Page 50 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
He was an Omega like her. That had been part of what drew them together—that immediate recognition, the sense of understanding that came from navigating the world with the same inherent vulnerabilities. But where Marigold had always pushed against the limitations others tried to place on her, Cypress had seemed at peace with himself, calm in a way that she envied.
The memory of their first meeting unfolds like a pressed flower between the pages of an old book, surprisingly vivid despite the years. It had been autumn, leaves turning gold and crimson outside the tall windows of the conservatory's library. She'd been researching the history of ballet, surrounded by stacks of books, when he'd approached her table.
"You dropped this," he'd said, holding out her student ID card.
She'd looked up, momentarily annoyed at the interruption, but the irritation had evaporated when she met his eyes—deep brown with flecks of amber, thoughtful and direct. He wasn't conventionally handsome in the way the dance world often celebrated, but there was something compelling about the quiet assurance in his posture, the slight curve of his mouth that suggested he found quiet joy in small things.
"Thank you," she'd replied, taking the card. "I wouldn't have gotten very far without it."
"Marigold," he'd said, reading her name. "Like the flower."
"Like the flower," she'd agreed, waiting for the usual teasing comments that followed her introduction.
Instead, he'd smiled. "Resilient little things, marigolds. They grow even in poor soil. Brighten up any garden." Then he'd nodded and turned to go.
"Wait," she'd called, surprising herself. "What's your name?"
"Cypress," he'd answered, glancing back over his shoulder. "Like the tree."
They'd both laughed then, and something had shifted, a door opening between them.
They began meeting for coffee after her rehearsals, talking about art and music and books. He was studying botany with a focus on native plants, and he spoke about flowers the way she thought about dance—with reverence and fascination. They were similar in so many ways—both detail-oriented, both sensitive to the rhythms of the world around them—but where she was all forward momentum and determination, he moved through life with a mindfulness that centered her.
Their first kiss happened in the university greenhouse, surrounded by exotic plants and the earthy scent of growth. It was tentative at first, then certain. His hands had framed her face with such care, like she was something precious, something he wanted to remember through touch. Marigold's cheeks warm at the memory, at how wholly present she'd felt in that moment, how seen.
For six months, they existed in a perfect bubble of young love. He came to her performances, bringing her a single marigold each time. She helped him study, quizzing him on Latin names for plants while he massaged her sore feet. They spent weekends exploring the city's hidden gardens, his knowledge transforming ordinary parks into botanical wonderlands. They made love in his small apartment, windows open to let in the spring air, learning each other's bodies with wonder and patience.
It wasn't perfect—they argued sometimes, about small things that seemed important then—but it was real in a way that made Marigold believe in the possibility of a future where being an Omega didn't mean compromise. Where she could be exactly who she was and be loved for it.
Then, almost overnight, everything changed.
Cypress began to pull away. At first, it was subtle—he stopped waiting for her after rehearsals, canceled plans with vague excuses, grew distant during their conversations. When she asked if something was wrong, he would shake his head and say he was just tired, just busy with coursework. But she could feel the lie in the sudden stiffness of his body when she reached for him, see it in the way his eyes no longer quite met hers.
The confusion was worse than pain. Marigold retraced their recent interactions, searching for a misstep, for something she'd said or done to cause this abrupt shift. Had she been too focused on her dancing? Too ambitious? Too needy? Too independent? The questions circled endlessly, leaving her dizzy with doubt.
After three weeks of this slow withdrawal, Cypress asked to meet her at a café they rarely frequented. She knew before he spoke what was coming—it was written in the careful distance he maintained, in the coffee he ordered but didn't drink, in the way his fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on the tabletop.
"I think we should end things," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "I care about you, Marigold, but I don't think this is going to work between us."
She'd asked why, of course. Demanded to know what had changed, what she had done wrong. His answers were vague and unsatisfying—they were on different paths, he wasn't ready for the intensity of their relationship, it wasn't her fault but things would be better if they went their separate ways. The more she pressed, the more remote he became, until she was left feeling like she was arguing with a stranger wearing her lover's face.
The worst part was that she could sense there was something he wasn't saying, some truth hidden behind his careful words. But he wouldn't give it to her, wouldn't even give her the dignity of an honest ending.
In the end, she'd done what dancers do best—maintained her composure, accepted the unacceptable with grace. She'd walked away from that café with her back straight and her eyes dry, saving her tears for the privacy of her own room.
She'd loved him enough to respect his decision, even if she couldn't understand it.
The weeks that followed were a blur of rehearsals and performances. She threw herself into her dancing with renewed fervor, letting the physical demands of ballet numb the emotional pain. It worked, mostly. By day, at least. The nights were harder, filled with dreams where Cypress tried to tell her something important, something she could never quite hear before waking.
Two months after their breakup, Marigold attended a gala performance where she met Rowan Thorne—confident, magnetic Alpha with the world seemingly at his fingertips. He asked her to dinner, and she said yes, partly because she was flattered by his attention and partly because she was tired of the hollow feeling in her chest when she went home to an empty apartment.
Rowan was nothing like Cypress—bold where Cypress was thoughtful, commanding where Cypress was gentle. His pack welcomed her with open arms, offering the belonging she'd always craved. For a while, she convinced herself that the Cypress chapter had closed, that she'd found something better, something lasting.
But sometimes, in quiet moments—sitting at her dressing table before a performance, or walking alone through the city at dusk—she'd find herself wondering what might have been. Whatsecrets Cypress had kept that made him turn away from what they'd shared.
Whether, in some parallel life, they might have built something beautiful together.
Now, sitting on her porch steps in Willowbend, those questions resurface with unexpected force. Cypress is here, in this tiny town she'd chosen precisely because it contained no ghosts from her past. The coincidence seems too neat, too deliberate, though she can't imagine he would have followed her here.
