Page 88 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
The trail crested a small hill, and suddenly the world opened up before them in a breathtaking display of natural beauty. The flower fields stretched out like a living painting, waves of color that rippled in the breeze—purple lupines and golden black-eyed Susans, white daisies and red poppies, creating a tapestry that seemed too perfect to be real.
"Oh my god," Marigold breathed, bringing Daisy to a halt so she could fully absorb the sight before them. "It's like something from a fairy tale."
"Better than fairy tales," Meadow said, his voice carrying quiet pride. "Because it's real, and wild, and completely unpredictable. Every year the colors are different, the patterns change depending on rainfall and temperature and a hundred other factors we can't control."
They descended into the fields, the horses picking their way carefully along paths that seemed to have been created by the flowers themselves, natural corridors that wound between the densest patches of blooms. The air was thick with the humming of bees and the flutter of butterfly wings, a symphony of life that made Marigold feel like she was riding through a living dream.
"Can we stop for a minute?" she asked, overwhelmed by the beauty surrounding them. "I just want to... take it in."
Meadow nodded, understanding written across his features. They dismounted near a particularly stunning patch where purple and gold flowers created a natural mandala, their horses content to graze on the sweet grass at the field's edge while their riders stood in wonder.
"I've never seen anything like this," Marigold said, turning slowly to take in the full panorama of color and life. "In the city, beauty was always... constructed. Intentional. This is wild and perfect and completely beyond human design."
"That's what I love about it," Meadow agreed, moving to stand beside her. "It reminds me that some of the most beautiful things happen when we stop trying to control everything."
The comment felt weighted with meaning beyond the immediate context, and when Marigold looked at him, she found his gaze already on her, warm and intent in a way that made her breath catch slightly. The space between them seemed charged with possibility, the natural beauty around them creating a backdrop for something that felt equally wild and perfect.
"Marigold," he said quietly, her name a question and a statement all at once.
She stepped closer, drawn by the gravity of his presence and the promise she saw in his eyes. The world around them—the flowers, the sky, the gentle sounds of their horses—faded to background as she became acutely aware of his nearness, of the way the morning light caught in his dark hair, of the steady rise and fall of his chest.
"Yes?" she whispered, though she wasn't sure what she was agreeing to, only that yes felt like the only possible response to whatever was building between them.
He reached up, his fingers gentle as they traced the line of her jaw, tilting her face toward his. The touch sent sparks racing through her nervous system, awakening every cell in her body to exquisite awareness. His thumb brushed across her lower lip, and she heard her own sharp intake of breath, felt her eyelids grow heavy with anticipation.
"You're beautiful," he murmured, the words rough with honesty. "Beautiful and brave and?—"
A sudden commotion interrupted the moment as Storm, apparently deciding the grass was greener elsewhere, spooked at something—a butterfly, a rustling in the flowers, his own shadow—and reared up with a startled whinny. The movement was so unexpected that Meadow, caught off guard by the timing and force of it, lost his balance and tumbled backward off the horse with a decidedly undignified "oof" as he hit the soft earth.
"Jesus," he gasped from where he lay sprawled among the wildflowers, staring up at the sky with a mixture of embarrassment and genuine concern. "Did I just break my back like an old man? Please tell me I didn't just break my back."
The sight of him—this capable, confident man reduced to huffing indignation while surrounded by daisies—struck Marigold as so absurdly endearing that laughter bubbled up from her chest before she could stop it. Not cruel laughter,but the kind of pure, delighted amusement that came from the contrast between romantic tension and ridiculous reality.
"Don't laugh," he said, though his own mouth was twitching with suppressed humor as he carefully tested his limbs for damage. "This is a serious medical situation. I could be grievously injured."
"You're right," she managed between giggles, though her concern was genuine even as she struggled to control her mirth. "I'm sorry for laughing. Are you actually okay? Nothing broken or twisted?"
Meadow sat up slowly, brushing flower petals from his hair with wounded dignity. "Physically, I appear to be intact. My pride, however, may never recover."
The admission only made her laugh harder, the sound bright and free in the morning air. She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed like this—genuinely, without reservation or calculation, the kind of full-body mirth that came from pure joy rather than politeness or performance.
"I haven't laughed like that in... I don't know how long," she said when she finally caught her breath, wiping tears from her eyes. "Thank you for the entertainment, even if it wasn't intentional."
"My humiliation is apparently your delight," he said with mock severity, though the warmth in his eyes made it clear he was pleased to have been the cause of such uninhibited happiness. "Though I maintain that Storm did it on purpose. He's jealous."
"Jealous?" she asked, helping him to his feet and brushing additional flower debris from his shoulders, her touch lingering perhaps longer than strictly necessary for cleaning purposes.
"Absolutely. He can't stand it when my attention is focused on anyone but him. Classic only-child syndrome." Meadow glanced at his horse, who was now grazing peacefully as ifnothing had happened. "Look at him. Completely innocent act. He's probably proud of himself."
The accusation was so serious, delivered with such conviction, that Marigold found herself giggling again. The entire situation—the romantic tension, the sudden comedy, the way Meadow was treating his horse's behavior like a personal betrayal—felt like something from a romantic novel, except better because it was real and messy and perfectly imperfect.
"Maybe he was trying to protect your virtue," she suggested playfully. "Making sure you don't take advantage of an innocent city girl in a field of flowers."
"Storm has never cared about anyone's virtue in his life," Meadow replied seriously. "This was pure spite."
They remounted their horses, Meadow shooting dark looks at Storm, who remained magnificently unconcerned by his rider's accusations. The mood between them had shifted from building romantic tension to something lighter but no less intimate—shared laughter creating its own kind of bond, the kind that came from being able to find joy in unexpected moments.
As they continued through the flower fields, following trails that wound between patches of brilliant color, Marigold found herself marveling at how different this felt from any interaction she'd had with other Alphas. There was no posturing, no need to maintain perfect composure, no pressure to be anything other than exactly who she was in each moment. When she laughed, it was genuine. When she spoke, it was honest. When silence fell between them, it was comfortable rather than expectant.
