I found a spot near the equipment shed, far enough to give her privacy but close enough to keep watch. Old habits. The protective instincts I couldn't quite shake, no matter how many years of safety passed. I leaned against the sun-warmed metal and waited, my pale eyes fixed on the stable door.
She didn't come out for hours.
That was fine. I could wait.
The sun crept across the sky, painting the clouds in shades of orange and pink. I heard the sounds of the ranch settling into evening—the lowing of cattle, the whinny of horses, the distant clatter of the cook starting dinner. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
I thought about her—Aster, the Omega who'd shown up out of nowhere and turned all our heads. She was small, too thin, all sharp edges and defensive posture. She moved like someone who expected attack from every direction, who'd learned to make herself small and quiet and forgettable. There was something underneath that. Something fierce and wild and unbroken, despite everything she'd clearly been through. I'd seen it in her eyes the first time we met—the day Bella's foalcame, when she'd looked at me and I'd recognized my own wildness staring back.
We hadn't talked about it. Didn't need to. Some things went deeper than words.
The other Alphas felt it too, I knew. We'd all been circling her like planets around a sun, drawn in by something we couldn't name.
She was ours. Or she would be, if we could convince her to stay. The stable door finally opened, and Aster stepped out. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face blotchy, her hair a tangled mess. She'd been crying. Good. Better to let it out than keep it locked inside, festering.
She spotted me immediately—I hadn't been hiding—and went still. For a long moment, we just looked at each other across the fading light.
Then she nodded. Once. Sharp and deliberate, the same gesture I'd given her earlier. Something loosened in my chest. Not forgiveness, exactly. Not trust. Just... acknowledgment. One wild thing to another.
I nodded back, and she turned and walked toward the bunkhouse, her shoulders a little straighter than before. I watched until she disappeared inside, then pushed off from the shed and went to find something to eat.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'd find another way to show her she belonged here.
The next morning, I was in the stable before dawn.
I told myself I was checking on the horses. Making sure everything was in order before the day started. It wasn't a lie, exactly, but it wasn't the whole truth either. The truth was that I wanted to be there when she arrived. Wanted to make sure she knew she wasn't alone.
I was mucking out one of the empty stalls when I heard her footsteps—quiet, careful, the tread of someone who'd learned to move without being noticed. I kept working, didn't look up. Let her think I hadn't heard her.
She stopped at Bella's stall first. I heard the soft nicker of the mare, the rustle of straw as the foal—Hope, she'd named it, though she didn't know I knew—struggled to her feet. Then a murmur, too low to make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable. Gentle. Loving. The voice she used with the horses, when she forgot to be afraid.
I finished the stall I was working on and moved to the next one. Still didn't look at her. Just kept working, my movements steady and rhythmic.
After a while, I heard her move. Footsteps coming closer, then stopping. I could feel her eyes on me, could smell the uncertainty in her scent—that faint lilac sweetness overlaid with tension and exhaustion. I grabbed a second pitchfork from the rack and held it out without turning around. An offering. An invitation. No words needed.
Silence. Long enough that I wondered if she'd take it.
Then her hand closed around the handle, her fingers brushing against mine for just a second. Her skin was cool, callused, the hands of someone who'd worked hard her whole life.
"Thanks." Her voice was rough, barely above a whisper, scratchy from crying or lack of sleep or both. The single word came out hesitant, uncertain, like she wasn't sure she was allowed to accept what I was offering. Her pale green eyes flickered to my face and away again, her grip tightening on the pitchfork handle until her knuckles went white.
I just nodded. Didn't need to say anything. She understood.
We worked in silence for the next two hours.
It should have been awkward. Two people who barely knew each other, working side by side without speaking. But it wasn't. There was something almost peaceful about it—the rhythm of physical labor, the smell of hay and horse, the quiet companionship of shared work.
I watched her out of the corner of my eye. The tension slowly bled out of her shoulders as she worked, her movements becoming more fluid, less jerky. The furrow between her brows smoothed out. Her breathing steadied.
This was what she needed. Not words, not comfort, not reassurance. Just presence. Just the knowledge that someone was there, asking nothing, expecting nothing, just... being.
I understood that need better than most.
Around mid-morning, we finished the last stall. Aster leaned on her pitchfork, breathing hard, sweat dampening her hair. I did the same, letting my muscles rest, enjoying the pleasant ache of honest work.
She glanced at me, then away. I could see her working up to something, gathering her courage.
"Why?" The word came out rough, uncertain, her voice still scratchy but stronger than before. She was gripping the pitchfork handle tight, her knuckles white against the worn wood, her shoulders hunched slightly like she was bracing for rejection. Her pale green eyes met mine briefly before skittering away, unable to hold the contact. "Why are you... why do you..."
