Page 15 of Meadowsweet and Marigold (EverAfter CozyXverse #1)

MORNING DEW

~ M EADOW~

Morning arrives with a coat of frost sparkling across the fields, the early light casting the landscape in a magical, crystalline glow.

The chill in the air is refreshing, bracing against Meadow's skin as he moves through his morning routine.

He's been up since five, unable to sleep past the first hint of dawn, every minute pulling him closer to a day he's unsure how to navigate.

His thoughts, restless as a caged animal, push him into activity.

By now, he's already fed the horses, mucked out several stalls, and repaired a loose board on one of the paddock fences — simple tasks, things that could have waited but offered a necessary outlet for his anxious energy.

Now he stands at the main gate, the metal cold under his touch, eyes fixed on the road that winds up to the ranch.

The potential of Marigold not showing flickers at the edges of his mind, a thought he pushes away like a too-curious fly. It's five minutes to seven, the cold morning air crisp in his lungs, and he's fighting the urge to pace.

The silence of the ranch envelops him, punctuated by the occasional snort of a horse or the rustle of wind through barren branches.

The stillness is both comforting and unnerving, amplifying every doubt and anticipation threading through him. He checks his watch, though he already knows the exact time.

"She'll come or she won't," he mutters, trying to sound casual even in solitude. The truth is, he's never felt so invested in an outcome he swears he doesn't care about.

Just as the uncertainty grows too loud to ignore, the sound of an approaching vehicle pulls him from his spiraling thoughts.

An older model sedan appears around the bend, its tires crunching over the gravel, moving at a measured pace. Relief floods through him, a warm tide that washes away his futile worries, followed immediately by self-annoyance at how much he clearly cares.

He watches as the car approaches, its movement like a tether drawing him in, both helpless against and willing to embrace the pull.

His breath catches somewhere between anticipation and dread.

It's ridiculous how much this matters to him — a simple job, a straightforward arrangement — and yet here he is, heart pounding like it's the ten-second mark at an auction.

As the sedan inches closer, he finds himself already trying to decipher her intentions, whether her presence today means commitment or a temporary whim.

Each second stretches into eternity, an emotional marathon he's unprepared to run.

A tightness grips his chest, something between old pain and unfamiliar hope.

He cannot help but compare this sensation to the days before Eliza, when the world seemed full of unmade promises and he'd convinced himself he was too tough to care.

How wrong he'd been then. How na?ve to think that devotion was a guarantee, that love made you invulnerable.

Yet here he is, poised on the brink of letting another wounded soul into his life.

He tries to curb the urge to invest, to convince himself that Marigold is just another temporary blip in his otherwise controlled existence.

But the very need to convince betrays him.

It's more than this job, more than shared responsibilities pressing him to engage.

It's those eyes that tell a story he knows too well. He's not ready to say what he wants from her, if anything, but damn it all if he isn't affected just the same.

He hears Gus's words echoing.

Don't make it into something it's not.

H e wants to believe it can be just that simple. He wants that ease of heart, that ability to stay unattached. But his track record says otherwise; every choice he's made has been a leap into complication, and every time his heart has come out a little more bruised.

The sedan slows to a crawl, and her hesitation is palpable even from this distance. It's like watching the playback of his own inner struggle, seeing her almost stop and reconsider.

Does she want this? Does she trust him? Does he have any right to care whether she does?

The self-doubt gnaws at him, a persistent shadow that refuses to be shrugged off.

And then, just as his mind loops back to its most defensive cynicism, the car accelerates, closing the final distance between them.

Whatever uncertainty she had, she pushed through it; those walls she wanted to build, she'd left them in the dust, at least for this morning.

Relief pours through him with shocking intensity, so tangible he could almost laugh at the ridiculous truth of it. He hadn't realized until this moment just how much he needed her to show up, how much he'd been bracing for the echo of one more goodbye.

The car rolls to a stop, and for a moment he hangs back, giving her the space he senses she'll need. The Alpha desire in him urges him to rush forward; to be a man and open the door, assuring her of safety and a place to belong .

But he reins it in with practiced restraint, aware of how easily that kind of forwardness could send her running.

She is here, and that's enough for this moment.

He'll take what he can get, even if it's just one cold morning in the heart of October.

Marigold steps out of the car, her movements cautious, as though she's afraid the ground might disappear beneath her feet.

Once again, he's struck by the fragile strength she embodies—an exquisite contradiction of confidence and vulnerability.

Her eyes dart around, taking in the ranch, the horizon, and finally settling on him with a mixture of trepidation and resolve. She looks ready to bolt and to stay, all at once.

It mirrors his own tangle of emotions so perfectly that he can't help but feel a rush of kinship.

For all the caution in her posture, there's a flicker of determination in her gaze that he recognizes, a spark that tells him she's here on her own terms, not out of obligation or desperation.

He hadn't noticed his pulse racing until it began to slow until the relief of her presence soothed the anxious thrum inside him.

He drags a hand through his hair, more to do something, anything, than because it needs fixing. She's here. The thought repeats itself like a drumbeat as he pushes away from the gate and starts toward her, his stride purposeful but unhurried.

All of the patience he's ever had to muster for an unbroken colt feels like training for this moment, for the delicate balance of not pushing too hard or holding too loosely.

They meet halfway, and he watches her gather herself, watches as she steels her nerves for whatever she imagines this day will bring.

The morning sun glints off Marigold's hair as she approaches, catching those emerald strands like a flame dancing on water. Meadow feels his breath catch, an involuntary reaction he quickly masters.

"Morning," he offers, his voice deliberately gentle.

He steps forward, boots crunching on the gravel, keeping a respectful distance between them.

"How did you sleep?"

Marigold's smile is tentative, like a butterfly unsure whether to land.

"Better than I expected, actually. The quiet out here... it's different from the city. Peaceful."

Her words carry a hint of surprise as if peace is something she's forgotten the taste of.

Meadow finds himself cataloging every nuance of her expression, the way her slender fingers tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, the slight tension in her shoulders that belies her casual tone.

"And you?" she asks, her eyes lifting to meet his. "Did you sleep well?"

The question is innocent enough, but Meadow feels heat crawl up his neck. Images from last night flooded his mind — his restless tossing, sheets tangled around his legs, her scent haunting him even through the darkness.

His need to relieve his thick veiny cock yet another night to tame his immense desire for her.

"Had some trouble," he admits, keeping his voice even. "Lot on my mind."

What he doesn't say — can't say — is how she filled every corner of his thoughts, how the memory of her in his arms played on an endless loop.

How the ghost of her scent lingered in his senses long after she'd gone, sweet and intoxicating as wildflower honey.

Instead, he gestures toward the stables.

"The horses are waiting. Are you ready for this new adventure?"

Her posture shifts at the mention of the horses, her dancer's discipline evident in the subtle straightening of her spine.

"More than I'll ever be," she responds, and there's something in her voice now — a quiet conviction that hadn't been there before. "Thank you, Meadow. For giving me a chance."

The gratitude in her words makes something twist in his chest.

She's thanking him, when it should be the other way around. When she's the one breathing life back into parts of him he thought had withered away.

"You don't need to thank me," he says, rougher than he intended. He clears his throat. "You've got skill. Eye for detail. The horses will benefit from that."

The horses.

Not tame his immense desire to have her around the ranch.

Marigold steps forward then, extending her hand toward him.

The gesture is professional, and polite, but Meadow can't help noticing how small her hand looks, how delicate her wrist.

His Alpha instincts surge with the urge to protect, to shelter.

"To a good partnership," she offers.

He enfolds her hand in his, careful of his strength, acutely aware of the warmth of her skin against his callused palm. The contact sends a jolt through him that he hopes she doesn't notice.

"A good partnership," he agrees, his voice a low rumble.

He allows himself one moment, just one, to savor the connection before gently releasing her hand.

"Likewise," she says softly, and there's something unreadable in her expression now, something that makes his heart thud a little harder against his ribs.

For a breath, they simply stand there, the morning air fresh between them, filled with possibility. Then Meadow turns toward the stables, gesturing for her to follow.

It's time to begin.