The third is lighter, more ink and rain and paper.
Underneath all that: static. Like my instincts know there's supposed to be more information and hit a wall instead.
Scent blockers, my brain supplies.
Of course. New pack. New territory. Registry-approved precautions while everyone figures out whether anyone's a threat.
Safe. Sensible.
Also extremely annoying.
I keep snipping leaves like I don't care, dirt under my nails, sun on the back of my neck, knees in the soil. The garden is my safe zone. My small patch of things that don't have rules beyond sun and water.
Over the fence, the sounds are easy to track: a truck gate grinding, boxes thumping, someone swearing as something scrapes. A laugh. The low rumble of one voice giving directions, another protesting.
"Careful with that. If you break my coffee machine, I'm breaking up with you."
"We're not even dating. We're cohabitating with legally binding paperwork."
"Same thing."
A third voice—lighter, quick—chimes in, "If the espresso machine dies, I'm leaving all of you."
I shouldn't be listening this hard. But it's either that or go inside and sit on my bar stool while the walls press in.
Footsteps crunch closer on gravel. The soft creak of the side gate. The click of the latch.
"Hello? Uh... hi. Neighbor? Sorry to bother you, your gate was— oh."
I look up.
There's a stranger in my garden.
He's standing just inside the open gate, hands lifted in a universalI come in peacegesture. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Brown hair in a messy cut that looks like hedid it himself. Dark eyes behind square glasses. T-shirt with a faded band logo, jeans with fresh dust on the knees.
His scent hits my nose and slides right off it. Clean soap, dryer sheets, some bland aftershave. Underneath, something my instincts reach for and can't quite grab.
Beta, I guess, because he doesn't carry that heavy alpha weight. But it's like trying to read a book with half the words blacked out.
"Oh," I say.
"Hi. I'm not trespassing. Probably. I hope. The real estate agent said the yards were technically shared? Or shareable? I don't really remember. There were a lot of disclosure forms."
I blink at him for a beat too long, then remember how to be a person.
I push to my feet, brushing dirt off my leggings. "You're fine. This isn't a sacred omega shrine or anything. Just dirt."
He glances down at the beds. "Looks like more than 'just dirt.' I kill succulents, so I'm impressed by anything that's still alive after a week."
I can't help it—my mouth twitches. "These are hardy. You'd have to try to kill them."
"I believe in myself. I can kill anything if given a chance."
A surprised laugh escapes me, quick and small. He brightens at the sound like that was his goal.
"I'm Finn. Finn Locke. I live next door now. With the other two chaos goblins."
A deeper voice calls from the other yard, "We heard that!"
