Silence hangs.
Then Ragon, voice gentler, "We'll adjust. Eli, spend a little more time with Marie. Drake, be mindful of Vee. Make sure she knows you're still hers. Marie, dial back the territorial claims. Scent match or not, that language won't help anyone."
No one says especially not her.
No one says my name at all.
I stir the stew because if I don't move, I'll crack.
***
Ragon announces the grocery run later that afternoon like nothing happened.
"We're low on staples. Flour, sugar, coffee, fruit. I'm driving to the big market. Drake, Marie, Vee—you're coming."
"Why me?" I ask before I can stop myself.
"You do a lot of the cooking. You know what we need."
The praise is so technical it barely counts.
"Eli's on nights this week. He won't be home in time."
I nod. "Okay. I'll make a list."
I make two.
One is practical: milk, eggs, meat, carrots, the brand of coffee Drake likes, the tea Eli pretends isn't his favorite.
The other is invisible: Do not cry in aisle four. Do not snap in front of Ragon. Do not let Marie see how much she can get under your skin.
We pile into the car like a real pack on a normal errand. Ragon driving, hands at ten and two. Drake in the passenger seat, fiddling with the radio. Marie and I side by side in the back.
She smells like vanilla and soft floral. I smell like whatever's left of my own scent after weeks of trying to flatten it and Eli's stubborn work bringing it back.
No one speaks much on the way there.
I count streetlights.
At the supermarket, Ragon takes the cart like it's a tactical assignment. "We're doing this efficiently. No wandering off."
"Bossy," Drake mutters.
Marie laughs and threads her arm through his. I walk a half-step behind them, list in hand—just close enough to grab things, just far enough that I'm not in anyone's way.
We hit produce first.
"Apples," I say, reaching for the ones I know Eli prefers—crisp, tart, green-red. I pick up a bag and toss it lightly into the cart.
Marie frowns. "Those bruise too easily. Ragon hates mushy fruit."
"That's why you eat them fast. We go through a bag in two days."
She ignores that, putting the bag back and choosing a different kind—shinier, waxy, all lined up in a pretty row. "These keep longer. And taste better."
"For you."
She gives me a quick, patient smile. "For everyone. You've just been buying the same thing so long you forgot how to experiment."
