Chapter 5 Iris
IRIS
We walk through the orchard, the golden light slanting through the trees, catching on the edges of honey-laden vines and glinting off the smooth bark of the knowledge trees beyond.
The air is thick with the scent of pollen and late-summer nectar, warm and heavy, as if the very earth here exhales sweetness.
My fingers brush against a low-hanging branch, the waxy leaves folding gently inward at my touch—a soft, slow reaction, like the tree is thinking about me. It sends a shiver down my spine.
Ahead, Garrik pushes open a wooden door, his broad frame blocking my view until he steps aside, revealing the Apiary House beyond. Sunlight filters through high windows, catching on the honeycombs stacked neatly along one wall, their golden depths glistening with slow-dripping amber.
The scent of honey is thicker inside the apiary house, warm and golden, curling through the air like it’s part of the very walls.
The space is small but open, filled with the hum of unseen life—the gentle murmur of bees outside, the faint creak of wooden beams settling, the steady sound of Garrik breathing beside me.
He doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches me.
I can feel it.
I let my fingertips trail over the polished wooden counter, skimming over jars of honey in different shades of amber and gold, some nearly clear, others dark as burnt sugar.
Small glass bottles are arranged in neat rows, labeled in careful script—Garrik’s handwriting, I realize—notes on floral variations, seasonality, texture.
It’s methodical and precise, but I can tell it’s more than that.
It’s his.
“You did all this?” I murmur, tracing the curve of a jar.
Garrik leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. “I had help.”
“Still.” I look up at him. “It’s incredible.”
His expression flickers, something unreadable passing over his face before he huffs softly, shaking his head. “You always did make a big deal out of things.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Because I think you’re talented?”
“Because you think everything is worth marveling over,” he says, watching me like he’s waiting for me to deny it.
I don’t.
Because he’s right.
And right now, I am marveling.
Not just at the honey or the way the light catches in the glass jars, but at him—the way he stands in this space like he belongs here, the way his golden skin glows in the lantern light, the way he’s watching me like he isn’t sure what to do with me being here at all.
I turn back to the jars, swallowing. “So…are you going to let me try some, or did you just bring me here to show off?”
Garrik’s mouth twitches. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you actually appreciate good honey or if you just think it’s sweet and sticky.”
I scoff. “I love honey.”
“I didn't realize that.”
“Well, we weren't exactly frequenting places with beehives back on earth, were we?”
Garrik laughs. “Fair enough. So…is there one you want to try first?”
I look at the different jars, picking one up and turning it to see that Garrik has even added details on flavor profiles to each bottle. I find one that says it's light, refreshing, and floral, and I point at it.
He cocks an eyebrow. “You could just open it.”
“Don't I need a…” I wave my hand around in the air. “A taster thingy?”
“A dripper?” he asks.
My mouth falls open and I sputter out. I don't have anything to say to that. Well…nothing that isn't dirty, and I don't know where we stand on dirty jokes given that we haven't talked even a little about what happened the other night.
Let's just say honey wasn't the only thing dripping after that kiss.
Garrik makes a strangled sound deep in his throat, and I swear, for a second, he looks like he’s the one who had the inappropriate thought. His golden eyes flick to mine, sharp and assessing, and I realize—oh, oh—he knows what I just thought.
Heat floods my face. I snatch the jar closer to my chest like it’s a shield, clearing my throat. “Yes. A dripper. That’s what I meant.”
Garrik exhales through his nose, like he’s trying very, very hard not to say something that will absolutely ruin me. Instead, he just reaches for a nearby shelf, grabbing a small wooden spoon. “Here,” he says, voice gruffer than before.
I take it gingerly, turning it over in my fingers. The polished wood is smooth and warm, and I suddenly feel a little ridiculous for not just using my finger, but whatever. I twist the jar open, the scent of wildflowers and something sun-warmed and golden curling up to meet me.
I dip the spoon inside, watching as the honey drapes over the curved edge in a slow, syrupy cascade. My mouth waters, and before I can second-guess myself, I lift it to my lips.
The first taste is light, almost impossibly delicate, like the first breath of spring air after a long winter. It’s floral, a little citrusy, smooth and golden on my tongue, the kind of thing that makes my whole body slow down just to savor it.
I hum, licking the spoon clean. “Oh, this is good.”
Garrik goes rigid.
Like, full-body, absolutely motionless, statue-still rigid.
His golden eyes are locked on my mouth, his jaw tight, his antennae twitching so violently they look like they might just vibrate off his head.
I blink up at him, licking the last of the honey from my lips. “What?”
He blinks once. Then again. His throat bobs in a slow, pained swallow. “Nothing.”
I narrow my eyes, waving the dripper at him. “You look weird.”
“I don’t look weird.”
“You do.” I squint. “You look…stressed.”
Garrik makes a strangled noise, dragging a hand down his face. “I am stressed.”
“Why?”
“No reason.”
I take another deliberate dip into the honey jar, scooping up an even thicker ribbon of gold. The way he tracks the movement, the way his fingers tighten into a white-knuckled grip on the countertop—oh, this is dangerous.
I lift the spoon to my lips, watching him from beneath my lashes. “Are you sure?” I ask innocently. “Because you seem—” I pause, licking the dripper slowly, swirling my tongue around the thick, golden syrup just to be obnoxious. “—a little tense.”
Garrik makes a sound that should not come from a person who is simply observing someone tasting honey.
His hands clench at his sides, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths—too measured, like he’s fighting for control, like he’s just barely holding it together.
I hum, swallowing the last of the honey. “So what’s this one called?”
Garrik looks at me like I just asked him to recite an advanced physics theorem in an unfamiliar language. His mouth opens—then closes. Then opens again. Then closes again.
I bite back a laugh. “Garrik.”
He blinks. “What?”
I wave the dripper at him again. “The honey?”
“Oh.” He drags a hand through his dark green curls, looking dazed. “Uh. That one is…from the spring blossom batch. Clover, aurelian flower, a little bit of…” He trails off, eyes flicking to my mouth again.
I press my lips together, trying so hard not to laugh. “A little bit of?”
He blinks rapidly, shaking himself like he’s rebooting. “Uh. Of—uh. Heliotropis. Yeah.”
“Mmm.” I set the spoon down, tilting my head. “Garrik, are you okay?”
He definitely is not.
“I’m fine,” he mutters, turning sharply to reach for another jar. “Here. Try this one.”
Before I can even react, he dips a finger straight into the honey, scooping up a thick swirl of it. I don’t even have time to process the fact that he’s using his finger again before he lifts it toward me—offering, waiting.
Oh.
Oh, that’s interesting.
Garrik’s hand stays suspended between us, his golden eyes dark. I glance at his finger, then at him. His expression is tense, like he just realized what he’s done but now can’t figure out how to back out of it.
Which means I absolutely cannot back out of it either.
I take his wrist gently, guiding his hand toward me. He makes a barely audible sound—something between a swallow and a choked-off groan—but he doesn’t pull away.
I lean in slowly, deliberately. His breathing hitches.
And then—I take his finger into my mouth.
The taste floods my tongue immediately—richer, deeper, with a caramel warmth that lingers, slow and golden and decadent. I hum softly, savoring it, swirling my tongue over his fingertip to catch every last drop.
Garrik stops breathing.
He just stands there, frozen, every muscle in his body locked, his golden eyes wide and wild. His lips part slightly, like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out.
I release his finger slowly, letting my lips drag against his skin, and when I pull back, my heart is pounding.
Oh, shit.
Oh, fuck.
I just did that…and he wanted me to.
He stares at me, visibly struggling to process his own existence. His mouth opens, closes, opens again.
I am so close to completely losing it when—
“Dinner’s ready!”
We both lurch back like we’ve been electrocuted.
The door swings open, and Flora’s head peeks inside. “Are you two—” She stops immediately, taking in the absolute disaster of whatever the fuck is happening in this room.
I whip around, my face on fire. “Yep! Yes! Totally normal! Nothing weird happening in here!”
Flora slowly raises an eyebrow.
Garrik is still frozen, his hand still halfway raised, his pupils still too wide. He looks like he’s about to pass out.
Flora smirks.
“Uh-huh,” she says, her voice absolutely dripping with amusement. “Sure.”