Page 44 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
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 recognitionthat 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.
