What if I was wrong about the strings? What if connections weren’t all traps? What if some of them were actually lifelines, offered freely with no expectation of payment? What if?
The questions followed me into sleep, unanswered and unsettling. And in my dreams, I stood at the edge of my garden, watching four figures emerge from the tree line, their hands empty and open, offering nothing but presence.
And in my dreams, I didn't run.
Chapter Twelve
Levi
The rain was coming down harder by the time I pulled up to the Henderson property—our property now, I reminded myself with a grin. After weeks of back-and-forth trips, living out of hotel rooms and the half-finished cabin, it still felt surreal that we were actually here. Permanently. All four of us under one roof, trying to turn this overgrown mess into something resembling home.
I grabbed my grocery bags and made a run for the covered porch, getting soaked anyway. The front door swung open before I could reach for the handle, and Micah stood there with a towel, his sharp green eyes assessing me with amusement.
"You look like a drowned rat," he observed, his cocky smirk firmly in place.
"Thanks for the observation, genius." I took the towel gratefully, rubbing it over my wet hair. "You could've held the door open earlier, you know."
"Where's the fun in that?" He stepped aside to let me in, and I noticed he'd changed since this morning—gone were the work clothes, replaced by joggers and a fitted black t-shirt thatshowed off his runner's build. His caramel brown hair was freshly trimmed on the shaved side, the design sharp and clean. He must have hit the barber in town while I was at the store.
"New cut looks good," I said, setting my bags on the kitchen counter. The kitchen was still a work in progress—new cabinets installed but not all painted, countertops temporarily covered with plywood until the stone we'd ordered arrived. But it was functional, which was more than could be said for most of the house when we'd first arrived.
"Had to look presentable for the locals," Micah replied, running a hand over the longer hair on top. "Can't have people thinking we're a pack of savages just because we're renovating a dump."
"It's not a dump anymore," Garrett's voice came from the living room, slightly defensive. He appeared in the doorway, sawdust still clinging to his shirt. He'd been working on the built-in bookshelves all morning. "It's a work in progress."
"A work in progress that still doesn't have hot water in two of the bathrooms," Micah pointed out with a roll of his eyes.
"That's on the list for next week." Garrett grabbed a beer from the fridge—one of the few appliances that actually worked properly—and leaned against the counter. "How'd the supply run go, Levi?"
I started unpacking the groceries, pulling out the ingredients for the stir-fry I'd planned for dinner. "Got everything we needed. Mrs. Morrison says the lumber order will be ready to pick up tomorrow."
"Good. We need it for the deck repairs. Though I can’t wait until everything is set up so we can get our own supplies and not rely on others." Garrett took a long drink, watching me with those too-observant eyes. "Anything else interesting happen in town?"
I tried to keep my expression neutral as I put away the soy sauce and rice noodles. "Ran into someone at Morrison's. Quite literally, actually. Nearly knocked her over in the baking aisle."
Micah's smirk widened. "Her?"
"Daphne," I said, giving up on pretending it wasn't significant. "Our mysterious neighbor."
Garrett straightened immediately, beer forgotten. "You met Daphne?"
"Met, collided with, had an entire conversation with." I pulled out my phone, showing them the notes I'd taken. "She gave me sourdough advice. Very detailed sourdough advice."
"Let me see that." Garrett crossed the kitchen in two strides, practically snatching my phone. His eyes scanned the notes, and something in his expression softened. "She told you about temperature consistency. And feeding ratios by weight."
"Is that significant?" Micah asked, moving closer to read over Garrett's shoulder.
"It means she actually talked to him," Garrett said quietly. "Really talked, not just polite small talk. She doesn't seem to do that with people."
I leaned against the counter, studying my packmate. Garrett had been talking about Daphne almost since he laid eyes on her—the woman who lived alone on the neighboring property, who kept to herself but had the most incredible garden he'd ever seen. At first, I'd thought it was just casual interest, the kind of attention you pay to any neighbor. But the more he talked, the more I realized it was something deeper.
"She's... interesting," I said carefully. "Guarded as hell, but interesting. Tried to pay for her own groceries even after I offered."
"Of course she did." Garrett handed my phone back. "What else did she say?"
"Not much. We talked about baking, she mentioned her adoptive parents taught her. Got prickly when I tried to buy her groceries, then softened a bit when I backed off." I paused, remembering the look in her eyes. "She's been hurt, hasn't she? That's not just normal introversion."
"Yeah," Garrett said quietly. "I get that sense too. Like she's waiting for people to prove they're not trustworthy."
