Page 43 of Wisteria and Cloves

Julian pulled out a chair at the table, his movements deliberate but not demanding. "Nothing here is too much trouble, Lilianna. Especially not making you comfortable in your own home."

My own home. The phrase still felt foreign, impossible. I moved to the offered chair, tucking my bare feet beneath me asI sat—another small rebellion against years of being told proper ladies never curled up in chairs.

"I like your pajamas," Miles said casually, filling a kettle with fresh water. "The stars suit you."

Heat crept into my cheeks at his observation. "Thank you. They're not very sophisticated, I know."

"Sophistication is overrated," Christopher declared, setting a steaming plate of chicken and dumplings before me. The aroma made my mouth water instantly. "Comfort is what matters at the end of the day."

Julian watched me with quiet attention as Christopher placed silverware beside my plate. "You look more like yourself," he observed softly.

I paused, fork halfway to the plate. "What do you mean?"

"Less... curated," he explained, choosing his words carefully. "More authentic."

Miles set a mug of tea beside my plate, the fragrant steam carrying hints of chamomile and honey. "You seem more relaxed. Your scent is calmer."

I hadn't considered how my scent might be changing in this new environment. I know my flowery scent could be too much, my mother had told me on many occasions. The idea that my natural scent might be more appealing when I was comfortable—not manipulated or suppressed—was something new. I tried to process what Julian had said as I took a tentative bite of the chicken and dumplings, unprepared for the explosion of flavor and comfort that spread through me.

I took a bite, the food was incredible—rich and comforting, the dumplings light despite their heartiness. I couldn't help the small sound of appreciation that escaped me.

"Good?" Christopher asked, his face lighting up at my reaction.

"Amazing," I admitted, taking another bite without trying to appear delicate or restrained. "I've never had anything like this."

"Grandma Lexton's secret recipe," Christopher explained, returning to the sink to finish the dishes. "Comfort food was her specialty. She believed good food could heal almost anything."

"Smart woman," Miles commented, leaning against the counter with his own mug of tea.

I continued eating, surprised by how hungry I actually was. The conversation flowed naturally around me—Julian mentioning an upcoming charity event and another tennis match, Miles discussing plans for winter crops in the garden, Christopher debating whether to try a new bread recipe. They included me with casual glances and small smiles, but didn't pressure me to contribute.

It was strange, being present without performing. No one was evaluating my posture or monitoring my food intake. No one expected me to demonstrate proper conversation skills or display appropriate Omega deference. I could simply... exist. Eat when hungry. Listen without strategizing my response. Be comfortable in clothes that would have earned my mother's sharpest disapproval.

"Nicolaus texted," Julian mentioned, glancing at his phone. "He'll be home in about twenty minutes."

"Did you tell him Lilianna's awake?" Christopher asked, drying his hands on a kitchen towel.

Julian nodded. "He says he's glad you're resting and to save him some of the apple tart if we haven't devoured it all."

"Apple tart?" I couldn't help the interest in my voice.

Christopher's face lit up with pride. "I made it this afternoon while you were settling in. It's cooling on the counter if you'd like to try some after you finish your dinner."

I glanced toward the counter where a golden-crusted tart sat on a wire rack, its surface glistening with what looked like ahoney glaze. The scent of cinnamon and baked apples had been teasing at the edges of my awareness since I'd entered the kitchen.

"I'd love to try it," I said, then felt compelled to add, "though I should probably save room."

Miles raised an eyebrow, his expression amused. "Says who? If you want tart, have tart. If you want dinner and tart and maybe some cheese afterward, have all of it."

The casual dismissal of portion control—something that had governed every meal of my life—was both liberating and disorienting at the same time.

"With vanilla bean ice cream?" Christopher asked, already moving toward the freezer with an energy that suggested my interest had made his entire evening.

"That sounds perfect," I said, then paused. "Actually, could I... could I see how you made it? The tart, I mean. I've never really learned to bake." The words tumbled out before I could second-guess them. My mother had always insisted that proper Omegas should understand domestic arts but never actually perform them.

Christopher's eyes absolutely lit up, his excitement palpable. "You want to learn to bake?" he asked, as if I'd offered him a precious gift. "Really?"

"If that's... if you wouldn't mind teaching me," I said hesitantly, suddenly worried I'd overstepped. "I don't want to impose on your time or—"

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