Page 26

Julian

I stand in Lila's front yard, staring at her fallen mailbox with the growing realization that I'm completely out of my depth.

The mailbox lies sideways in the grass, its post snapped at ground level. There are brackets and screws and what looks like a mounting system that makes no sense to me whatsoever. I've never fixed a mailbox. Never fixed much of anything, really. Numbers, yes. Spreadsheets, absolutely. But this?

Lila's watching from her front window. I can see her silhouette behind the glass.

Brilliant, Julian. Offer to fix something you know nothing about.

My ex-pack would have laughed at this. "See? Too complicated for simple things," my omega used to say. "Why can't you just be normal?"

Well, here I am being normal. Spectacularly failing at it but trying.

I pull the small toolbox I borrowed from Levi out of my messenger bag. Basic screwdrivers, a hammer that feels wrong in my hands, some screws that might work.

How hard can it be?

The answer, significantly harder than I thought.

The mounting bracket is bent at an impossible angle. The screws are scattered across the lawn like they're mocking me. When I try to straighten the bracket, it springs back with a metallic ping that sounds suspiciously like laughter.

I glance toward the window. Lila's still there, still watching me accomplish absolutely nothing.

The screwdriver slips in my sweaty palm and I nearly face-plant into the mailbox.

Perfect. Make a complete fool of yourself. That'll impress her.

This was supposed to be simple. Show up, fix something, demonstrate that I can be useful for more than book recommendations. Be the kind of alpha who doesn't overthink everything. Be straightforward.

"You make everything so complicated," echoes in my head. "Can't you just be like them?"

Well, I'm trying. And failing spectacularly.

I'm contemplating whether it would be less humiliating to admit defeat or continue this charade when I hear footsteps behind me.

"Need some help with that?"

Callum's voice is calm, completely free of judgment, but I can feel heat creeping up my neck anyway. I look up to find him standing a few feet away, toolbox in hand, taking in my scattered attempts at mailbox repair with those steady hazel eyes.

"I've got it," I say automatically, the lie tasting bitter.

Callum crouches down beside me, his movements deliberate and confident. He examines the bent bracket, the scattered screws, the general chaos I've created.

"Bracket's bent pretty bad," he observes, picking up one of the screws I dropped. "Probably need to replace the whole mounting system."

"Right," I say, as if I'd already reached that conclusion instead of spending fifteen minutes trying to force broken pieces back together through sheer determination.

"Want to hold it steady while I anchor it?" Callum asks, already reaching into his toolbox for what appears to be exactly the right tool for the job. "Two sets of hands make this easier."

The offer is casual, practical, delivered without judgment. There's something quietly generous about how he frames it. Not let me fix this for you but let's work on this together . Gives me a role that lets me keep some dignity while actually getting things done.

He knows why I'm doing this. And he doesn't mind.

That settles something in my chest. Callum gets it, this isn't really about mailbox repair, it's about wanting to be useful to Lila, wanting to fix things in her space. And instead of making me feel like an idiot, he's helping me actually accomplish it.

No judgment about my obvious incompetence. No comments about how I'm "too much work" for simple tasks. Just quiet help.

We work in comfortable silence, Callum's competent hands making quick work of what had seemed insurmountable.

He measures twice, cuts once, positions everything with the kind of precision that comes from years of understanding how things fit together.

I hold pieces steady and hand him tools, grateful for any way to be helpful while he does the actual work.

"There," Callum says finally, testing the stability of the newly mounted mailbox. It stands straight and solid, looking like it could weather another sixty years of mountain storms. "Should hold."

"Thank you," I say, meaning it more than the simple words can convey. "I appreciate the help."

Callum nods, already gathering his tools with efficient movements. "Good to have working hands when you need them."

The phrasing is careful, acknowledging my assistance without highlighting my obvious limitations. It's a kindness I hadn't expected and definitely didn't deserve.

The afternoon sun is starting to lower, casting longer shadows across her front yard as Dean emerges from the back porch, wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his t-shirt.

The movement reveals a strip of golden skin that catches the afternoon light, and even I can appreciate the unconscious confidence in his movements.

"Mailbox looks good," he says with genuine approval. "Professional job."

"Callum did most of the work," I admit.

"Team effort," Callum corrects easily. "Couldn't have managed it alone."

Dean's gaze flicks between us with what might be amusement, taking in the diplomatic fiction we've constructed. But there's warmth in his expression rather than judgment, like he appreciates whatever dynamic we've established here.

The front door opens and Lila steps onto the porch, her eyes bright with something that might be gratitude or relief. She's changed since this morning. Traded the tank top for a soft green dress that moves when she walks, brings out the color of her eyes in ways that make my chest tight with want.

"It looks perfect," she says, moving down the front steps with that unconscious grace that makes me forget how to breathe properly. "Thank you all so much. I can't believe how much you've accomplished today."

Her scent reaches me as she approaches, green apple and white musk, but warmer somehow. Richer. Like her contentment has added something new to what was already perfect.

Focus, Julian. Don't make it weird.

But it's hard to focus when she smells like that, when she looks at us like we've done something miraculous instead of basic home maintenance.

"It was nothing," Dean says with that easy smile, completely unaware of how his casual kindness affects everyone around him.

"It wasn't nothing," Lila insists, and there's something fierce in her voice, like she needs us to understand that this matters. That having people who show up and fix things and ask for nothing in return is revolutionary in ways we might not realize.

Before I can process what's happening, she's hugging Callum. His hands hover uncertainly before settling on her back, and the scent change is immediate.

Green apple and white musk bloom into something sweeter, richer. The air gets thick with it.

My body responds before I can stop it. Heat behind my zipper, the beginning of something I absolutely cannot acknowledge in her front yard. I keep my face neutral, my breathing steady, but I'm cataloging everything. How she smells when she's happy. What it does to the air around her.

She moves to Dean next, and when she hugs him, her scent deepens even further. Green apple takes on honey notes, something floral that makes my mouth water. Dean's own scent responds—toasted marshmallow and campfire intensifying until they're creating their own atmosphere.

Then she's turning to me.

Stay calm. Don't be weird about this.

But when she steps close enough that I can see the gold in her green eyes, when she rises on her toes to put her arms around my neck, everything else stops existing.

The contact is brief but electric. She fits against me like she was designed for it, all soft curves against my angles. Her scent explodes around us, green apple and white musk becoming something so sweet and complex that I have to bite back a sound.

This. This is what I've been missing.

Not just the physical response, though that's definitely happening. It's having her in my arms, however briefly. The trust in how she lets herself be vulnerable here. The way her scent seems designed specifically to drive me insane.

I manage to return the embrace with what I hope is appropriate restraint. My hands settle on her back, resisting every urge to hold her closer or longer. But I'm memorizing everything—her hair against my cheek, the warmth of her body, the way my own scent flares in response.

When she steps back, I have to concentrate on not following her. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright with something that might be awareness of what just passed between us, but she maintains that careful distance that keeps this interaction in safe territory.

"Really," she says, her voice slightly breathless, "I don't know how to thank you properly. All of you."

"No thanks necessary," I manage, proud of how steady my voice sounds despite the way my pulse is racing. "We're neighbors. This is what neighbors do."

The words are true but incomplete. Neighbors help with practical problems, yes, but neighbors don't usually spend their Sunday afternoons fantasizing about the scent changes that happen when a particular omega is pleased with their efforts.

But Lila doesn't need to know about any of that. Not yet, anyway.

Callum starts gathering his tools with characteristic efficiency, loading everything into his truck. The afternoon sun catches in his dark hair, highlights the competent strength in his shoulders.

"Same time next weekend?" he asks, pausing beside his truck door. "Should be able to finish the back porch by then."

"Absolutely," Lila says with enthusiasm that makes something warm settle in my chest. "I'll make lunch."

"You don't have to—" Callum starts.

"I want to," she interrupts firmly. "It's the least I can do."

Her phone starts ringing from inside the house, sharp and insistent. She glances toward the sound with mild irritation.