Page 46 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
"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.
"This little troublemaker is Daisy — no relation to your coworker," he adds with a wink that makes something flutter in Marigold's chest. "She's the ringleader. Aren't you, girl?"
The bunny merely twitches her nose in response, looking utterly unrepentant.
"How do we get them all back?" Marigold asks, watching another rabbit hop boldly past her feet.
"With patience, treats, and a healthy sense of humor," Gus replies, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small bag. "Care to help? Bunnies are suckers for dried apple pieces."
He holds out the bag to her, and Marigold notices the striking contrast of his pink hair against his tanned skin. It's a soft shade, like cherry blossoms, stylishly tousled in a way that should look affected but somehow just adds to his genuine charm.
"I've never herded rabbits before," she admits, taking a few dried apple pieces from the offered bag. "I might not be much help."
"Nonsense," Gus says with a laugh that sends a pleasant shiver down her spine. "You were a dancer, right? All about precision and patience. Trust me, that's half the battle with these little guys."
Marigold feels a bloom of warmth in her chest that he knows this about her, that someone has bothered to learn her past even at a smidge.
She used to feel embarrassed or frightened people would go diving into her past to learn all the drama that brought her to these parts, but it looks like everyone simply knew she danced once upon a time as a form of artistry and that’s all they cared about.
She was thankful for that.
She holds out an apple piece, and within seconds, a brown bunny approaches cautiously.
"There you go," Gus encourages his voice a soothing cadence that seems to calm both Marigold and the rabbits. "Low and slow. Let them come to you."
She follows his instructions and soon has two bunnies eating from her palm.
"Now what?" she asks, surprised by her own soft laughter.
"Now," Gus says, producing a small portable pen from where it had been leaning against a nearby fence, "we guide them home. One fluffy fugitive at a time."
Working together, they begin to corral the rabbits, Gus occasionally sharing ridiculous rabbit facts —"Did you knowthey can't vomit? Terrible party trick"— that had Marigold laughing more freely than she has in months if not years.
"You're a natural," he tells her after she successfully coaxes three bunnies into the pen. His smile is crooked and genuine, pink hair falling across his forehead as he leans down to secure the gate. "Most people get too excited and scare them off."
"Years of stage nerves," she explains, surprised by her willingness to reference her past. "You learn to look calm even when you're not."
"Well, it's working," Gus says, his eyes meeting hers with unexpected warmth. "On the bunnies, I mean. They sense that kind of thing."
There's something unspoken in his gaze that makes Marigold wonder if he's talking about more than just the rabbits — if he too can sense her carefully constructed calm, the tranquility she's been building over her still-healing heart.
The sound of boots crunching across gravel draws their attention, and Marigold looks up to see Meadow approaching, his silhouette backlit by the late afternoon sun.
His steps are measured and unhurried, yet there's an alertness to his posture that reminds her of the vigilant way he surveys his land.
"I see they made a break for it again," Meadow says, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly as he takes in the scene — Flint holding the portable pen, Gus crouched beside a fluffy escapee, and Marigold with a small white rabbit nestled against her chest.
