Page 38 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
7
MORNING DEW
~MEADOW~
Morning arriveswith a coat of frost sparkling across the fields, the early light casting the landscape in a magical, crystalline glow.
The chill in the air is refreshing, bracing against Meadow's skin as he moves through his morning routine.
He's been up since five, unable to sleep past the first hint of dawn, every minute pulling him closer to a day he's unsure how to navigate.
His thoughts, restless as a caged animal, push him into activity.
By now, he's already fed the horses, mucked out several stalls, and repaired a loose board on one of the paddock fences — simple tasks, things that could have waited but offered a necessary outlet for his anxious energy.
Now he stands at the main gate, the metal cold under his touch, eyes fixed on the road that winds up to the ranch.
The potential of Marigold not showing flickers at the edges of his mind, a thought he pushes away like a too-curious fly. It'sfive minutes to seven, the cold morning air crisp in his lungs, and he's fighting the urge to pace.
The silence of the ranch envelops him, punctuated by the occasional snort of a horse or the rustle of wind through barren branches.
The stillness is both comforting and unnerving, amplifying every doubt and anticipation threading through him. He checks his watch, though he already knows the exact time.
"She'll come or she won't," he mutters, trying to sound casual even in solitude. The truth is, he's never felt so invested in an outcome he swears he doesn't care about.
Just as the uncertainty grows too loud to ignore, the sound of an approaching vehicle pulls him from his spiraling thoughts.
An older model sedan appears around the bend, its tires crunching over the gravel, moving at a measured pace. Relief floods through him, a warm tide that washes away his futile worries, followed immediately by self-annoyance at how much he clearly cares.
He watches as the car approaches, its movement like a tether drawing him in, both helpless against and willing to embrace the pull.
His breath catches somewhere between anticipation and dread.
It's ridiculous how much this matters to him —a simple job, a straightforward arrangement— and yet here he is, heart pounding like it's the ten-second mark at an auction.
As the sedan inches closer, he finds himself already trying to decipher her intentions, whether her presence today means commitment or a temporary whim.
Each second stretches into eternity, an emotional marathon he's unprepared to run.
A tightness grips his chest, something between old pain and unfamiliar hope.
He cannot help but compare this sensation to the days before Eliza, when the world seemed full of unmade promises and he'd convinced himself he was too tough to care.
How wrong he'd been then. How naïve to think that devotion was a guarantee, that love made you invulnerable.
Yet here he is, poised on the brink of letting another wounded soul into his life.
He tries to curb the urge to invest, to convince himself that Marigold is just another temporary blip in his otherwise controlled existence.
But the very need to convince betrays him.
It's more than this job, more than shared responsibilities pressing him to engage.
It's those eyes that tell a story he knows too well. He's not ready to say what he wants from her, if anything, but damn it all if he isn't affected just the same.
He hears Gus's words echoing.
Don't make it into something it's not.
