"Hey yourself." I paused, my heart doing something complicated in my chest.
"I love you." The words came out quiet, almost gruff, like they still surprised him even as he said them. His throat worked as he swallowed, the tendons standing out in his neck. "Just... wanted you to know." His thumb kept stroking across my knuckles, back and forth, a nervous tell I was learning to recognize.
"I know." I leaned down to kiss him properly, soft and slow, tasting coffee and maple syrup on his lips. His free hand came up to cup the back of my head, holding me close for just a moment longer. "I love you too."
"What about me?" Remy called from the table, his voice pitched to carry, breaking the moment with all the subtlety of a brass band. He clutched dramatically at his chest. "Do you love me too?"
"Debatable." I pulled back from Harper with a smile, watching his eyes crinkle at the corners, the softness there making my heart flip.
"Rude!" Remy clutched his chest harder, gasping dramatically, nearly knocking over his orange juice in the process. His chair scraped back as he threw himself into the performance. "The disrespect! The cruelty! The?—"
I laughed against Harper's mouth, feeling his smile curve against mine, the rumble of his chuckle vibrating through his chest. When I pulled back, his dark eyes were warm, all the hard edges softened, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. He looked younger, somehow. Lighter.
"Go get your coffee," he said, releasing my hand with obvious reluctance, his fingers trailing across my palm like he couldn'tquite bear to let go. "Before Remy starts composing a ballad about being unloved."
"Too late!" Remy had already grabbed his guitar from its spot by the door—because of course he'd brought his guitar, because he brought it everywhere like some kind of musical security blanket—and was strumming dramatically, his fingers dancing across the strings with practiced ease. His voice lifted in mock tragedy: "She said she loved me, but she lied, now my heart is dead inside?—"
"Your rhyming needs work," Silas said, not looking up from his coffee, his mouth twitching in that almost-smile he reserved for moments of peak absurdity. Steam curled up around his face, softening his sharp features.
"It's a rough draft!" Remy protested, still strumming, transitioning into something that sounded suspiciously like a funeral dirge. His fingers picked out a mournful melody that would have been beautiful if he hadn't been fighting back laughter.
I poured my coffee, shaking my head, the sound of Remy's increasingly ridiculous song filling the small kitchen. Steam curled up from my mug, warm and fragrant. Gumbo had cracked both eyes open now and was watching the performance with what could only be described as profound judgment, his scarred snout wrinkled in what I could swear was distaste.
This was my life. This was my pack.
I wouldn't trade it for anything.
Later—after the dishes were done and Remy's song had devolved into him just making up words while Harper threw dish towels at him—we ended up sprawled across the living room. The midday sun had shifted, casting long rectangles of light across the worn hardwood floors. Harper had claimed the big armchair with me in his lap, my head tucked under his chin, his arms wrapped around me like he was afraid I'd floataway. Remy was stretched across the couch, his bare feet in Silas's lap, plucking out a softer melody now, something sweet and wandering that seemed to weave through the dust motes dancing in the air.
The afternoon light slanted through the windows, golden and warm, painting everything in shades of honey and amber. I let myself drift, surrounded by the sounds and scents of my pack—Remy's quiet music, Harper's steady heartbeat beneath my ear, the faint scratch of Silas's fingers against the calluses on Remy's feet.
"So tomorrow we visit Miss Mae," I said, reviewing our morning plans. "Then walk the property with Silas to scout locations for the house. What else?"
"I should check in at the distillery," Harper said, his voice rumbling through his chest beneath my ear. "Been neglecting things the past few days." His hand settled warm and heavy on my hip, his thumb drawing slow circles through the fabric of my shirt.
"I've got a gig Friday night at the Rusty Hook," Remy added, not pausing in his playing. "You should all come. Show off my pack." His dimples flashed. "Let everyone see how disgustingly happy we are."
"Disgustingly happy," Silas repeated, dry as dust, but he was fighting a smile. His pale eyes were half-closed, more relaxed than I'd ever seen him, the permanent tension in his jaw finally loosened.
"That's what I said." Remy's grin widened. "I'm thinking I'll debut a new song. Something romantic. Something about finding your people against all odds."
"Please tell me it's not about us specifically," I groaned, though I couldn’t help the smile curving up on my lips.
"It's absolutely about us specifically." He strummed a dramatic chord. "It's called 'Four Hearts, One Nest, and an Alligator Named Gumbo.'"
"That's a terrible title," Harper said flatly.
"It's a working title!"
"It's a terrible working title," Silas agreed.
I laughed, warmth spreading through my chest. "I love it here," I said, the words spilling out before I could stop them. "I love this life. I love that I get to build something here. With all of you."
Harper's arms tightened around me, his chin coming to rest on top of my head, his beard scratching gently against my scalp. His kiss pressed to my hair was soft, reverent.
"Gross," Remy said, without any heat, resuming his soft melody. His fingers danced across the strings, picking out something that sounded almost wistful. "You're being gross. This is a gross-free zone." But his amber eyes were warm, and the smile playing at his lips betrayed his words.
"Says the man writing a love ballad about an alligator," Silas pointed out, one eyebrow raised. His fingers continued their idle massage of Remy's ankle, thumb pressing into the arch of his foot.
