Page 8 of Wild Thorns

"Eli takes notes." Jasper's expression shifted into something between fond and exasperated. "Actual notes. On pie. Flavor profiles, texture analysis, comparative rankings against previous iterations."

"Notes on pie."

"He's been doing it since we were twelve. Has a whole spreadsheet somewhere. Cross-references seasonal variations, tracks which orchards produced the best fruit in which years, notes the ambient temperature during baking and whether it affected the rise." Jasper shook his head, but he was smiling. "I'd be offended if it wasn't so thoroughly Eli."

I laughed. Actually laughed, the sound startling in my own ears. I couldn't remember the last time I'd laughed like that. Surprised. Unguarded. Like something had caught me off-balance in a good way, for once.

Jasper's expression softened when he heard it. Something flickered in those whiskey-warm eyes, something that looked almost like wonder.

Like my laughter was something worth paying attention to.

"The triplets who cook," I said, recovering. "Let me guess: Callum's the strong silent type, you're the charmer, and Eli's..."

"The smart one." He didn't seem offended. "Classic triple trope. We learned to lean into it early. Easier than fighting against expectations."

"And you don't mind being the charmer?"

He actually thought about it. Not just produce a ready-made answer, but turn the question over like it mattered. Like I'd asked him something worth examining.

"Someone has to make people feel comfortable," he said finally. "Callum's too intense. He walks into a room and everyone goes quiet. Not because they're scared, exactly, but because his presence is so much. Takes up all the air. And Eli gets lost in his own head. He'll be standing right in front of you, making eye contact, and you can tell he's actually thinking about something that happened three hundred years ago."

"Three hundred years?"

"He's into local history. Archives, genealogy, old maps, older documents. If it's dusty and written in cursive and requires special gloves to handle, Eli wants to catalog it." Jasper's smile was fond, protective, the expression of someone who had spent a lifetime watching out for the people he loved. "Which leaves me. Someone has to remember to ask people about their day. Someone has to notice when things get too serious and crack a joke. Someone has to—" He stopped, shrugged like it didn't matter. "I don't know. Make the space feel safe."

Make the space feel safe.

The words landed somewhere in my chest and stayed there. Lodged themselves in a place I'd thought was empty, or at least too scarred to feel anything.

"That's not just charm," I murmured. "That's labor."

His eyes met mine, and something shifted in them. A flicker of seriousness beneath the warmth—a depth I hadn't expected. For a moment, the easy charm fell away, and I caught a glimpse of something else. A loneliness so clear it ached to look at.

"Most people don't see it that way," he said.

"Most people aren't paying attention."

The words hung between us. The evening air was thick with magnolia and something else, honeysuckle maybe, or jasmine, the layered perfume of a Louisiana summer settling around us like a blanket. From somewhere in the preserve, a bird called out, and another answered. The light was going golden, then amber, shadows lengthening across the yard.

Jasper held my gaze, and I had the sudden, disorienting feeling that he was seeing me more clearly than anyone had in a very long time. Not the surface version of me, the careful construction I'd learned to present. The real thing underneath. The scared, scarred, stubborn thing that had somehow survived the last three years.

Then he smiled, and the intensity broke like a wave pulling back from the shore.

"This town can be... a lot for newcomers," he said. "Especially those running from something."

My whole body went still. "I'm not—"

"Everyone's running from something." His voice dropped, intimate, careful. "You've got that look. The one that says you check exits before you sit down. Count strangers in a room. Notice everyone's hands."

He'd stripped my camouflage away with the casual precision of someone who saw more than he let on. All my careful invisibility, all my practiced normalcy, and he'd seen through it in four days.

"I won't ask," he continued. "It's your business, and you'll tell us when you're ready. Or you won't, and that's fine too." A smile, softer this time. Genuine. "But if you need anything, anything at all, we're just downstairs. The Thornwood pack takes care of its own."

"Your mom used that word too."

"Which word?"

"Pack." I tried to keep my expression more casual than I felt.