Page 53 of Knot on the Market

"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 becomingsomething 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."

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