Chapter 35 #2
This was nice. This was really, really nice.
Dinner was delicious—the barbecue chicken perfectly cooked, Levi's mashed potatoes, the vegetables charred and seasoned in a way that made me want to ask for the recipe.
We ate around the fire pit as the sun sank lower, conversation flowing easily between bites, laughter punctuating the evening air.
I learned that Garrett had once tried to adopt a stray cat that turned out to be a very angry opossum.
That Levi couldn't cook anything besides potatoes and breakfast food, a limitation the others teased him about mercilessly.
That Micah had memorized the periodic table by age eight and still used chemical compound names as swear words when he was frustrated.
That Oliver secretly loved terrible reality TV shows and would watch them late at night when he couldn't sleep.
Small things. Silly things. The kind of details you only learned by being close to someone, by being invited into the intimate spaces of their lives.
They asked about me too. Not the big questions—they already knew those, had drawn them out of me during weeks of careful conversation—but the little ones.
My favorite color, green, like the colors of nature.
My most embarrassing moment, falling into the duck pond at the market when I was nineteen and helping Margaret.
It felt like being seen. Like being known.
Like being wanted, not despite my quirks and flaws, but including them.
As the sun disappeared behind the trees and the fire pit was lit against the growing darkness, I excused myself to use the bathroom.
Levi gave me directions, "Down the hall, second door on the left, don't go in the first door, that's Oliver's office and he gets weird about it".
I made my way back into the house alone.
The bathroom was clean and simple, obviously shared by four men but not unpleasantly so. I washed my hands, splashed some cool water on my face, and took a moment to just breathe. In the mirror, my reflection looked different than I expected. Softer somehow. Happier.
You're doing this, I told myself. You're actually doing this.
On my way back to the patio, I paused in the living room, drawn by something I hadn't noticed before.
On the bookshelf, tucked between a thriller novel and what looked like a manual for car repair, was a small framed photograph.
Four men, younger than they were now, arms around each other's shoulders, grinning at the camera.
Garrett without his long hair. Levi with longer hair.
Micah looking almost exactly the same, serious even in a candid shot.
And Oliver, younger and somehow softer, his smile wide and unguarded in a way I'd never seen.
They looked happy. They looked like family. I reached out to touch the frame, tracing the edge of it with my fingertip. This was who they were before me. This was the pack they'd built together, the bond they'd forged over years of friendship and trust and choosing each other again and again.
And now they were choosing me too. Making space for me, literally and figuratively. Hanging a hook for my jacket and cooking my favorite foods and asking about my embarrassing moments.
The thought was overwhelming. Terrifying.
Wonderful. I turned to head back outside, and stopped.
On the sofa, the throw pillows were arranged haphazardly, some leaning against the back cushions, others piled at one end.
It looked comfortable but chaotic, the kind of casual disarray that came from actual use rather than deliberate styling.
For some reason, looking at it made my fingers itch.
Before I could think about what I was doing, I was crossing to the sofa, picking up the pillows, rearranging them.
Two against the left arm, evenly spaced.
Two against the right. One in the center, positioned just so.
The throw blanket folded neatly, draped over the back instead of bunched at one end.
Better. That was better. That was—
I froze, a pillow still clutched in my hands.
What was I doing? This wasn't my house. This wasn't my sofa.
I had no business rearranging their things, touching their belongings, making changes to a space that wasn't mine.
What would they think if they saw me? That I was overstepping, presuming, trying to claim something I had no right to claim?
Heat flooded my face as I hastily returned the pillow to where I'd found it. Tried to remember how the others had been positioned. But I couldn't, my mind was blank with panic, my heart racing, my hands trembling slightly as I attempted to recreate the original chaos.
"You okay in there?" Levi's voice drifted from the patio. "Did you fall in?"
"Fine!" My voice came out too high. "Just—coming!" I gave up on the pillows, leaving them in what I hoped was close to their original configuration, and fled back outside before anyone could notice what I'd done.
The evening air cooled my burning cheeks as I stepped onto the patio. Oliver looked up from where he was poking at the fire, concern flickering across his features. "Everything alright?"
"Perfect." I forced a smile, settling back into my chair. "Just took a minute to admire your place. It's really lovely."
"It's getting there." Oliver's gaze lingered on my face, searching for something I wasn't ready to show him.
"Still a lot of work to do." The conversation drifted on, safer topics, easier territory—but part of my mind stayed stuck on what had happened inside.
The inexplicable urge to rearrange their pillows.
The deep, instinctive wrongness of how they'd been positioned.
The way my hands had moved before my brain could catch up.
What was that about? I didn't rearrange things.
I didn't fuss with other people's belongings.
I'd spent years cultivating a life where everything was exactly where I wanted it because I lived alone and answered to no one.
Imposing that same need for order on someone else's space was.
.. weird. Presumptuous. Possibly a little unhinged.
Maybe I was just tired. Overstimulated. It had been an intense few days—the stargazing with Micah, the market this morning, the emotional weight of everything changing so fast. A little weirdness was probably normal.
I pushed the thought away and focused on the present.
The warmth of the fire. The sound of Levi's laughter.
The comfortable weight of Garrett's arm resting on the back of my chair.
The way Oliver kept glancing at me like he was checking that I was still there, still real, still his.
The evening wound down slowly, comfortably.
We moved inside when the night air grew too cold, settling onto the sofa—pillows still askew, I noticed with a guilty twinge—to watch something mindless on TV.
I ended up sandwiched between Garrett and Micah, a blanket draped over my lap that I didn't remember asking for but was grateful to have.
At some point, without meaning to, I fell asleep.
I woke to voices—low, careful, clearly trying not to disturb me.
"—should just let her stay. She's exhausted."
"She has to drive home. We can't just—"
"Can't just what? Take care of her? Because that's literally what we're supposed to be doing."
"She might not want to stay. We haven't discussed—"
"Oliver." Levi's voice, firm but gentle. "Look at her. She's comfortable. She's safe. For once in her life, she doesn't look like she's bracing for impact. Maybe we should let her have that for a few more hours."
A pause. Then Oliver, softer: "I know. I just don't want to push her. She's already dealing with so much."
"You're not pushing. You're opening a door.
She can walk through it or not." I think that was Garrett’s voice.
I should announce that I was awake. Should sit up and stretch and pretend I hadn't heard any of that.
I was so warm, so comfortable, wrapped in softness and surrounded by the scent of the pack, and some selfish part of me wanted to stay in this moment just a little longer.
"Daphne?" Oliver's voice, close now. "Hey. You fell asleep."
I let my eyes flutter open, feigning grogginess. "Mmm?"
"It's late. Past eleven." His hand brushed hair back from my face, the touch achingly gentle. "Do you want to head home, or...?" The question hung unfinished. An offer without pressure. A door, like Levi had said, waiting to see if I'd walk through it.
I should go home. Should maintain boundaries, keep some distance, not rush into anything I wasn't ready for. I was so tired. And so comfortable. And they were all looking at me with such hope, such careful restraint, such obvious desire to take care of me.
"I should go," I said, and watched the light dim in their eyes. "But—can we do this again? Soon?"
The hope returned, brighter than before.
"Whenever you want," Oliver said. "The door's always open.
" They walked me to my truck in a group, unnecessary but sweet, and I let each of them hug me goodbye.
Garrett's embrace was warm and lingering.
Levi's was brief but fierce. Micah's was careful, almost tentative, like he still wasn't sure of his welcome. And Oliver's—
Oliver held me like I was something precious. Something worth protecting. His face buried in my hair, his breath warm against my temple, his arms wrapped around me like he never wanted to let go.
"Drive safe," he murmured. "Text us when you get home."
"I will." I drove away with their figures growing smaller in my rearview mirror, the taste of something sweet and terrifying on my tongue.
Home, I thought. But for the first time, I wasn't sure which home I meant.
My cabin, with its familiar solitude and careful boundaries?
The warmth I'd just left behind, with its empty hook by the door and its crooked pillows on the sofa and its four men who were making space for me whether I was ready for it or not?
I didn't have an answer. Not yet. I was starting to think I might want to find one.