Page 55 of Meadowsweet and Marigold (EverAfter CozyXverse #1)

“You didn’t call,” Callum says. He’s there again, not asking for permission this time, just moving with the quiet certainty of someone who knows the job’s not finished. There’s a bowl of something in his hands—fruit, maybe, or that weird protein paste he lives on.

He puts it on the nightstand like an offering to the gods of heat cycles and self-destruction.

He studies me, eyes sharp but mouth soft.

I don’t know how he does it—makes concern look like indifference, hides his every intention under a veneer of farmhand stoicism.

It’s infuriating and also a little bit comforting, if I’m honest.

Which I’m not. Not even with myself.

“I thought I could handle it,” I say, and it comes out as a whimper.

I roll over, trying to face away from him, but that just puts my ass on full display.

Dignity is a myth, anyway.

Callum sits, heavier this time, and I feel the mattress sink under his weight.

“You did great,” he says. “But it’ll keep coming. You know that, right?”

I want to groan into the pillow and pretend I’ll fade away into a sinful existence that doesn’t go down this path of confrontation.

Wishful thinking I guess…

I nod slightly.

My teeth are chattering now, not from cold but from the aftershocks of the last round and the anticipation of the next.

It’s like my body’s determined to ring every last drop of shame out of me.

He looks around the room, and his eyes settle on the dresser, on the mirror perched above it. It’s old, the kind with a bevelled frame and spots where the silvering has warped.

But it catches the whole bed from the right angle.

He must have noticed me noticing it, because he says, “Try facing that way. It helps.”

I twist, but resist.

“What, you want me to watch myself lose it? That’s—” I stop.

Embarrassing is too weak a word.

But he just nods, like it’s the most logical thing in the world.

“Yeah. You’re not seeing what I see.”

I can’t help it; I bark out a laugh.

“Which is?”

He’s quiet for a second.

“Someone strong enough to deal with this, even if it sucks. A woman who won’t quit.” Then, softer: “A beautiful Omega, even when she’s falling apart.”

I try to sneer, but it’s shaky.

“You practice these lines in the shower, or is this improv?”

He ignores me with that semi-hint of a smirk.

“Sit up,” he says.

I do what he wants, despite my better judgement, my intrigue surpassing the urge to crawl underneath these drenched covers and suffer some more through this heatwave of constant agony.

The mirror stands as an unflinching witness to this moment, its aged frame barely holding onto the scenes it reflects.

My eyes are drawn to its surface, catching my own reflection—a woman on the brink of unraveling, every inch of me bared and vulnerable under the scrutiny not just of Callum but myself.

My silver white ombre purple hair spills out in chaotic waves, sticking to my forehead in damp tendrils.

The flush that spreads across my cheeks shines crimson and betrays the heat coursing through me.

It’s like staring at a stranger: this raw version stripped down to the essentials—struggled breathing and skin suffused with desire.

My tank top clings desperately, outlining every curve and edge, a testament to the storm inside.

And yet, there’s a pull, a magnetic draw in confronting this state of disarray; an undeniable pull towards self-acceptance.

There’s a curiosity in confronting this unguarded image—the tenacity hidden beneath layers of composure I've clad myself in for years.

Here, laid bare is not just weakness but an echo of strength riding out the tumultuous waves of emotion.

In the vulnerability lies power—a revelation I hadn't expected.

I let my gaze shift from the mirrored girl who looks simultaneously fragile and fierce to Callum's reflection behind me.

He mirrors calm certainty, unwavering in his bearing as though rooted like an oak amidst a storm's fury.

His presence is steady, allowing no room for shame or judgement—only acceptance.

For a heartbeat, I’m caught between wanting to hide away under sheets already marked by sweat and surrenders past—and stepping forward into this mirror-made world where nothing can be hidden.

Each breath I take seems amplified, alight with anticipation that crackles through the air like static electricity.

And then he moves toward the foot of the bed.

There’s grace in his motion; everything about him speaks calm authority that draws me closer without words.

With knees bent into soft bedding stained with remnants of my struggle, he positions himself so our eyes align; giving me the opportunity to see those stunning eyes of his but also the reminder of his masculine presence from the glassy reflection of his backside in knelt position.

Where with a few crawling movements, can lead him right between my legs…

“You said you wanted help,” he murmurs, his voice resonating like a low hum through my veins as if he were serenading something dormant within me awake.

Each syllable is carefully crafted—a promise wrapped in sound waves gently reverberating off walls tinged with shadows from flickering candlelight scattered across surfaces nearby.

“Let me help,” he repeats softly yet firmly— offering more than guidance now —offering companionship amid chaos; standing sentinel beside me until silence retreats back into voids beyond these four familiar walls marking sanctuary amid upheaval.

Caught between reality and reflection—there's no escape except forward; forward into trust—step by tentative step over thresholds guarded by fear turned ally under love's merciful gaze watching over us both tenderly all along.

I want to argue, to tell him that he’s already done more than enough, that I can’t take any more charity. But I can’t move. The next flare is already building, a fizzing pressure at the base of my spine, an itch behind my ribs.

His voice is calm, like he’s talking to a spooked horse. “You’re not broken. It’s just your body, Juniper. Stop fighting it.”

I swallow, then nod.

“Lie back,” he says, and I do. My legs fall open, and this time I don’t even try to cover myself.

He shifts closer, hands on the edge of the mattress, but not touching.

He gestures at the mirror.

“Watch.”

I meet my own eyes and immediately want to look away.

But he says, “Don’t. Stay with me.”

I try. I watch as my hand slips down, as my fingers part the seam of my shorts and find my clit, already swollen, hypersensitive.

I gasp at the first touch; my hips jerk up. It’s almost too much, but not enough.

I chase the feeling, pressing, circling, and in the mirror, I can see every tremor, every flush, the arch of my back and the way my mouth falls open on a silent moan.

Callum’s voice anchors me.

“That’s it. Good girl.” It’s not meant to be patronizing. It’s just what you say when you want someone to know they’re safe.

I keep going, faster now, and he keeps talking.

“You look so good like this, Juniper. Do you see it?” He waits for me to nod. “Good. Don’t stop.”

My eyes flick from my own reflection to his, and there’s a moment where our gazes meet in the glass.

I don’t realize he’s shifted his knelt stance so he can enjoy this reflected performance, which only sends sparks of arousal through me, inviting more slick to pool and gush out like a never-ending Nile.

The look on his face is so open, so hungry and reverent, it makes me ache.

I want him to touch me.

For him to hold me down and make me cum again and again.

I desperately hate how much I want that…and yet that tiny little part of me doesn’t.

She enjoys this level of desperation. This heated need. Addicted to the mere thought of wanting it all.

He senses the shift, because suddenly his voice is lower, darker.

“Spread your legs for me,” he says.

Fucking hell…

How can one not obey?

The angle is obscene, my pussy glistening in the lamplight. I’m drenched, soaking through the thin cotton, and I know he sees it, but I don’t care.

I want him to see it.

I want him to see what he’s contributed to with his encouragement.

“Take your shorts off,” he says.

My hands are shaking, but I manage it.

I toss them aside, and now I’m spread on the bed, nothing left to hide.

The air hits me, and I shiver, but it’s not from cold.

It’s from pure desire.

“Touch yourself,” he says. “Like before.”

I do, and this time it’s a lot easier.

The shame is still there, buried subconsciously, like a burden not worth having, drowned out by the need.

I circle my clit, faster, harder, and I can feel the orgasm building, low and hot and inevitable. My eyes roll back, but I force myself to look, to watch as my body comes undone.

He watches me in the mirror, his face tight with restraint, fists clenched on the mattress.

I know he’s holding back, not because he wants to, but because he thinks I need this—to do it myself, to prove I can.

The heat in Callum’s gaze intensifies, and it's like being placed under a scorching summer sun.

My own arousal swells in response, matched beat for beat by the hunger in his eyes.

His stare is a tangible weight, tracing a deliberate path from where my fingers tease and flick over my clit, the slick evidence of my desire apparent with every deft movement.

I can barely withstand his scrutiny as his eyes travel, lingering at the juncture of my thighs before they slide upward, heated and intent.

I feel raw under his gaze—a sensation akin to being peeled open so every nerve is exposed.

My breath hitches as he visually trails from the glistening folds between my legs, up over the flat expanse of my stomach, catching on each shallow rise and fall as I pant with need.

His attention is a caress lighter than any touch, yet it leaves me trembling in its wake.

His eyes don’t stop there; they continue their journey to where the thin barrier of my shirt clings damply to sweat-slicked skin.

My nipples are hard peaks pushing against the cotton, clearly outlined and begging for attention.

It’s as if he’s touching me everywhere all at once, though he remains in place—an illusion crafted from the electric connection we share at this moment.

With each passing second, my imagination runs wild with visions of what he might do next. How easily he could strip away this final layer of fabric with those capable hands, revealing everything to him in full—the thought alone makes me shiver with anticipation.

He doesn’t reach out; instead, he holds himself back, allowing only his eyes to roam over me like a physical touch that sparks every cell to life with impossible clarity.

I can feel myself edging closer to the brink as waves of pleasure ripple beneath my skin. Every inch of me is alive with awareness—of his presence, of my own vulnerability laid bare before him—and it all builds into something unstoppable.

And then it snaps, like a tight wire breaking free under pressure—the orgasm hits with startling force.

The sensation crashes through me like thunder across an open sky. The cry that escapes my lips is unrestrained and echoing off these unforgiving plaster walls, carrying all the relief and release I hadn’t realized was pent up within me.

Every muscle seizes momentarily before releasing in convulsive collapse onto sweat-dampened sheets.

I am left gasping for air that comes in stuttering gasps as aftershocks ripple through boneless limbs—a puppet whose strings have been cut. My whole body spasms, legs kicking, hands clutching at nothing. I ride it out, gasping, until I collapse, boneless, back onto the ruined sheets.

Instead of feeling destroyed, I feel…fierce.

Alive in a way I haven't felt since my aunt died and left me with a ranch I had no idea how to run, and a life I was supposed to want.

Callum moves up the bed until he sits next to me, heavy and warm, and tucks a piece of sweaty hair behind my ear.

I should thank him.

Or apologize.

Or say literally anything.

Yet, words I don’t expect to leave my lips do before my mind can process it.

“Again?"

His eyes widen, but he grins, slow and real.

"You sure?"

"Yes," I say, and it's a dare.

Whether to myself or for him to finally cave and take part of what he really wants…

It’s now where I catch onto his scent, how it intertwines with mine, dancing and flourishing into something almost dizzy inducing and yet so electrifyingly sweet.

His scent, rich as rain-soaked earth and warm like sun-dried hay, mingles with the floral undertones that cling to my skin.

It unfurls through the air like a tangible caress, an intoxicating dance of pheromones that lures me into an exquisite haze.

The combined aroma creates an atmosphere so thick it feels almost visible—a tapestry woven from invisible threads that binds us closer.

Each inhale fills my lungs with this heady mixture, feeding the fire that simmers beneath my skin.

The sensation is disorienting yet grounding, a paradox that somehow feels right.

Complete even. It’s a reminder of how his presence has seeped into the very fabric of this space and myself, leaving an indelible mark.

This symphony of scents swirls around us in a languid embrace, its sweetness both electrifying and soothing as it settles over the room like a tangible promise of a future I dare imagine could unfold.

A future that could come true if I let him in…

I focus on him again—his eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that could ignite dry kindling.

There’s something primal in how he observes me, as if deciphering some secret language written in the arch of my back or the curve of my smile.

His gaze doesn’t falter; it only deepens as if he’s memorizing every nuance, committing this slice of time to memory.

We are tethered now by more than just scent or circumstance; there’s an understanding between us woven from moments shared side by side amid struggles large and small alike—an understanding that transcends spoken language entirely because some things are best felt rather than heard.

One final shared look is all he needs to finally cave.

“You better be able to finish what you started, Bell,” he tries to say sternly, like he’s scolding me as usual, but it falls far from short while his eyes dance with so much lust, I could bathe in its glory.

For the first time in months, I don’t feel lost.

I don’t feel like a failure or a burden or a ghost in someone else’s house.

“Challenge accepted.”

To think…this all began with a saddle and an irresistible scent…