Page 91 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
The completed blend was stunning—complex and layered, evolving as she continued to smell it, revealing new facets with each breath. It was indeed like spring morning made manifest, like optimism given physical form.
"This is beautiful," she said, meaning it completely. "I've never experienced anything like this. How did you learn to do this?"
The question seemed to touch something deep in him, and his expression grew soft with memory. "My mother taught me the basics," he said quietly. "She was an Omega, and she had this incredible sensitivity to scent, this ability to create blends that could change how people felt, help them heal from emotional wounds."
He moved to another section of the greenhouse, gesturing for her to follow, and she found herself in what was clearly a more personal space—less laboratory, more sanctuary. Here, the plants were arranged more casually, and personal touches were evident: family photographs tucked between pots, a comfortable reading chair positioned to catch morning light, a small collection of books about aromatherapy and botanical medicine.
"She used to say that scent was the most direct path to the heart," he continued, settling into the reading chair and gesturing for her to take the cushioned bench opposite him. "That you could tell someone's entire emotional story just by understanding what fragrances called to them, what made them feel safe or energized or loved."
The intimacy of the confession, shared in the soft candlelight surrounded by the fruits of his passion, made Marigold's chest tight with emotion. Here was another glimpse into the depth beneath Gus's cheerful exterior, another reminder that everyone carried stories that weren't immediately visible.
"She sounds wonderful," she said softly. "Is she... did she pass away?"
Gus nodded, though his expression remained peaceful rather than pained. "When I was sixteen. Cancer. But she left me with so much knowledge, so many recipes and techniques that I'm still discovering. This greenhouse is really her legacy, her way of understanding the world made manifest."
The way he spoke about his mother, with such obvious love and respect, made something warm unfurl in Marigold's chest. How different her own experience had been, raised in a world where Omegas were valued primarily for their achievements rather than their inherent worth.
"She also made sure I understood something that a lot of Alphas never learn," he continued, his gaze meeting hers with an intensity that made her breath catch slightly. "That Omegas deserve to be loved and adored for exactly who they are, not for what they can do or how they can make others look good. My father was... well, let's just say he was the kind of Alpha who saw relationships as transactions. My mother made sure I knew that was wrong."
The conviction in his voice, the way he spoke about Omega worth as if it was the most obvious truth in the world, madetears prick at the corners of Marigold's eyes. How different her life might have been if she'd encountered this attitude earlier, if she'd been surrounded by people who valued her essence rather than her accomplishments.
"I have every intention of making sure my Omega knows this," he continued, and though his words were general, the way he looked at her made it clear that his intentions weren't entirely theoretical. "That they're cherished for their kindness, their intuition, their ability to create beauty and connection in the world. That they never have to earn love through performance."
The words hit her like a physical touch, recognition and longing combining in her chest in a way that made it hard to breathe. This was what she'd been searching for without knowing it—not just acceptance, but celebration. Not just tolerance of her Omega nature, but reverence for it.
"Your mother raised you well," she managed, her voice slightly rough with emotion.
"She did," he agreed simply. "And she would have loved you. She always said that the most beautiful people were the ones who'd learned to find joy again after having it stolen from them."
The observation was so perceptive, so specific to her situation, that she wondered how much Meadow had shared about her circumstances. But rather than feeling exposed, she felt seen—understood in a way that was both comforting and terrifying.
"Would you like to see the rest of the greenhouse?" Gus asked, apparently sensing that the emotional intensity needed a lighter touch. "I have some evening-blooming flowers that should be opening soon, and there's a section where I'm experimenting with unusual herb combinations."
She nodded eagerly, grateful for the opportunity to move and explore while processing the depth of what he'd shared. As they wandered through different sections of the greenhouse,Gus explained his various projects with infectious enthusiasm. Here were medicinal herbs he was growing for the local clinic, there were exotic flowering vines he'd acquired through trade with other botanical enthusiasts. Every plant had a story, every section revealed another facet of his passionate curiosity about the natural world.
"This is my favorite section," he said, leading her to an area where the air hummed with the sound of water trickling over stones. A small fountain created a natural focal point, surrounded by plants that thrived in humid conditions. The combination of moving water and lush greenery created an atmosphere that was both energizing and peaceful.
"It's like a secret garden," she said, enchanted by the way moonlight filtered through the glass ceiling to create patterns on the water's surface. "I feel like I'm in a dream."
"Want to know a secret?" Gus asked, his voice taking on a playful quality that made her look at him with curiosity.
"Always," she replied, meaning it.
"Sometimes, when I'm here late at night working on new blends, I put on music and pretend I'm in a ballroom somewhere exotic. All this greenery and candlelight... it's like nature's own dance floor."
The admission was so unexpectedly charming that she found herself grinning. "You dance in here?"
"Badly," he confirmed with a laugh that was pure joy. "But enthusiastically. There's something about being surrounded by all this life and beauty that makes me want to move, you know?"
The image of him dancing alone among his plants, pink hair wild and movements uninhibited, was so endearing that she felt her heart squeeze with affection. Here was someone who embraced joy wherever he found it, who wasn't embarrassed by his own enthusiasms.
"Show me," she said impulsively, surprising herself with her boldness.
"What?" he asked, his eyes widening with delighted shock.
"Dance with me. Right here, right now. I want to see how a ballroom in a greenhouse works."
For a moment, he stared at her as if trying to determine whether she was serious. Then his face broke into the most radiant smile she'd ever seen, and he moved to a small speaker system she hadn't noticed tucked discretely among the plants.
