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"What about in winter?" I asked.

"We have outdoor heaters and plenty of blankets," Julian explained, gesturing to storage benches along the perimeter. "Nicolaus insists winter skies offer the best visibility—something about cold air and atmospheric clarity."

I wrapped my arms around myself, imagining sitting bundled beneath winter stars, maybe with hot chocolate, surrounded by the warmth of these men who seemed determined to show me a different way of living. Maybe even make a nest…I quickly shook the thought out of my head as Miles spoke up.

"Would you like to see the garden next?" Miles suggested, rising from his chair with fluid grace. "It's smaller than what you're probably used to, but we've made the most of the space."

I nodded, taking one last look at the telescope before following them back down the narrow staircase. The idea that I could return anytime—that this sanctuary beneath the stars was now part of my home—felt like a gift too precious to fully comprehend.

The garden turned out to be a modest courtyard behind the house, enclosed by ivy-covered brick walls that created a sense of private sanctuary.

Unlike the manicured perfection of my parents' formal gardens, this space had a wild, intentional charm.

Raised beds overflowed with vegetables and herbs alongside flowering plants attracting butterflies and bees.

"This is Miles's domain," Julian explained as we descended the steps into the green sanctum. "He's turned what was essentially a concrete pad into this."

Miles shrugged, but I could see the pride in his eyes as he surveyed his creation. "Growing things keeps me grounded. Reminds me that some processes can't be rushed, no matter how impatient you are."

I approached a raised bed where tomato plants climbed sturdy trellises, their fruits hanging like small red lanterns among the green foliage. "It's beautiful. So alive."

"That's the idea," Miles replied, kneeling beside one of the beds to check the soil moisture. "Your parents' gardens—all for show, right? Nothing you could actually eat or touch?"

I nodded, remembering the pristine flower beds that existed solely for aesthetic purposes. "My mother said vegetable gardens were... common. Beneath our station." I touched a tomato vine gently, surprised by its soft leaves. "But this feels more real somehow."

"Because it serves a purpose beyond looking pretty," Miles said, standing and brushing dirt from his hands. "Half the herbs Christopher uses come from right here. The tomatoes go into his sauces, the basil into his bread."

"Would you like to help sometime?" Julian asked, watching me trail my fingers over the plant leaves with obvious fascination. "Miles is always looking for extra hands, especially during harvest season."

The offer caught me off guard. "I don’t know anything about gardening.” I glanced around me, “I wasn’t allowed to get my hands dirty. It was always someone else's job to do it.”

Miles grinned, his green eyes crinkling at the corners. "Perfect. A blank slate. I can teach you without having to undo any bad habits."

"It's surprisingly therapeutic," Julian added, running his fingers through the fragrant leaves of a rosemary plant. "Something about connecting with the earth... it grounds you."

I tried to imagine it—my hands in soil, planting something that would grow and change under my care. The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating. "I'd like that," I admitted softly. "Though I'll probably be terrible at first."

"Everyone is," Miles assured me with a warm laugh. "My first attempt at growing tomatoes resulted in what Christopher called 'the saddest plants he'd ever seen.' But that's the beauty of it—plants are forgiving. They want to grow."

I smiled at the thought, reaching out to touch a bright red tomato. It was warm from the sun, its skin taut and perfect. "May I?" I asked, the ingrained habit of seeking permission still automatic.

"Always," Miles said, his tone gentle but firm. "Anything in this garden is yours to touch, pick, taste. That's the whole point."

I plucked the tomato carefully, holding it in my palm like something precious. The weight of it, the warmth, the earthy scent—all of it felt like a small miracle. "I've never picked food before."

"Try it," Julian encouraged, his voice warm with something that might have been pride. I took a small bite, unprepared for the explosion of flavor—sweet and tangy and nothing like the perfectly uniform tomatoes that appeared on my plate at home.

"Oh," I breathed, the intensity of the flavor made me close my eyes involuntarily. When I opened them, both men were watching me with expressions of quiet pleasure.

"Nothing like store-bought, is it?" Miles said, his smile widening at my reaction.

I shook my head, taking another bite with less concern for propriety. "It's incredible. I've never tasted anything like this."

Julian handed me a handkerchief from his pocket, his fingers brushing mine briefly. "Christopher says food should taste like something. Like it remembers where it came from."

"The soil, the sun," Miles added as I finished the tomato, taking the handkerchief Julian gave me to get some of the juice that dripped down my chin and wiped it away. Julian smiled and took the piece of fabric back before putting it in his pocket.

"The rain," I added softly, surprising myself with the contribution. "Everything that helped it grow."

Miles's smile widened. "Exactly. You understand already."

We continued through the garden, Miles pointing out different plants with obvious pride—peppers in various stages of ripeness, fragrant herbs I'd only ever encountered dried in spice jars, delicate strawberry plants sending out runners along the edges of their beds.

"The garden continues year-round," Julian explained as we approached a small greenhouse tucked against the back wall. "Miles is quite stubborn about having fresh greens even in winter."

"Seasonal eating is ideal," Miles admitted, pushing open the greenhouse door to reveal neat rows of lettuce and spinach, "but sometimes you just want a decent salad in February."

The greenhouse was warm and humid, filled with the earthy scent of growing plants and rich soil.

I breathed deeply, surprised by how peaceful the space felt.

Shelves lined the walls, holding trays of seedlings in various stages of development, their tiny green leaves reaching toward the glass ceiling.

"This is where everything begins," Miles explained, gently touching one of the seedling trays. "These little pepper plants will go out in the main garden once they're strong enough."

I knelt beside one of the trays, studying the delicate plants with wonder. They were so small, so vulnerable, yet there was something determined about the way they pushed toward the light. "They're like tiny miracles," I murmured.

"That's exactly what they are," Miles agreed, his voice soft with understanding. "Each one has everything it needs to become something magnificent. They just need the right conditions to flourish."

The parallel wasn't lost on me. I touched the edge of the tray carefully, wondering if I was like these seedlings—carrying some essential part of myself that had been waiting for the right conditions to grow.

"The first shoots are always the most vulnerable," Miles continued, his tone thoughtful as he watched me study the tiny plants.

"Too much water and they drown, too little and they wither.

But once they find their footing..." He gestured toward the mature plants thriving around us. "They become something beautiful."

Julian moved to stand beside me, his presence warm and steady. "Miles has a gift for seeing potential," he said quietly. "In plants and people alike."

I felt heat rise in my cheeks at the implication, but didn't pull away from their attention. For the first time in my life, being seen—truly observed—didn't feel like preparation for judgment. It felt like being recognized.

"We should head back inside," Julian suggested gently, seeing my emotions on my face. "There's still the gym to show you, and we don't want to overwhelm you with too much at once."

I nodded and followed them, glad that today had been going well. I was overwhelmed, but these Alpha’s were kind and I was hoping it stayed that way.