"I'll hold you to that, big guy." I patted his knee and stood, stretching my arms overhead until my shoulders cracked. "Right now, I'm going to let Gumbo out before he knocks down the door, and then I'm going to make dinner. Any requests?"
"Anything you make." Remy appeared in the doorway behind us, silhouetted against the dim interior, his expression soft in a way that made my chest ache. "As long as we eat it together."
"Together." I agreed, the word settling into my chest like a vow, like a promise, like the beginning of something I hadn't known I was waiting for.
Gumbo practically bolted when I opened the door, his massive body moving with surprising speed as he made his way to where the murky shallows began. He slid into the bayou with a splash and a satisfied rumble that I felt more than heard, immediately beginning his patrol of the flooded property like a general surveying reclaimed territory. His prehistoric shape cut through the water, barely a ripple marking his passage.
"Think he missed it?" Remy came to stand beside me on the porch, hip brushing mine, his hand finding the small of my back like it belonged there.
"I think he tolerates being inside for us, but he belongs out there." I watched Gumbo's armored head glide through the murk, at home in a way he could never be within four walls. "Some creatures aren't meant to be contained."
"You talking about the gator or yourself, chere?" Gentle words, knowing ones, his thumb tracing circles against my spine.
I considered the question, watching the last of the daylight paint the water gold and copper. "Maybe both." I leaned into his side, fitting against him like a puzzle piece. "I've spent so long thinking I needed to be alone. That wanting people was weakness, that needing them was dangerous." A slow shake of my head. "Turns out I was just scared."
"Scared of what?" He wrapped an arm around my waist, anchoring me to the present, to him, to this moment.
"Of having something to lose." I turned to look at him, at Harper and Silas behind us watching with quiet intensity, at the cabin that had become more than shelter during the storm. "Of building something beautiful and watching it get washed away."
"That's the risk, isn't it?" Remy grew thoughtful, the philosopher lurking beneath the charmer peeking through, his amber eyes distant for a moment. "Love, pack, family—it all comes with the possibility of loss. The alternative is nothing. Safer, maybe, but hollow."
"When did you get so wise?" I aimed for teasing but landed somewhere closer to tender, reaching up to brush that stubborn curl off his forehead.
"Somewhere between the whiskey and the gumbo." He grinned, familiar mischief returning to his features, dimples cutting deep. "Don't worry, it'll wear off. I'll be back to making inappropriate jokes by tomorrow."
"I'm counting on it, pretty boy." I pressed up to kiss his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath my lips, then pulled away. "Now help me figure out what to make for dinner. The cooler's getting low and I refuse to eat canned soup again."
The evening passed in the comfortable rhythm we'd established—cooking together in the cramped kitchen, eatingtogether on the floor, existing in each other's space like we'd been doing it our whole lives. The power flickered on around seven, drawing a triumphant cheer from Remy and a satisfied grunt from Harper. Silas just nodded, like he'd expected it all along, already moving to check the outlets with methodical precision.
That night, we didn't even pretend to maintain separate sleeping arrangements.
The couch became a nest, expanded with blankets and pillows until it covered half the living room floor. We piled in together—limbs tangled, bodies close, the boundaries between us dissolved by days of proximity and the deliberate choice to stay near even when we didn't have to. The cabin creaked and settled around us, familiar sounds now, comforting in their constancy.
"Tomorrow the roads will be clear." Harper's rumble resonated through the darkness, his chest solid beneath my cheek, rising and falling with each steady breath.
"Probably." I traced patterns on his shirt, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the fabric, strong and sure.
"You nervous?" Remy asked from behind me, his arm draped over my waist, his breath stirring my hair with each word.
"A little." I admitted, staring into the darkness. "It's easy to be pack when we're stuck together. When there's no outside world to complicate things. What happens when we have to fit this into real life?"
"We make it fit." Silas spoke from the edge of our makeshift nest, where he'd claimed a spot that let him see both the door and the windows—old habits refusing to die, vigilance worn into his bones. "We choose it, every day, even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."
"That simple?" I turned my head toward his voice, though I couldn't see him in the darkness, wishing I could read his expression.
"That simple." His hand found my ankle, squeezing once, his palm rough with calluses. "And that complicated. But worth it."
I lay there in the dark, surrounded by the three men who'd somehow become essential, and let myself believe him. Let myself imagine a future where Sunday dinners and coming home and belonging weren't just dreams but daily realities. Where the walls I'd built became the foundation for something new, something stronger, something shared.
Outside, the bayou continued to drain, the water retreating inch by slow inch. By morning, the roads would be passable. By afternoon, we'd all return to our separate lives—Remy to his music, Harper to his distillery, Silas to his animals.
But we'd return to each other too. That was the promise we'd made, stacked hands and whispered words and the quiet certainty of pack. The bayou would dry. The world would right itself. And we would figure out how to be together in it, one day at a time.
I fell asleep with Harper's heartbeat beneath my ear, Remy's chest against my back, and Silas's hand on my ankle—three anchors holding me steady as the storm finally, fully passed.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Artemis
