I nodded, flushing as I swallowed a bite of zucchini. “Margaret—my adoptive mom—loved to cook. She said chopping, stirring, timing—it was meditative. Tom—my dad—would sit at the kitchen table, reading or telling her stories while she worked. Their farmhouse kitchen had windows on three sides; you could see their garden from every vantage. She’d glance up now and then, checking that her herbs and lettuces were thriving in the afternoon sun.”
Garrett’s gaze softened. “That’s where you got it—the love of growing things.”
“Yeah.” My throat went tight. I raised my wine glass, the deep ruby liquid catching the lamp light in gleaming streaks. The wine tasted of blackberry and dark plum, with earthy undertones that clung to my tongue. “She taught me that growing your own food connects you to the earth in a way nothing else can. That there’s power in self-sufficiency.”
Oliver leaned forward. “Is that why you garden the way you do?”
I paused, tracing the rim of my wine glass. These men had opened their home, prepared this meal, and welcomed me without hesitation. They deserved my full honesty, even if it made my chest ache. “Partly. After Margaret and Tom died and their kids sold the farm, I felt untethered—like everything I loved could be snatched away at any moment. So I bought myown place and made sure I could survive on my own. That I’d never have to depend on anyone else to take care of me.”
For a moment, the table was eerily still. Then Levi reached across and gave my hand a gentle squeeze, and in their attentive faces I felt something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in years: seen, and safe.
“But?” Micah prompted, his brow knitting as he leaned forward, fingers drumming on the worn oak table.
I lifted my gaze to those sharp green eyes that missed nothing—each emerald fleck illuminated by the soft glow of the overhead lights. “But lately,” I said, voice quieter than before, “I’ve been wondering if self-sufficiency and isolation are one and the same. Or if I’ve been using one as an excuse for the other.”
“They’re not the same,” Levi declared, his tone low and steady. The candlelight flickered across his strong jawline. “Self-sufficiency means you can meet your own needs. Isolation means you won’t let anyone else in, even when you need them. There’s a world of difference.”
Garrett snorted, shifting on the creaky chair. “Spoken like someone who stress-bakes.” He angled a teasing grin in Levi’s direction.
Levi’s lips curved into a proud smile. “Baking is a perfectly healthy coping mechanism. Better than Micah pounding pavement at dawn or your habit of brooding over every bolt in the workshop.”
“I don’t brood,” Garrett protested, but the rest of us laughed. Oliver’s shoulders shook with amusement, and even Micah’s usual reserve cracked into an easy grin.
As I listened to their banter I found myself smiling, the tension I’d carried slipping away. This was what I’d missed: the warmth of honest teasing, the comfort in being seen and cared for.
I twisted a strand of hair around my finger. “What about you, Oliver? What’s your stress response?”
Before Oliver spoke, Micah answered with a dry chuckle. “He gets philosophical—turns piles of two-by-fours into lofty metaphors.”
Oliver’s cheeks tinted pink. “That happened once.”
“Last Tuesday,” Garrett reminded him, wagging a finger. “The great lumber speech.”
“Environmental responsibility,” Oliver defended, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “It was crucial.”
Levi raised an eyebrow. “Twenty minutes about sustainable materials as a metaphor for sustainable relationships. We timed it.”
A laugh burst from my chest, genuine and bright, as woodsmoke and garlic from the nearby stove mingled in the air. Oliver’s embarrassment shifted into delight as he looked at me.
“In my defense,” he said, lips twitching with humor, “building anything that lasts requires the right materials and constant care. Relationships work the same way.”
Micah leaned toward me, voice a playful whisper. “There he goes again.”
I surprised us all by answering softly, “I think it’s sweet. That you think this deeply. Most people act without questioning why.”
Oliver’s blue eyes softened, warm and grateful. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
The air between us hummed with something unspoken. My pulse fluttered, and I looked away, reaching for the basket of focaccia at the center of the table.
Levi cleared his throat. “So—tell us about your garden. Garrett says it’s impressive, but won’t share details.”
I relaxed into the familiar subject, the words flowing as I described companion planting rows of tomatoes curling around basil, the staggered beds that promised greens from spring untilfrost, the small greenhouse where seedlings basked in early sunlight. They listened, leaning in, eyes bright with genuine curiosity.
Micah swirled his wine glass, the deep red liquid catching the lamplight. “And you preserve everything yourself? Jams, pickles?”
“Everything,” I confirmed, pride warming my chest. “I can or freeze every harvest. It’s reassuring to know exactly what’s in my food.”
Levi’s gaze drifted to the kitchen door, as if picturing jars lined up on shelves. “I’d love to learn that. We’ve been buying everything. But we’re serious about homesteading—growing, preserving, maybe even chickens.”
