11 - The Line In The Dust

By the time the kids got home from school, Sebastian had already half-packed a drawer in his room. Lavender clung faintly to the air, warm and blooming in the stillness.

It filled the room like a memory and made the quiet feel heavier, more intimate. More dangerous.

The house had felt too quiet without them. Just the sound of the fridge humming, the creak of old floorboards, the low mutter of wind curling through the window seams.

The kind of quiet that made you think too much—and for Sebastian, that meant spiraling.

His scent grew sharper when he was anxious. Sweet and clean, with a trace of salt. The kind of smell that begged for comfort, for closeness. For something Alpha.

Camden was the first through the door, backpack thudding against the wall as he launched inside like a missile. “I GOT A STICKER!” he announced with the importance of a Nobel prize. A glittery gold star clung to his shirt like a badge of honor. “Miss Tori said I was patient!”

Sebastian blinked, eyebrows raised. “You? Patient?”

“Once!” Camden beamed. “Like... for maybe three minutes.”

Behind him, Caleb shuffled in—face flushed, curls bouncing, a huge grin stretching his cheeks. The scent of wind and playground dust clung to them both, the fresh-baked scent of young Alphas still shaping their world.

“We sang the frog song, and I didn’t even scream this time.”

“Only a little scream,” Camden added, spinning in a circle. “Just a tiny one. Inside his mouth.”

Sebastian crouched in the hallway, warmth blooming across his chest as he unzipped their backpacks.

His scent softened instinctively, the lavender mellowing to something cozy. “That’s awesome, you guys. You remembered your lunchboxes too—progress.”

“Miss Tori said if we’re good all week, we get frogs,” Caleb said solemnly.

“Like toy frogs?” Sebastian asked, praying.

“No! Real frogs!” Caleb whispered with reverence. “From the garden.”

Sebastian winced. “Lord help Miss Tori.”

The twins erupted into giggles and launched into a dizzying retelling of recess and how a kid named Orion tried to lick a window.

Then Mia breezed in—composed, polished, even after a full day. Her phone peeked out of her back pocket, her braid somehow still sleek despite the wind.

She leaned against the doorframe like a girl in a magazine. There was a faint Omega scent around her too—light, not fully bloomed. But Sebastian caught it, the echo of himself in her.

“I got voted onto the Welcome Committee,” she said like she’d just mentioned brushing her teeth.

Sebastian straightened. “Day two?”

“They like me,” she said, flipping her braid over her shoulder. “It’s the lashes.”

Ezra appeared in the doorway to the mudroom, towel slung around his neck, damp hair curling at his temples. His shirt clung to his chest from the heat.

His scent hit the room like a current—sandalwood and spice, thickened by sweat and sun and the heat of fresh labor. Alpha. Strong enough to make Sebastian’s mouth go dry.

“You okay with that?” Ezra asked Mia, voice gruff.

Mia shrugged. “It’s fine. One girl said I dress like an influencer. I don’t even know what that means. But I’ll take it.”

She walked past them, but paused on the first stair. Her nose wrinkled, just slightly. “Are you two fighting again?”

Sebastian froze. Ezra said nothing.

Mia’s eyes narrowed. “Cool. Great. Love that for us.” Then she disappeared upstairs, feet heavy on every step.

The twins didn’t notice the tension. They kept close to Sebastian, climbing on his legs like baby monkeys, chirping about snack time and finger paint and how Camden swore he saw a ghost behind the cafeteria door.

They smelled like sunshine and juice boxes and innocence.

Ezra watched from the edge of the room. Not speaking. Just… watching. Like Sebastian was something under a microscope. Or a meal.

And maybe he was.

Sebastian could feel it—Ezra’s scent tightening, circling. Not aggressive. Just there. Dominant by nature, not force. A biological pull, hovering close enough to raise the hairs on Sebastian’s arms.

Ezra didn’t say anything when Sebastian tied Camden’s shoe or wiped a smudge off Caleb’s cheek with his sleeve.

Didn’t step in when Sebastian led them to wash their hands and set out crackers and hummus—mostly ignored, but offered anyway.

The scent of Alpha lingered just behind him, curling over Sebastian’s skin in ghost touches.

It was quiet by seven. The twins had settled with picture books. Mia was in her room texting. Sebastian sat curled in the corner of the worn couch, legs tucked up under him, hoodie pulled close, scent dulled to a low pulse of lavender.

He wasn’t sure when the twins fell asleep on him—Camden with his cheek pressed against his chest, Caleb’s hand tangled in the hem of Sebastian’s sweatshirt.

He should’ve moved them. He meant to. But the warmth was a tether he wasn’t ready to break.

The house had shifted. It smelled like lavender hand soap and dusty sunlight. Like crayons and crackers and Ezra’s jacket draped over the kitchen chair.

The walls creaked, not with menace but memory. Sebastian had never meant to stay long—but now there were fingerprints on the fridge door, socks in the hallway, a child’s drawing on the back of the pantry door that read “SEB is nice” in crayon.

The front door creaked open sometime after ten.

Sebastian stirred but didn’t move.

Ezra stood in the doorway like a shadow stretched too tall. Dirt smudged across his arms. His scent rolled in first—richer now, layered with fatigue and earth, the kind of smell that curled deep in Sebastian’s chest and made something ache.

Sebastian didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. The image in front of him was enough: the twins wrapped around him like he belonged to them. Like a second heart in the room.

Ezra watched too long.

His footsteps were slow. Careful. Like walking across something breakable. His scent barely shifted—but Sebastian caught it. Something leaner. Tighter. Something undecided.

He came close. Stopped.

Then, in the low light, Sebastian felt it—Ezra’s fingers brushing hair from his forehead, soft and fleeting. His hand hovered for a breath. The scent between them caught, spiked. Something electric. Unspoken.

Sebastian didn’t move. Didn’t dare breathe.

Ezra froze. Like he’d caught himself mid-dream. Then jerked his hand back like it burned.

The moment cracked like glass.

Ezra turned sharply and disappeared upstairs without a word. The scent of him lingered long after.

Sebastian sat there, heart hammering. He stared at the hallway long after it emptied, until it blurred at the edges. One twin shifted in sleep. The other mumbled something about frogs.

He didn’t move the rest of the night.

The next morning, the kettle screamed like it was warning someone.

Sebastian turned it off before it could wake the kids, moving around the kitchen like his body didn’t quite fit. His scent was quiet now. Tense. The lavender tinged with something uncertain. Like bruised fruit under a clean skin.

The floor was cold. The windows fogged slightly with morning breath. Outside, a pale mist clung to the edges of the fields.

He made coffee with hands that shook.

Ezra came down fifteen minutes later—hair damp from a shower, scent still warm from the water. He smelled like clean cotton and heat. Like restraint. He moved around Sebastian like he wasn’t there. Grabbed a mug. Didn’t speak.

Sebastian sipped his coffee slowly. “Morning.”

Ezra grunted.

Their scents didn’t mingle. They circled. Orbiting.

The kids tumbled down shortly after, breaking the tension with a thousand questions and a spilled box of cereal.

The air filled with giggles, milk, and cinnamon.

But under it all, the chemistry lingered—an invisible thread pulled taut, scented and silent.