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“I’ll definitely complain.”

“Good,” I say, tossing her the spare shovel resting by the porch. “Wouldn’t want you to forget who you are.”

She catches it one-handed, easy. The shovel’s too big for her hands, the ground too stubborn for her weight, but she doesn’t flinch. She drives the blade into the earth anyway, hair falling into her face, bare toes curling in the dirt. The soft scrape of metal against stone settles deep in my chest, almost grounding.

She glances over at me after a few minutes, wiping the back of her hand across her brow, lips quirking.

"You know," she says, breathless but smug, "you could do this in half the time. Hell, you could clear this whole damn yard in ten seconds if you used your magic."

I don’t look up from the patch of soil I’m ripping apart, knuckles tight around the handle. "That’s not the point."

Her voice drops, playful. "What is the point, then?"

I shove the spade deep, twisting until the weeds tear free with a satisfying snap.

"It takes longer this way," I murmur, wiping dirt from my palms. "I want it to."

She watches me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m serious or if I’ve finally lost it. Knowing her, she probably thinks it’s both.

"You could snap your fingers and this would be done."

I shrug, scoffing quietly. "I can’t plant here. Not really. This soil’s dead, like the rest of this godsdamned place. When it’s time to make something grow, yeah—I’ll have to use magic for that. But the work—the cleaning, the clearing—the mess? That’s mine."

She tilts her head, biting back a smile, tongue flicking over her lower lip.

"So you’re telling me," she says slowly, deliberately, "you’re voluntarily doing manual labor because you’re sentimental."

I level her a look.

"Domesticated," she sings under her breath, grinning. The smile that curls my mouth isn’t pretty. It’s sharp, feral, something she put there.

"Shut your mouth," I mutter, voice low, but there’s no heat in it.

She laughs—quiet, soft like she doesn’t want anyone else to hear her. Like this is only ours. The sound slips under my skin, hooks into me in ways I don’t want to think too hard about.

She squats beside me, resting her chin on her knees, eyes flicking over the wrecked yard and the mess of roots and rocks we’ve been pulling out. Her hand brushes the ground absently, fingers tracing lazy patterns in the dirt.

Before I can speak, before she can say something that will undo me, footsteps crunch through the grass behind us.

Loud. Purposeful. Absolutely not subtle.

"Well, well, well," Elias drawls, voice stretched thin with mischief, "if it isn’t my favorite domesticated rage monster."

Luna grins without looking at him, but her hand shifts, resting on her knee a little tighter like she’s trying not to laugh.

I glance back, expression flat, unimpressed.

Elias stands at the edge of the yard, shirt half-buttoned, silver hair a mess, eyes flicking over both of us like he’s walked in on something scandalous.

"Are you two playing house?" he teases, eyes landing on the half-tilled dirt. "Is this a couple’s activity? Do I need to get Silas so we can double date?"

"Get out," I mutter, voice sharp enough to cut.

He ignores me entirely, sauntering forward, hands in his pockets.

"Look at you," Elias continues, grinning wide now, "sweaty, covered in dirt, making a garden like some suburban dad. This is it, Riven. You’ve officially lost your edge."

Luna snorts beside me.