Page 17 of Meadowsweet and Marigold (EverAfter CozyXverse #1)

Marigold hesitates, then takes his offered hand. His grip is firm but measured, as though he's consciously holding back his strength.

"Marigold," she manages, her voice steadier than she feels. "I wasn't...I didn't mean to pry."

"Curiosity's healthy," Flint says with a shrug of shoulders that looks capable of carrying the weight of the world.

His face is weathered, tanned from years working outdoors, with crow's feet at the corners of eyes that have squinted into forge fires. A jagged scar runs along his left forearm, silver against sun-browned skin.

"It's how we figure out where we fit."

Marigold nods, grateful for his easy dismissal of her embarrassment.

She studies him — the leather apron tied at his waist, streaked with soot; the plain cotton shirt with rolled-up sleeves revealing forearms corded with muscle; the dark hair pulled back in a short ponytail, strands of premature silver glinting at his temples.

Flint looks like he belongs on a ranch, every inch of him is practical and real.

"Flint keeps all our horses properly shod and fixes anything metal that breaks around here," Daisy explains, shooting him an affectionate look that speaks of long familiarity.

"Among other things," he adds, a playful edge to his tone.

He leans casually against the stall, exuding a comfortable confidence.

"I dabble in a bit of everything when I'm not busy wrestling horseshoes. Plumbing, electrical, roofing. Name a problem, and I can probably fix it." It's a bit boastful, but she senses a lightheartedness there that makes her smile. "Also made that wind chime by the main house."

He's artistic, too.

The revelation catches her off guard, and she recalls the delicate chime she’d admired earlier. It had danced in the breeze, catching morning light in a way that was nearly magical.

The sweet tune had followed her as she’d walked with Meadow to the stables, a lighter melody than any ballet overture. The contrast between Flint's imposing presence and something so exquisite intrigues her.

"It's beautiful work," she says with genuine admiration, sensing that her compliment is somehow important. "I noticed it this morning. The way it catches the light is...intentional."

She recognizes the mark of true craftsmanship, having spent so many years perfecting her own art form.

A flicker passes through Flint's eyes — appreciation, perhaps, at being genuinely seen. It is the kind of recognition that was rare in the world she came from, where praise was often as calculated as the pirouettes she performed.

"Thanks. August likes to say it makes too much noise," Flint responds, his voice tinged with humor, "but that's just because he's jealous and can't even draw a straight line.

" His laugh is a low, rumbling sound that resonates with sincerity.

"We've got this ongoing competition…he grows these prize-winning flowers, and I try to forge metal into something that'll outlast his petunias. Been at it for years."

Something in the easy warmth of his words spurs a sense of wonder in Marigold, as though she’s glimpsing a new way to belong.

"Who's winning?" she asks, feeling her apprehension start to dissolve in the heat of their playful banter.

"Depends who you ask," Flint replies, his grin widening.

"But between us—" He glances over both shoulders theatrically, "—his roses did win the county fair last year. Don’t tell him I admitted it."

The easy way he speaks of his packmate, the affectionate rivalry — it's so different from the cutthroat competition she's used to.

In ballet, admitting another dancer's superiority would be seen as an unforgivable weakness, not the camaraderie she hears in Flint's voice. The Alphas she’s known would go to great lengths to prove their strength, not just about losing.

"Your secret's safe," Marigold promises, a small smile forming for the first time since the conversation began.

She feels unexpectedly at ease with this burly, good-natured Alpha.

It's astonishing how different Willowbend appears from her old life, a stark contrast between brutal ambition and this gentle, accepting world.

"Guess it's true what they say about strong silent types," Flint observes, watching her closely now. Marigold's surprise must register on her face because he chuckles. "We know how to talk. We just wait until it's worth saying something."

She likes the sound of that — waiting for the right moment, the way Meadow seems to, the way Flint does now. It's a new rhythm, an unfamiliar dance she might learn to love.

"We?" she echoes, intrigued by the dynamic she's beginning to see emerge.

"My packmates," he clarifies, leaning back with a calm assurance that suggests he doesn’t usually have to explain himself. "August and Meadow. We're a cluster of strong, silent types with the added bonus of amazing looks."

"Modest, too," Marigold quips, surprising herself with the lightness of her own voice.

Flint laughs, a sound she’s realizing she enjoys hearing more than any applause she’s ever received.

"I guess you're wondering which one August is, huh? You don't know because we didn't bring him with us to lunch."

"That, and I didn't think Alphas could have pink hair," Marigold admits, the corners of her mouth lifting. "Or win blue ribbons for their flowers."

"He should be back now—that is if he hasn’t gotten lost in a field somewhere."

Flint glances toward the stable door, amusement playing in the set of his mouth.

"Guess we'll find out soon enough."

"So what's August like?" Marigold asks, her curiosity getting the better of her. "Besides being bad at drawing straight lines and good at growing roses."

Flint crosses his arms, the movement highlighting the pronounced muscles that years of metalwork have sculpted. Scars — some thin and white, others newer and pink — map a history of his craft across his forearms.

His hands are a contradiction: massive yet capable of surprising delicacy, as evidenced by the wind chime.

"Gus? He's the heart of this place," Flint says, his voice softening almost imperceptibly. "Gets along with every creature…four-legged or two. Alpha through and through, but not like..." He trails off, seeming to remember who he's talking to.

Marigold's stomach tightens.

Not like Rowan, he means.

Not like the Alpha who discarded her so publicly.

"Not like some," Flint finishes diplomatically. "He runs the vet clinic in town. Probably patched up half the animals in the county. Got this ridiculous pink hair he won't let grow out because the kids at the clinic love it."

The image makes Marigold smile despite herself.

"Pink hair on an Alpha? That's...unexpected."

"That's Gus," Flint says with a shrug, glancing at his watch. "Speaking of unexpected…your shift ended ten minutes ago. Want to head back? Meadow's probably wondering where you are."

The thought of Meadow waiting makes her pulse quicken slightly.

"Yes, please."

They walk side by side across the grounds, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the path. Flint's stride is unhurried but purposeful, his boots leaving heavy imprints in the soft earth where hers barely make a mark.

"I still can't believe how quiet it is here," Marigold says, inhaling deeply. The scent of hay and horse lingers on her clothes, so different from the sterile practice rooms she's used to. "In the city, there was always?—"

She stops mid-sentence, nearly colliding with Flint's broad back as he halts abruptly.

"What the?—?"

Across the path, moving like a fluffy, undulating wave across the grass, is a flood of rabbits — dozens of them, small and large, white and brown and spotted, hopping in seemingly organized chaos.

"Oh!" Marigold gasps, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a delighted laugh. "Where did they all come from?"

The bunnies stream around them, some pausing to sniff curiously at her boots before continuing their exodus. One particularly bold cottontail sits up on its hind legs, whiskers twitching as it regards her with bright, inquisitive eyes.

"Looks like someone left the hutch open again," Flint sighs, but there's no real irritation in his voice. "This happens more often than you'd think."

Marigold crouches down, extending her hand slowly toward the curious rabbit. It doesn't flee, merely twitches its nose in consideration of her offering. The dancer in her appreciates their movements — the controlled power in their small bodies, the grace of their leaps.

"They're beautiful," she whispers, as the rabbit finally decides she's acceptable and hops closer to investigate her fingers. "I've never been this close to so many before."

A deep, warm chuckle from behind her draws Marigold's attention away from the bunny investigating her fingers. She turns to see a man jogging toward them, his movements are fluid and purposeful despite his hurry.

"I see you've met the escape artists," he says, his voice rich with amused resignation. "They've perfected their jailbreak routine."

Immediately, Marigold senses something different about him — an Alpha, certainly, but with none of the intimidating presence she's grown to expect.

Instead, he radiates a gentle warmth that reminds her of sunlight filtering through leaves.

"You must be Marigold," he says, extending a hand. His smile reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners. "I'm August Holloway. Most folks call me Gus."

"The vet," she says, recognition dawning as she rises to her feet, accepting his handshake. His palm is warm against hers, the touch firm but gentle.

"Guilty as charged." August — Gus — crouches down to scoop up a small white bunny that's nibbling at his shoelaces. The creature settles immediately in his hands, a testament to his calming presence. "And apparently today, I'm also bunny wrangler extraordinaire."

He cradles the rabbit against his chest, scratching between its ears with practiced ease.