"Spices do not need rescuing. They need order."
"Sure, Malcolm. Live your truth."
Alex's mouth twitches. "I thought we might see how your garden's doing. Offer free labor, if you need it."
The idea of anyone doing anything for me without strings still hits weird.
"I'm not going to say no to free labor. Grab a trowel."
Finn dives in with enthusiasm and very little technique. Malcolm listens carefully while I explain where things are going. Alex mostly watches, occasionally taking over heavier tasks without making a show of it.
It's nice.
We joke about tomato sizes. Finn makes up backstories for each plant. Malcolm argues about whether the basil is plotting to overthrow the mint.
I laugh more in twenty minutes than I have in days.
"Your alphas okay with us invading?" Alex asks at one point.
"I told Ragon you were helping with the herbs. He grunted. That's alpha for 'fine.'"
As if summoned, I glance up.
Ragon's at the kitchen window. Arms folded, expression unreadable.
Our eyes meet.
He holds my gaze for a second, then nods once and disappears.
"Was that a window glower?" Finn asks.
"Yeah. He's practicing for his role as overprotective lion statue."
Finn snorts. "He does have big 'get off my lawn' energy. But, like, in a hot way? Is that weird?"
"Yes," Malcolm says.
"Correct," Alex adds.
We keep working.
Ragon comes out once, under the pretense of checking the fence. He walks the perimeter, scent thick and assessing, gives Alex the kind of polite nod that is also a challenge.
"Everything good out here?"
"All good."
"Our neighbors are competent with a spade," he observes.
"We try," Malcolm says.
"Just making sure no one's stealing my omega," Ragon says lightly.
The words make my heart stutter.
"Pretty sure she can't fit in my pockets. I tried. She bit me."
Ragon's mouth curves, there and gone.
