Page 14 of Nesting With My Three Alphas (Hollow Haven #1)

Kit

I woke to the sound of Charlie's laughter drifting through my bedroom window, bright and infectious in the early morning air.

For a moment, I lay still, letting the unfamiliar pleasure of waking up happy wash over me.

The scent of cinnamon still clung to the flannel I'd curled up in last night, leftover from cider and laughter and the hayride warmth I hadn't wanted to end.

No anxiety about what mood Marcus might be in, no careful calculation of how to navigate the day without triggering his disapproval. Just the simple joy of knowing that next door, a little girl was starting her Tuesday morning with pure delight.

My phone showed it was barely seven AM, but I felt more rested than I had in months.

The nest Charlie and the others had helped me build was working better than any sleep aid I'd ever tried.

Wrapped in Jonah's flannel, surrounded by the lingering scents of safety and care, I'd slept deeper than I had since leaving Chicago.

Since running from Chicago, I corrected myself. I was trying to be more honest about what had happened, even in my own thoughts.

I pulled on jeans and a soft sweater, then padded to the kitchen to start coffee.

My pumpkin from yesterday's outing sat on the counter like a small ambassador of joy, its perfect orange surface catching the morning light.

Through the window, I could see Charlie in Jonah's backyard, crouched over what looked like a small garden plot.

Her father was nearby, working soil with the methodical patience of someone who understood that good things took time to grow.

The sight of his hands in the earth, the way his broad shoulders moved as he turned the soil, sent a flutter through my chest that had nothing to do with caffeine withdrawal.

Without really deciding to, I found myself pouring coffee into a travel mug and heading outside.

The October morning was crisp enough to make me grateful for my sweater, but the sun was already warming the air with the promise of a beautiful day.

The scent of loamy earth and fallen leaves filled my lungs, rich and alive in a way that made my omega instincts hum with contentment.

"Good morning," I called softly as I approached the garden.

Jonah looked up from where he was kneeling, and the smile that spread across his face made my pulse skip. There was dirt smudged on his cheek and his hair was mussed from work, but something about seeing him like this, grounded and domestic, made heat curl low in my belly.

"Morning," he said, his voice carrying the warmth of someone genuinely pleased to see me. "Sleep well?"

"Better than I have in months." The honesty slipped out before I could stop it.

Charlie's head popped up immediately, her face lighting up with the unguarded joy that seemed to be her default setting. "Kit! Look what we're doing!"

"I can see. What are you planting?"

"Spring bulbs," Jonah said, straightening up with a slight grimace that suggested his back wasn't quite ready for gardening season.

The movement brought him closer, and I caught the full force of his scent, wood smoke and fresh-turned soil, something fundamentally grounding that made my omega want to press closer.

The wave of need that hit me was sudden and overwhelming, making my skin flush hot despite the cool morning air.

For a moment, the urge to lean into Jonah's space, to breathe him in properly, was so strong I had to grip my travel mug tighter to keep from moving closer.

My body responded to his proximity with an intensity that caught me completely off guard.

I pressed the back of my hand to my heated cheek, trying to look casual. "Must be warmer out here than I thought," I said, hoping my voice sounded steadier than I felt.

Jonah's eyes sharpened slightly, and I caught the subtle shift in his scent: concern mixed with something deeper, more attentive. But all he said was, "October sun can be deceiving."

It was too early for this. Wasn't it? My cycle had been erratic since leaving Chicago, stress and upheaval throwing off my usual patterns. But this feeling, this sudden hypersensitivity to alpha presence, was unmistakable.

I forced myself to focus on Charlie's cheerful explanation about bulb spacing, trying to push down the growing awareness that my heat might be approaching faster than I'd anticipated.

"Charlie decided our yard needed more color next year," Jonah said, smiling at me softly, completely oblivious to my turbulent thoughts.

"I researched it," Charlie said proudly, holding up a small tablet that was apparently her constant companion for important projects. "Did you know that if you plant tulips and daffodils and crocuses all together, you can have flowers from March all the way to May?"

"I did not know that," I said, settling cross-legged on the grass beside her. The earth was soft beneath me, slightly damp with morning dew, and I caught myself thinking about how good it felt to be grounded like this. "That sounds beautiful."

"Want to help?" Charlie asked hopefully. "We have lots of bulbs, and Dad says many hands make light work."

I looked at Jonah, who was watching our interaction with that soft expression I was beginning to recognize. The way he stepped back to let Charlie lead the conversation, the quiet pride in his eyes as he watched her share her knowledge, made something warm unfurl in my chest.

"If you don't mind an amateur gardener."

"We're all amateurs here," Jonah said, settling back down beside us. "Charlie's the expert."

Charlie beamed at being called an expert, then immediately began explaining the intricacies of bulb depth and spacing with the serious air of someone presenting crucial scientific data.

I found myself genuinely interested, not just in the gardening but in the way her mind worked, methodical and curious, approaching every new challenge with research and enthusiasm.

"So daffodils go deeper than crocuses because they're bigger," Charlie was explaining, demonstrating with her hands. "And tulips are in the middle. Like a flower sandwich underground."

"A flower sandwich," I repeated, charmed despite myself. "I like that."

"Mom used to call it that." Charlie's expression grew briefly wistful before brightening again. "She started this garden. We're just making it bigger."

The casual mention of her mother, the easy way she included her memory in present activities, made my chest tight. This was what healthy grief looked like. Love that continued beyond loss, memories that brought comfort instead of pain.

"She had good taste," I said gently.

"Yeah, she did." Jonah's voice was warm with affection and only the faintest shadow of sadness. "Sarah always said gardens were about hope. Planting something in the fall and trusting it would bloom in the spring."

Hope. I turned the word over in my mind as I helped Charlie arrange tulip bulbs in neat rows. When was the last time I'd planted something I might not be around to see bloom? When had I last made plans that extended beyond the immediate need to survive?

"Kit, you're thinking too hard again," Charlie observed, patting soil over a particularly promising daffodil bulb. "Your scent gets all tangled when you overthink."

"Sorry," I said automatically, then caught myself. "Actually, no. I'm not sorry for having feelings."

Charlie tilted her head, considering this. "Why would you be sorry for feelings? Feelings are just information."

"Who taught you that?"

"My grief counselor. After Mom died, I had lots of big feelings, and she said they were just my heart trying to tell me important stuff."

The matter-of-fact way she discussed therapy, the complete absence of shame about needing help processing difficult emotions, was yet another small revelation.

In my family, seeking help had been seen as weakness.

Marcus had actively discouraged it, claiming that a well-matched omega shouldn't need outside support.

"Your grief counselor sounds very smart."

"She is. She helped me understand that being sad about Mom didn't mean I couldn't be happy about other things too." Charlie pressed another bulb into the soil with careful precision. "Like, I can miss her and still be excited about you being here."

The simple wisdom of it hit me like a gentle blow. You could hold multiple truths at the same time. You could grieve what you'd lost while celebrating what you'd found.

"Charlie," Jonah said quietly, "maybe Kit doesn't want to hear about..."

"It's okay," I said quickly. "Really. I... I think I needed to hear it."

Jonah's eyes met mine over Charlie's bent head, understanding passing between us.

He saw what I was processing, the way his daughter's innocent wisdom was helping me untangle knots I'd been carrying for months.

The knowing look he gave me was gentle but intense, like he was seeing straight through to my heart.

We worked in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the soft thud of soil being turned, Charlie's occasional observations about optimal bulb placement, and the distant call of birds settling into their morning routines.

The repetitive nature of the work was soothing, meditative in a way I hadn't expected.

I found myself hyperaware of Jonah beside me, the way his hands moved with quiet competence, the warm sound of his laugh when Charlie made one of her scientific pronouncements.

"Ladies!" Micah's voice called from Jonah's kitchen window, making us all look up in surprise. He was leaning out with a plate of what looked like fresh muffins and a steaming mug. "Thought you might need some fuel for all that hard work, so I decided to drop by with a surprise."

"Micah makes the best blueberry muffins," Charlie announced, immediately abandoning her bulb placement to race toward the house.

"She's not wrong," Jonah said with a fond smile, watching his daughter's eager retreat. "He's been perfecting that recipe for years."