"Speaking of today," I said between bites, "I need to head to the greenhouse and harvest some vegetables. The Petersons are expecting their weekly delivery this afternoon."
The Petersons were an elderly beta couple who lived about fifteen minutes down the road. Violet Peterson had terrible arthritis that made gardening impossible, and her husband Robert's heart condition meant he couldn't do much heavy work anymore. When I'd started selling my excess produce at the farmer's market, Violet had approached me about regular deliveries—fresh tomatoes, squash, leafy greens, whatever was in season. She paid me fairly, but honestly, I would have done it for free just to see her face light up when I arrived with baskets of vegetables still warm from the sun.
"I'll drive you," Garrett said immediately.
"I can drive myself. It's fifteen minutes." I told him with a grin, cause I knew what his response to that was going to be.
"I'll drive you," he repeated, in a tone that suggested this wasn't up for negotiation. The attack had made all of them more protective, more careful, more reluctant to let me out of their sight. It was suffocating sometimes, but I understood it. I felt echoes of the same fear through our bonds whenever I was away from them too long.
"Fine," I conceded. "But you're helping me harvest."
"Deal." The greenhouse was Micah's masterpiece, but it had become mine too.
We found him inside, checking the moisture levels on a row of tomato plants with one of his custom sensors. His dark hair was slightly damp from the humidity, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, his expression one of intense concentration. He looked up when we entered, and his face softened into that small, private smile he reserved just for me.
"The Roma tomatoes are ready," he said by way of greeting. "And the butternut squash. I also have a good batch of kale if Margaret wants some."
"She always wants kale. Says it's the only thing that helps her joints." We worked together in comfortable silence, Garrett andI harvesting while Micah directed us to the ripest specimens. The greenhouse was warm and fragrant, filled with the green scent of growing things and the rich earth smell of healthy soil. Sunlight filtered through the glass panels, dappling everything in gold.
By noon, we had three large baskets ready—plump tomatoes in shades of red and orange, dark green zucchini, bright yellow squash, bundles of kale and spinach and fresh herbs. Micah added a pot of rosemary at the last minute, claiming it was "too leggy" for the greenhouse but would be perfect for Violet's kitchen windowsill.
"You just want her to make that rosemary bread again," I accused with a small smile.
"Her rosemary bread is exceptional. I'm not ashamed." The drive to the Petersons' place was beautiful—winding country roads lined with ancient oaks, their leaves catching the autumn sunlight like stained glass. The air through the cracked window was crisp, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and wood smoke and the particular sweetness of apples ready for harvest.
Their farmhouse was small and tidy, white clapboard with blue shutters, a wraparound porch cluttered with rocking chairs and potted plants. Violet was waiting on the porch when we pulled up, her silver hair pulled back in a neat bun, her weathered face creased with a smile.
"There's my girl!" she called as I climbed out of the truck. "And you brought that handsome alpha of yours. Robert! Robert, come see!" Robert emerged from the house, moving slowly but steadily, a dish towel over his shoulder. He was a tall man, stooped now with age, but his eyes were bright and kind.
"Violet, let them get up the steps before you start hollering," he chided gently. But he was smiling too. We spent a pleasant half hour on the porch, drinking the lemonade Violet insisted on serving and catching up on neighborhood gossip. She wantedto know everything about my "arrangement"—her delicate term for my four-alpha pack—and I found myself telling her about Oliver's attempts at baking and Levi's rope swing schemes and Micah's greenhouse innovations and Garrett's six-hour soups.
"Sounds like you've found yourself a good situation," Robert said, nodding approvingly. "Pack life suits you. You look healthy. Happy."
"I am," I said, and meant it. When we finally said our goodbyes—Violet pressing a jar of her homemade apple butter into my hands despite my protests, the sun was starting to angle toward the horizon. The air had turned cooler, carrying the promise of evening.
We were loading the empty baskets back into the truck when a familiar voice called out.
"Daphne?" I turned, and my face broke into a smile. "Viola!"
She was walking up the Petersons' driveway, a canvas bag over her shoulder, her dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.
"I was just dropping off some of Elias's honey," she explained, gesturing to the bag. "He keeps bees now. It's a whole thing." She rolled her eyes affectionately. "What are you doing here?"
"Vegetable delivery." I gestured to the empty baskets. "Violet's one of my regulars."
Viola grinned. "Small world." Garrett had finished loading the truck and was leaning against the tailgate, watching us with an expression of patient amusement. I caught his eye and he nodded slightly take your time.
"How are you?" Viola asked, her voice softening with genuine concern. "Really?"
"Good. Really good, actually." I touched my marks absently. "The trial starts next month, which is... a lot. But I'm handling it. We're handling it."
"You look happy." She studied my face with the perceptive gaze of someone who'd seen me at my worst. We'd met during those early weeks after the attack, when I was still jumping at shadows and waking up screaming. She'd talked me through more than one panic attack. "Happier than I've ever seen you."
"I am happy." The words felt true in a way they wouldn't have six months ago. "It's still hard sometimes. But I have them, and they have me, and... it's good. It's really good."
"I'm so glad." She reached out to squeeze my hand, her own mating marks visible on her neck—two of them, from her alphas, healed to the same silvery-pink as mine. "You deserve it. After everything."
"We should have dinner soon," I said. "You and your pack, me and mine. We keep talking about it and never doing it."
