6 - Finding The Rhythm

Wesmere had its own kind of morning: blue-skied, bird-laced, and deceptively quiet—until a six-year-old screamed bloody murder because he didn’t want oatmeal.

Ezra wiped sweat off his brow and surveyed the field behind the house, where overgrown grass had once reached his knees.

He’d spent the better part of the morning with a trimmer in hand, carving paths through the wild green like he was taming a jungle.

It was humid—thick air clinging to his skin, shirt damp and sticking to his back—and his arms ached from the effort. But it was good work. Real. Tangible.

Beneath the tang of sweat and soil, the scent of wood shavings and crushed grass clung to him—sharp and grounding.

His own scent, laced with something deeper—alpha spice and warm sandalwood—drifted faintly in the thick morning air. It reminded him he was still here. Still standing.

From the coop, now standing sturdier than it had in years, to the porch he’d pressure-washed yesterday, the land was beginning to show signs of life again. So was he.

The kids were still inside, which meant they were probably either climbing the curtains or drawing on walls. Mia might’ve had them under control, or she might’ve locked herself in her room with headphones. With her, it was a coin toss.

Somewhere near the fence, the old chicken coop sagged like a drunken man—half-collapsed and missing a door, its wire rusted and curling at the edges.

That was his next project. Ezra grabbed his tools—hammer, screws, salvaged wood panels from the shed—and got to work. The rhythmic thunk-thunk of the hammer was a comfort, grounding him as he tore off rotting slats and replaced them.

He hadn’t felt grounded in weeks.

Grief came in waves. There were days he woke up and didn’t remember that Megan was gone. Other days, he’d pass the hallway mirror and expect to see her reflection behind him—arms crossed, eyebrows raised, ready to nag him about calling more often.

He still hadn’t stepped into her bedroom. He wasn’t ready.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready.

Out by the porch, Sebastian sat cross-legged in the grass with the twins. Caleb was stacking sticks and calling it “trap construction” while Camden tied wildflowers together with the quiet focus of a monk.

Sebastian laughed as Caleb pounced onto his half-finished “net” and declared war on all wild chickens in Wesmere.

The laughter carried on the wind, sweet and strangely intoxicating—laced with lavender. Ezra’s chest tightened when the scent reached him. Subtle, soft, familiar.

Sebastian.

Mia sat on the porch steps, notebook balanced on one knee, half-watching, half-doodling. She didn’t say much, but she was always there, keeping vigil like a small, silent sentry.

Sebastian glanced up toward the coop and caught Ezra watching.

Their eyes met—brief, unassuming—but something flickered there. A look Ezra couldn’t quite name. Soft. Curious. Almost tender.

And gods, that scent.

The heat of it hit Ezra harder than he expected, his senses sharpening. Lavender and something sweeter beneath it, almost honeyed. Omega.

Even now, Sebastian’s scent wasn’t overpowering—it never was—but it threaded through Ezra’s blood like smoke. Subtle. Anchoring. Dangerous.

Then Sebastian looked away, tucking a loose curl behind his ear and redirecting his attention to the twins. But Ezra felt the heat of it lingering in his chest long after.

By noon, Ezra had reattached the wire mesh, replaced two broken beams, and installed a makeshift door that swung properly. No chickens yet—but the coop was ready.

He wiped his hands on his jeans and made his way toward the house, chest glistening with sweat, shirt slung over one shoulder. His scent was stronger now—assertive, raw, touched with pride.

Sebastian met him halfway.

“Okay,” he said, breathless, “I’ve been promoted to chicken consultant, monster slayer, and official snack dispenser.”

Ezra raised a brow. “Not therapist?”

“That too. But apparently that’s the boring one.”

He tilted his face up toward Ezra’s, the corner of his mouth quirking. The sun painted gold across his cheekbones. Ezra noticed the way his eyelashes curled, soft as ink strokes. His chest tightened inexplicably.

Sebastian’s scent warmed with affection—Ezra could sense the shift in it. It drew him in.

“You’ve done a lot,” Sebastian said, glancing toward the coop. “The place already feels... different.”

Ezra shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. “Still a hell of a lot left.”

“Yeah, but it’s not nothing. You’re rebuilding things. That counts.”

There was a weight to Sebastian’s words. A softness Ezra hadn’t realized he needed. His scent curled closer too, like it was reaching for Ezra without him meaning it to. Comforting. Reassuring.

They stood in silence a moment. Not awkward. Not tense. Just... full. Ezra could feel the quiet in his bones.

A scream broke it—Caleb, shrieking something about Camden throwing ants at his hair.

Sebastian sighed. “Break time’s over.”

“You sure you’re not regretting volunteering?”

Sebastian gave him a crooked grin. “I regretted it the second Camden asked if I knew how to milk snakes. But... I’m still here.”

Ezra’s chest gave a reluctant laugh. “God help you.”

“Someone has to.”

As Sebastian turned back toward the chaos, Ezra caught it again—that subtle glance over his shoulder. Not long enough to be obvious. Just enough to notice.

Another look. Another beat. Another unspoken thing between them.

Later that afternoon, the boys decided the chicken coop was a pirate ship. Ezra found them climbing the sides with sticks for swords and bandanas tied around their heads.

Sebastian played along, pretending to be a sea witch who cursed them into chickens until they apologized for mutiny.

Ezra watched from a few feet away, arms folded, a half-smile tugging at his lips. His alpha instincts stirred at the sight—not possessive, but protective.

Something warm and animal in his blood. He couldn’t remember the last time he laughed this much—or felt this seen. Not since before Clara. Maybe not ever.

By dinner, Sebastian had coaxed Mia into setting the table while Ezra grilled. Nothing fancy—just burgers and chips—but the kids tore into them like they were gourmet.

Sebastian sipped lemonade beside Ezra on the back steps, their shoulders just inches apart.

“You’re good with them,” Ezra said, voice low.

Sebastian’s lashes lifted. “Thanks. I’ve known them for a while. Megan brought them in for sessions, you know. Especially after the divorce.”

Ezra nodded. “She mentioned something about therapy once, but I thought she was just venting.”

Sebastian’s eyes went distant. “She was scared she was messing them up. But she did a good job. The kids are bright. Resilient.”

Ezra stared out over the field. The sun was setting now, burning low and orange across the grass. Sebastian’s scent caught the breeze again—lavender and soft sugar.

“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

Sebastian turned to him fully. “You’re here. You stayed. You’re trying. That’s more than most.”

Ezra looked at him—really looked.

He could see it again, just below the surface. That thing Sebastian wouldn’t say out loud. A fondness. A low, humming affection. Not pushy. Not loud. Just there.

And Ezra... responded to it. Despite himself. Despite everything. His scent deepened without permission, brushing against Sebastian’s like an unspoken question.

Ezra swallowed.

“I’m not used to this,” he admitted. “This many people. This much mess. It’s like someone handed me a live grenade and told me to babysit it.”

Sebastian laughed. “Then you’re doing great. The house is still standing.”

Ezra exhaled. “Barely.”

Sebastian leaned back on his palms, looking up at the sky. “If you ever need help… I’m around.”

Ezra glanced at him. “You mean today?”

“No, I mean regularly. I can’t promise every day, but... I’ll come and go. Help where I can. Be the backup grenade-holder.”

Ezra blinked at him.

“You’re serious?”

Sebastian nodded. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

Ezra didn’t answer right away. His throat felt tight. His instincts hummed, uncertain—this omega was soft, steady, and every breath Ezra took seemed to want to match itself to Sebastian’s.

He looked at the kids. Mia was clearing the plates without being asked. The twins were racing to see who could catch more fireflies.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe—with help—he could make this work.

“Alright,” Ezra said, voice rough. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Sebastian smiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And for the first time since he’d stepped foot back into the house he hadn’t seen in eight years, Ezra didn’t feel like he was drowning.

He felt like maybe—just maybe—he could start to swim.