I make a sympathetic noise and turn back to my weeding.
"Can I ask you something?" Her voice goes quieter. More careful.
I brace myself. "Sure."
"Do you think... I mean, do you feel like the guys are adjusting okay? To having both of us?"
I glance at her. She's picking at the hem of her shorts, not quite meeting my eyes.
"They seem fine," I say neutrally.
"Yeah, but do you think they're happy?" She looks up then, and there's something raw in her expression. Genuine worry. "Sometimes I feel like I'm... I don't know. Taking up space that's not mine. Or like I'm making things harder."
The honesty catches me off guard.
"You're their scent match," I say, and I can't quite keep the edge out of my voice. "You're not making things harder. You're what they're supposed to want."
"But you've been here for five years," she says. "You know them. You know how they like their coffee and what they need and... I'm just trying to catch up. I don't want you to think I'm trying to push you out."
It would be easier if she was malicious. If she was doing this on purpose.
Instead, she's just... there. Existing in the spaces I used to fill, rearranging things to fit her understanding, learning my alphas with the confidence of someone who knows biology is on her side.
"I don't think that," I lie.
She smiles, relieved. "Good. Because I really want us to be friends, Vee. We're going to be pack sisters. We should be close."
Pack sisters.
The phrase sits wrong in my mouth.
"Yeah," I say. "We should."
She stands, brushing off her shorts. "I'll let you get back to it. Oh—I was thinking of making dinner tonight. Ragon mentioned loving pot roast, and I found this recipe that looks amazing. Do you think he'd like it with carrots or without? You probably know better than me."
"He likes carrots."
"Perfect! It’s crazy how much I want to cook now. I never used to care or have an interest in it at all before, but everything has changed for me so much since I met the alphas. Even my own desires. Thanks, Vee. You're the best."
She heads back inside, leaving me alone with my garden and the distinct feeling that I just gave away another piece of territory without meaning to.
I yank a weed hard enough to scatter dirt across my knees.
When I come inside an hour later, the kitchen smells like roasting meat and herbs. Marie has taken over the entire space—cutting board covered with vegetables, pots on every burner, recipe pulled up on her phone propped against the backsplash.
She's wearing an apron.
My apron.
The faded blue one with the coffee stain on the pocket that I've had since the registry.
"Oh!" She notices me staring. "Sorry, I borrowed this. I don’t have one of my own. Hope that's okay?"
"It's fine."
"Great! Hey, since you're here—can you taste this sauce? I want to make sure the seasoning is right."
She's asking for my help. Being friendly. Including me.
