Page 35 of Meadowsweet and Marigold (EverAfter CozyXverse #1)

The meal that followed was a masterpiece of comfort food and careful conversation.

Gus's dinner rolls were indeed perfect—golden brown and fluffy, with a slight sweetness that complemented the rich stew Meadow had prepared.

Her hastily assembled charcuterie board proved to be the perfect appetizer, the various elements working together to create something greater than the sum of its parts.

Flint had contributed a salad of mixed greens from what must be an impressive garden, while Cypress, claiming limited culinary skills, had brought a bottle of wine that suggested better taste than he credited himself with.

The conversation flowed as smoothly as the wine, covering safe topics—Cypress's photography work, her adjustment to rural life, the approaching winter and its implications for ranch work.

But beneath the surface pleasantries, she could feel undercurrents of tension and curiosity, questions that hovered unasked in the spaces between words.

Cypress told stories of his recent projects—a series documenting urban decay in Detroit, another capturing the revival of small-town Main Streets across the Midwest. His passion for his work was evident in the way his eyes lit up when he described a particularly challenging shot or a moment when everything came together perfectly.

The camera around his neck wasn't just equipment; it was an extension of himself, a tool for seeing and preserving the world in ways others might miss.

"The magazine piece that brought me here is actually part of a larger project," he explained, gesturing with his fork as he spoke.

"Rural communities that are thriving despite economic challenges.

Willowbend caught their attention because of the sustainable agriculture initiatives and the way the community has managed to maintain its character while adapting to modern realities. "

"So you'll be here for a while?" Marigold asked, trying to keep her voice casual despite the way her heart rate spiked at the possibility.

"A few weeks at least," he confirmed. "Long enough to really capture the rhythm of life here, the seasonal changes, the relationships between people and place." His gaze met hers across the table. "Though I have to admit, discovering you're here adds a dimension to the project I wasn't expecting."

The comment hung in the air, weighted with implication and memory.

Marigold was acutely aware of Meadow's presence beside her, of the way his posture had shifted subtly since Cypress mentioned an extended stay.

There was no jealousy in his manner—at least, nothing overt—but there was definitely a heightened awareness, a careful attention that suggested he was cataloging every interaction between Cypress and her.

"What kind of photography do you specialize in?" Flint asked, steering the conversation into safer waters with the kind of social skill that suggested he'd navigated similar situations before.

"Documentary, mostly," Cypress replied, seeming grateful for the redirect. "Though I've been experimenting with portraiture lately. There's something about capturing people in their natural environments, showing who they are when they think no one's watching."

"Sounds invasive," Gus observed with a grin that took the sting out of the words.

"It can be," Cypress admitted. "That's why consent is so important. I never photograph people without permission, and I always share the images with them before publication. The goal isn't to exploit but to honor—to show the dignity and beauty in ordinary lives."

The passion in his voice reminded Marigold forcibly of the boy she once knew, the one who saw art in everything and never tired of trying to capture it. That fundamental aspect of who he was hadn't changed, even as the years had refined his skills and broadened his vision.

"Do you have any of your work with you?" she asked, genuine curiosity overriding her emotional reservations.

Cypress brightened. "Actually, yes. I brought a portfolio for this project—examples of my previous work to show potential subjects. Would you like to see?"

She nodded, and he excused himself to retrieve his bag from the car. In his absence, the kitchen fell into a comfortable quiet, the kind that came when people were content with each other's company even without conversation.

"He seems nice," Gus commented, refilling wine glasses with practiced ease.

"He is," she agreed, realizing as she said it that it was true despite everything.

Whatever happened between them, whatever pain their ending caused, Cypress was never cruel or deliberately hurtful.

Their breakup was devastating precisely because it came from someone she trusted completely, someone who'd never given her reason to doubt his feelings.

"Known him long?" Flint asked with the kind of studied casualness that suggested deeper interest.

"College," she said simply, not wanting to elaborate while Cypress was within earshot.

Meadow hadn't spoken since Cypress left the table, but she could feel his attention like a physical presence. When she glanced at him, his expression was thoughtful rather than troubled, as if he was working through some complex equation in his mind.

"Everything okay?" she asked quietly, her voice pitched for his ears alone.

He nodded, offering her a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just processing," he admitted. "It's not every day the past shows up at your dinner table."

The honesty in his response caught her off guard. She'd expected jealousy or possessiveness, the kind of Alpha behavior that treated romantic history as a threat to current interests. Instead, Meadow seemed genuinely focused on understanding rather than competing.

"Are you okay with him being here?" he asked, the question carrying genuine concern for her wellbeing rather than his own comfort.

The question stopped her short because she didn't know the answer.

Was she okay with Cypress being here? Part of her wanted to say yes, that she was mature enough to handle the presence of an ex-boyfriend, that their history was just that—history.

But another part of her recognized the emotional upheaval his appearance had caused, the way his presence had already begun to complicate the fragile new beginning she'd been building with Meadow.

"I don't know," she admitted, appreciating that he'd created space for honesty rather than expecting reassurance. "It's complicated."

"Most things worth doing are," he replied, his hand finding hers under the table and giving it a gentle squeeze.

The contact sent warmth radiating up her arm, a reminder of their earlier intimacy and the connection they'd begun to forge.

Whatever complications Cypress's presence might represent, they didn't negate what was happening between Meadow and her.

If anything, the contrast made her more aware of how different this felt—the steadiness of Meadow's attention versus the mercurial nature of her relationship with Cypress.

The sound of the front door opening announced Cypress's return, and moments later he reappeared in the kitchen with a leather portfolio under his arm. It was a substantial case, clearly well-used, with the kind of patina that came from travel and careful handling.

"This is just a sampling," he said as he opened the case on the cleared section of table. "But it should give you an idea of the kind of work I do."

The photographs that spilled out were remarkable—black and white images that captured not just scenes but emotions, moments in time that spoke to universal human experiences.

There was a series from a small farming community in Iowa that showed the dignity of agricultural life without romanticizing its challenges.

Another collection documented the renovation of a historic downtown district, capturing both the physical transformation and the hope in people's eyes as their community came back to life.

But it was the portrait series that took her breath away—intimate images of people in their environments, each one telling a story without words.

An elderly man sitting on his front porch with his dog, the late afternoon light casting shadows that spoke to a lifetime of watching the world change.

A young mother hanging laundry while her toddler played in the yard, the mundane moment transformed into something beautiful by the quality of light and the tenderness in her expression.

"These are incredible," she breathed, meaning every word. "You've really found your calling."

Cypress glowed at the praise, and for a moment she saw the boy he was—eager for approval, passionate about his art, proud of work that represented hours of patient observation and technical skill.

"Thank you," he said softly. "That means a lot, coming from you."

The weight in his words, the suggestion of deeper meaning, made the air in the kitchen suddenly feel charged with possibility and peril. She was aware of Meadow's stillness beside her, of the way Flint and Gus had gone quiet, sensing undercurrents they didn't fully understand.

"Your technique has really evolved," she continued, focusing on the professional rather than the personal. "The composition, the use of light—it's sophisticated in a way your college work never was."

"College work?" Gus asked with interest. "You two knew each other in college?"

The question hung in the air, innocent enough on the surface but loaded with the weight of explanation that had been building throughout the evening. Marigold glanced at Cypress, wondering how much he wanted to share, how much of their story he was comfortable telling in this setting.