Even if it's not permanent yet.
Even if the five-year mark is coming and I don't know what it means.
Even if the thought of them finding a scent match someday makes me want to claw my own heart out.
This is real.
For now, it's enough.
It has to be.
We leave the bookstore with a bag full of novels (mine), scientific journals (Eli's), and one deeply unserious comedy book (Drake's). Ragon didn't buy anything, but I catch him eyeing a woodworking manual on the way out. He'll go back for it later. He always does.
The drive home is quiet, comfortable. I'm wedged in the back seat between Eli and Drake, my head tipped against Eli's shoulder, Drake's hand warm on my knee.Ragon drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console, relaxed.
The sun is setting by the time we pull into the driveway. Golden light spills across the lawn, catches in the trees, makes everything look softer.
Inside, the house smells like us. Like home.
Drake immediately flops onto the couch and declares he's "dead from fun." Eli rolls his eyes and heads to the kitchen to make tea. Ragon disappears down the hall to change.
I stand in the living room for a moment, bookstore bag in hand, and let myself feel it.
The weight of being home. The safety of these walls. The knowledge that I fit here, even if it's not official.
Even if I'm still waiting.
One more month,I think.
And then we'll see.
Chapter 2
Wednesday morning, Drake announces he has a surprise.
"A good one this time," he says, grinning over his coffee mug. "Not like the 'surprise' where I tried to make waffles and set off the smoke alarm."
"That was last month," Eli says mildly, not looking up from his medical journal. "The neighbors still give us looks."
"They're judging my culinary journey."
"They're judging your ability to follow basic instructions."
I huff a laugh despite myself, curled up in the kitchen chair with my own mug of tea. The morning light streams through the window, catches in the steam rising from my cup. Drake's citrus scent is bright and warm. Eli smells like clean linen and that faint floral note that reminds me of pressed flowers. Ragon is at the stove making eggs, his pine-and-smoke scent grounding the whole room.
It's a good morning.
Perfect, even.
So why does something in my chest feel tight?
"What's the surprise?" I ask.
Drake's grin widens. "We're taking you somewhere."
"Where?"
"If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise."
