We fell into a rhythm after that—me pointing out what needed removal and why, Garrett making the cuts with increasing confidence. Between instructions, we talked. Small things at first—observations about the property, questions about pruning techniques, comments on the weather. But gradually, the conversation deepened.
"Levi said he ran into you in town," Garrett mentioned as he removed another dead branch. He was probably trying to get some type of conversation going and mentioning the chance meeting I had with his packmate yesterday was definitely a good place to start. "Said you gave him sourdough advice."
I felt my guard start to rise, then deliberately relaxed it. "He seemed genuinely interested in learning. And frustrated with his failures."
"That's Levi—he throws himself into things completely, gets annoyed when he doesn't master them immediately." Garrett's expression was fond. "He's been complaining about hockey puck bread for weeks. If your advice helps, we'll all be grateful."
The casual mention of "we," the easy way he included his pack in the conversation, should have been off-putting. Instead, it felt... comfortable. Like he wasn't trying to separate me from that reality, wasn't pretending he existed independently of his pack bonds.
"How long have you all been together?" I asked, surprising myself with the question. "As a pack, I mean."
Garrett paused in his work, considering. "Officially? About three years. But we've known each other longer—met through my father's logging business, became friends first. The pack formation was a natural evolution."
"That's unusual, isn't it? Four Alphas choosing to form a pack together?" I'd heard of such arrangements, but they were rare. Most packs formed around an Alpha and their chosen mate or mates, with other members joining through blood or marriage.
"Unusual, but not unheard of." He moved to the next tree, and I followed. "Most people thought we were crazy. Four dominant personalities trying to live together, work together, build something together? The conventional wisdom said it would never work."
"But it has?" I asked with genuine curiosity of his pack.
"It has." His voice was certain, grounded. "Because we chose it. We all wanted something different than the traditional path—wanted to build our own family, our own way. And we're honest with each other, even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."
I thought about that as I examined the next tree, running my hands over the rough bark. Building your own family. Choosing it deliberately rather than accepting what you were born into or what circumstance forced upon you. The concept was both terrifying and alluring.
"My adoptive parents did that," I found myself saying. "Chose their family. All their children had grown and had families of their own, so they adopted me when I was seventeen.Chose me deliberately, not as a consolation prize but as... as someone they wanted."
Garrett had gone very still. I could feel his attention on me, careful and complete. "That must have meant everything."
"It did." The words came easier than I'd expected, maybe because he wasn't pushing, wasn't prying. Just listening. "They showed me what it meant to be chosen. To be wanted for who you were, not what you could provide or what role you could fill."
"And when they died..." He left the sentence unfinished, an invitation rather than a demand.
"I was twenty-one. Just starting to believe I could have that—a family, belonging. And then it was gone." I kept my eyes on the tree, not trusting myself to look at him. "Their biological children inherited the farm. Sold it within six months. I used what Margaret and Tom left me to buy my own land. I decided I'd never depend on anyone else's definition of family again."
The silence stretched between us, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was weighted with understanding, with the recognition of shared experience. I risked a glance at Garrett and found him watching me with an expression that made my chest ache—compassion without pity, understanding without judgment.
"That's why you're so determined to do everything yourself," he said quietly. It wasn't a question.
"It's safer that way." I turned back to the tree, pulling my loppers from the tool bag. "Can't lose what you never let yourself have."
"Can't gain it either, though." The observation was gentle, not accusatory, but it landed like a stone in still water. Ripples spread through my carefully constructed logic, disturbing the smooth surface I'd worked so hard to maintain.
"These branches here," I said, changing the subject with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. "They're crossing, rubbingagainst each other. That friction damages the bark, creating entry points for disease. One of them needs to go."
Garrett let me redirect, moving into position without comment. But as he worked, he spoke again, his voice carrying a different quality—more vulnerable, more personal.
"My grandfather used to say that an orchard was like a pack," he said, making careful cuts where I'd indicated. "Each tree needs its own space, its own light and air. But they also thrive better together than alone. They share resources underground—water, nutrients, even chemical signals warning about pests or disease. The individual trees are stronger because they're part of something larger."
I watched him work, my throat tight. "Your grandfather sounds like he was wise."
"He was. And lonely, I think, after my grandmother died. He had the land, had his routines, had everything he needed to survive." Garrett paused, setting down the loppers to look at me directly. "But surviving isn't the same as thriving. I don't think he ever really thrived again after losing her."
The parallel was unmistakable, and I wanted to bristle at it, to reject the implicit comparison. But I couldn't, because there was too much truth in it. I was surviving just fine out here on my land. My garden thrived, my preserves sold well at market, my cabin was comfortable and well-maintained.
But was I thriving? Or just existing in an elaborate routine I'd built to keep loneliness at bay?
"I'm not lonely," I said, the defense automatic but lacking conviction even to my own ears.
"I didn't say you were." Garrett stepped closer, and this time I didn't step back. His scent wrapped around me again, warm and grounding, and I let myself acknowledge what I'd been trying to ignore—that it felt good. Safe. "I'm just saying that surviving alone and thriving together aren't mutually exclusiveoptions. You can be self-sufficient and still let people in. You can be strong and still accept help. You can protect yourself and still take risks."
