch and found none waiting in plain sight.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
Then she noticed the second bag.
“But what about this one?”
Jack almost winced.
Of course she noticed. Of course she would not accept kindness without accounting for the extra weight beside it.
He explained the delivery, and the smaller girl beside her puffed up with immediate offense. Jack could not blame her. He was not proud of asking. But the canteen was full, the griddle was loaded, and Mitchell needed cooling down before the entire morning turned worse.
The quiet girl touched her friend’s shoulder.
Just once.
The smaller one deflated like a kitten told gently not to bite.
“It’s on my way back,” the girl said. “I don’t mind.”
Jack watched her take both bags.
The one for Mitchell.
The one for herself.
She moved carefully away from the counter, steady enough that most of the room would assume she was fine.
Jack had already learned better.
By the time she reached the doors, he had made a decision.
If she came back hungry, he would feed her.
If she stayed in her room, he would send food.
If she tried to order less than she needed, he would misunderstand on purpose and pack extra.
No speeches. No pity. No fuss loud enough to make her retreat.
Just food.
Warm. Safe. Enough.
Chelsea hurried after her, bright pink shirt flashing through the crowd, and Jack let out a slow breath through his nose.
“Poor little wolf,” he murmured under the hiss of the griddle, too low for anyone to hear.
Then he turned back to the food.
There were testers to feed, a nephew to later have words with, and one quiet lass in room 214 who, if Jack had anything to say about it, would not go hungry on his watch.
