"This was my Papaw's." Harper's voice was rough with emotion, his gray eyes bright in the fading light. "Moonshine from his last batch. He made it the year before he died. I've been saving it." He swallowed hard. "Meant to drink it at my wedding. After Claire, I figured I never would. But now..."
I opened the box. Inside, nestled in faded velvet, was a glass jar of clear liquid. Even through the seal, I could smell it—sharp and sweet and perfect. A chirp escaped before I could stop it,high and bright. Harper's pupils dilated at the sound, his breath catching.
"Harper." I had to blink rapidly to keep the tears at bay, my throat tight with emotion. "This is... I can't take this. This is too important."
"That's why I want you to have it." He reached out, his calloused fingers brushing mine where they held the box. "You're important. More important than some jar I've been hiding in a closet for four years."
I set the box carefully on the porch railing and threw my arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss that said everything I couldn't put into words. He made a sound low in his throat—a rumble of satisfaction—and his arms wrapped around me, lifting me slightly off my feet.
When I pulled back, Remy was bouncing on his heels like an excited puppy, practically vibrating with anticipation. "My turn?"
"Your turn." I laughed, the sound watery and bright, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. He unslung his guitar case and pulled out his instrument—the same battered acoustic he'd played at the bar the night we met. But instead of sitting down, he stood there, cradling it like something precious.
"I wrote you a song." His usual bravado was gone, replaced by vulnerability I rarely saw. "It's called 'Applecider.'" His dimples flashed, but his expression was serious. "Because that's what you smell like. And because... that's how you make me feel. Sweet and warm and a little bit drunk."
He started to play—soft, gentle chords that built into a melody I'd never heard before. And then he started to sing. His voice was different than it had been at the bar. Rawer. More honest. The song was about a man who'd spent his whole life running, looking for something he couldn't name. About finding it in the most unexpected place—a bar in the bayou, a womanwith apple-red hair and a nine-foot alligator. About coming home.
By the second verse, I was crying. By the chorus, I was making those embarrassing chirping sounds that I couldn't control. By the end, I had my face buried in my hands, shoulders shaking.
"Chère?" Remy's brow creased with worry, guitar still clutched against his chest. "Was it that bad?" I launched myself at him, nearly knocking the guitar to the ground. He caught me with a laugh, stumbling backward, and I kissed him hard enough to steal both our breath.
"It was perfect." I whispered against his mouth, tasting the salt of my own tears on his lips. "You're perfect. I love you."
His whole face transformed—joy so bright it almost hurt to look at, his dimples cutting deep into his cheeks. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I kissed him again, softer this time, my fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. "Now let me see what Silas brought before I completely fall apart."
Silas stepped forward, unwrapping the brown paper with careful precision. Inside was a piece of heavy sketch paper, and on it?—
I stopped breathing.
It was me. Me and Gumbo, rendered in charcoal and pencil with stunning detail. I was sitting on my porch, one hand resting on Gumbo's massive head, looking out at the bayou with an expression I'd never seen on my own face. Peaceful. Content. Home.
"I drew it from memory." Silas's words came out quiet, uncertain in a way I'd never heard from him. "The morning after the storm. You were sitting there with him, watching the water go down, and I..." He stopped, his jaw tight. "You looked like you belonged there. Like you'd always been there. Like you always would be."
Another chirp broke free, then another. I couldn't stop them—happy omega sounds that I hadn't made since I was a teenager, before I learned to bury that part of myself.
"Silas." I reached for him with one hand, still clutching the drawing with the other, my vision blurring with fresh tears. "This is the most beautiful thing anyone's ever given me."
He came to me, letting me pull him close, and I buried myself against his chest and just breathed. He smelled like river water and safety, and his arms wrapped around me with a gentleness that belied his strength.
"Thank you." I whispered, my voice cracking on the words. "All of you. Thank you." Harper's hand settled on my lower back. Remy pressed against my side. Silas held me close. I was surrounded by them—their scents, their warmth, their love.
Harper pulled back just enough to look down at me, hunger flickering in his gaze. "Can I—" He stopped, swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly. "I want to scent you. Properly. All of us."
My heart was pounding so hard I was sure they could hear it. "Yes." The word came out breathy, barely audible, my fingers curling into the fabric of Harper's shirt. "Yes, I want that."
Harper went first. He cupped my face in his massive hands, calloused palms warm against my cheeks, and tilted my head back with a gentleness that made my breath catch. His nose pressed to the curve of my throat, right where my pulse hammered, and I felt him inhale deeply—drawing my scent into his lungs like he was memorizing it. His chest expanded against mine, his beard scratching softly as he rubbed his jaw along the column of my neck. Slow. Deliberate. Claiming. His scent—pine and woodsmoke with moonshine, with an edge of heat beneath—sank into me, mixing with my own until I couldn't tell where he ended and I began.
I bared my throat to him completely, letting my head fall back, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. Trustinghim with the most vulnerable part of me. A rumble of approval vibrated through his chest, low and satisfied, and he pressed a kiss to my pulse point—lingering there, tender and soft—before stepping back. His gaze was nearly black when it met mine, pupils blown wide.
Remy stepped into the space Harper left, his hands finding my waist, thumbs tracing circles through my shirt. He was gentler than Harper, almost reverent, like I was precious and he was afraid to break me. He started at my wrist, lifting my hand to his mouth and pressing his lips to the thin skin where my pulse fluttered. His breath was warm, his stubble rasping as he dragged his jaw across the delicate veins. Then he did the same to my other wrist, his amber eyes never leaving mine.
When he moved to my neck, he took his time—nuzzling into the curve where my shoulder met my collarbone, breathing me in with a soft sound that was almost a whimper. His scent wrapped around me—honey and whiskey and warm summer nights—layering over Harper's until I felt drunk on it.
"Mine," he breathed against my throat, so quiet only I could hear, his mouth soft where it touched. "Ours."
Silas was last. He approached me slowly, giving me time to pull away if I wanted—but I didn't want. I reached for him, and he came, his pale eyes burning with an intensity that made my heart stutter.
