"Graceful?"
"Chaotic yet elegant. Majestic chaos."
"Oh my God." I laugh, shaking my head.
Eli stands on my other side, forearms resting on the rail, watching the birds with that intent, thoughtful look he gets. The breeze pushes his curls off his forehead. I catch a whiff of his scent—tea, sun-warmed paper, the faintest edge of something floral that always makes me think of pressed flowers between book pages.
"You like them because they're balanced."
I glance at him. "Hmm?"
"Flamingos." He nods toward them. "They look fragile, but they're not. They stand in water that would make other birds sick. They sleep like that—on one leg. They adapt."
My throat tugs a little. "You think I'm like a flamingo?"
"In the best ways. You're stronger than you look. And more determined."
Heat rushes to my cheeks. My omega instincts roll over, fluffy and pleased.
Drake makes a soft "aw" noise. "Our resident poet."
"Eli's right," Ragon says, his voice low from behind us.
I hadn't even realized he'd moved up so close. His chest is right at my back, solid and immovable. His scent folds over Eli's and Drake's, deeper, heavier, grounding everything.
"You keep your footing. No matter what's under you."
It's not a romantic declaration. Ragon doesn't do poetic. But coming from him, it feels like one. My heart tugs. I swallow, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of how much I love them.
Five years,I think.Almost five years.
I push the thought away before it can turn into a wish.
We spend longer at the flamingos than I intend, mostly because Drake keeps giving them terrible backstories and Eli keeps correcting his made-up facts.
From there, we wander through the small primates. I press my face to the glass watching tiny lemurs leap from branch to branch. We stand in the aviary (yes, the same one) while Drake makes vague apologies to the birds for his past crimes.
At each enclosure, I find myself watching them as much as the animals.
Drake makes a big show of roaring at the lions later, but when a little omega child gets scared near us, he immediately drops down to his knees and pretends to be a "Nice Lion" who only eats veggies. The kid stops crying.
Eli reads every plaque, then condenses the information into a softer, more interesting version just for me. "They mate for life. They share food. They maintain their territory together."
Ragon is always half-turned toward the crowd, attention split between the exhibits and the people around us, as if trouble might appear at any second. But every time I reach for him—just a touch to his wrist, a brush of my fingers along his forearm—his gaze snaps to me first, scent easing immediately.
He's hyper-vigilant, but never too distracted for me.
That matters.
By midday, the sun is high and hot. The scents in the air are even thicker—sweat, sunscreen, sugary drinks, animal musk. My head feels a little foggy from it all, instincts edging toward overwhelmed.
Drake notices first. He always does.
"Hey." He tugs me in against his side. "You need a break, sweetheart?"
I hesitate, about to say no, I'm fine, I don't want to ruin anything. But Eli's gaze flicks up from the map he's folding, catches the little stiffness in my shoulders, the way I'm holding my breath. Ragon's scent sharpens too, protective.
"Yes," Eli answers for me. "She does."
