14. Elowen
ELOWEN
Morning light breaks clear and cold through the window.
No rain. October sky scrubbed clean, the kind of bright autumn day that makes everything sharp-edged and vivid.
The clarity from yesterday remains.
The greenhouse is empty when I arrive mid-morning, my lectures optional while I’m recovering from my heat
The space holds yesterday's warmth, physical and otherwise. Evidence of their work everywhere: organized benches, thriving seedlings, the careful repairs that make the glass panes whole again.
The chamomile harvested from my windowsill waits in a cloth bag. The stems are bundled with twine the way Mira taught, leaves and flowers intact, ready for drying.
The herb drying station hasn't been used in years. Wooden racks near the back wall, dusty but sound. I keep busy, wiping down the slats, checking the hooks overhead, making sure the space is ready. Then I hang the chamomile bundles.
One by one, suspended from the rafters where they'll catch air and dry slowly. The pale flowers glow against dark wood, the scent filling the greenhouse with something distinctly mine.
Juniper appears from beneath a table, assessing my work with her good eye. "Approval noted," I murmur. She blinks slowly and settles into a patch of sun.
The door opens.
Calder stops just inside, gray eyes finding the chamomile first, then finding me. His expression softens into a smile that makes heat settle deep in my core.
"I’ve had requests for chamomile and fennel tea."
His expression shifts, approval and something deeper. "So, we’re doing this."
“I want to be… useful.”
He smiles. “You’re so much more than that.” His voice is husky.
He moves into the greenhouse properly, setting down the toolbox he's carrying. The sound of metal settling against wood. Then silence while he studies what's been done.
"I want to ask you something."
My pulse picks up. "Okay."
"The bench I built." He gestures toward it. "Is it the right height?"
The mundanity breaks the tension building in my shoulders, and an almost laugh escapes.
"It's perfect."
"I can adjust it if—"
"Calder."
He stops. Looks at me directly.
"It's perfect because you built it for me."
He's quiet for a beat. Then: "I'd build you anything."
"I know."
He moves closer. Deliberate steps, nothing rushed. Stops within arm's reach and pauses there for a heartbeat, two, three, my pulse jumping erratically as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
“I’ve never met anyone like you before, Elowen.”
I swallow hard. “Is that a good thing?”
He smiles. “It’s… unexpected.” He must realize how that sounds because he quickly adds, “But now that I have met you, I realize it’s the very best thing.”
A tingle starts between my legs, and I have the overwhelming urge to take his hand and place it over my sex.
Before I can act on the impulse, his hand comes up slowly and cups my jaw. Gentle despite the calluses, despite the strength in those fingers. Gray eyes search mine, asking, then he leans in.
The kiss is brief. Fierce. Like everything about him, controlled intensity barely leashed. Electric and certain and completely undeniable. When he pulls back, it's only far enough to rest his forehead against mine.
His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, the other wraps around my waist. Drawing me closer. I step into his embrace without thinking, and a sound escapes him. Low, almost pained. Satisfaction and restraint and want all tangled together.
My scent responds, the sweetness engulfing us as slick oozes from me and saturates my panties.
"Calder," I whisper against his shoulder.
"I know." His voice is rough. "I can smell it. You’re—" He stops, jaw clenching where it rests against my temple. Everything he's not saying pressed into the space between heartbeats. “You’re beautiful.”
My heart is leaping. “I thought you looked like a movie star when I first saw you.”
He chuckles, low and filled with joy. “Any movie star in particular?”
“No, just one perfect image in my head.”
He strokes my head and holds me tighter. “Elowen, I’m far from perfect.”
“To me you are.”
His thumb brushes my cheekbone, and he steps back, lets his hands fall away even though I can see the effort it takes. “I only hope I never let you down.”
“You could never.”
Tyler and Julian arrive together just past noon, Tyler carrying a bulky brown paper bag.
"Brought lunch. Figured we'd all be here." Tyler spreads the contents of the bag across the clean section of workbench, sandwiches, fruit, something wrapped that smells like cinnamon bagels.
We eat together around the new bench, conversation easy and punctuated by comfortable silence.
“Seraphina said she slept like a baby after your chamomile tea,” Tyler says. “I think she wants to take out a subscription.”
Calder smiles. “Could be the start of something big.”
“You would have to register if you were going to take it seriously.” Julian studies his sandwich before biting off the corner of the crust. His phone buzzes, and something softens in his expression, the first real smile I've seen from him. "My sister."
He turns the screen toward us. A video of a girl mid-backflip on a balance beam, sticking the landing.
"Pen's competing at nationals next month," he explains, pocketing the phone. "She sends videos when she nails something new. She wants me to know gymnastics takes as much precision as science." His voice holds affection, maybe a hint of pride. "She's not wrong.”
“Is that hard for you to admit?” Calder asks.
“Not as hard as admitting defeat when we beat his best gift ever.” Tyler hides his laughter behind his sandwich.
“You forget,” Julian says, “that this is an open competition, and anything you can do, I can do better.”
“Whoa, fighting talk.” Calder places a hand above the table. Tyler places his on top, followed by Julian.
“Guys,” I interject, “what’s the prize?”
“You,” they all say together.
Later, we drag ourselves back to the building for classes.
Julian gathers his notes. Calder cleans his tools. Both heading toward campus buildings in opposite directions.
Tyler lingers near the door after they leave. "Walk with me?" he asks.
"Where are we going?" My pulse quickens.
I still haven’t figured out how they can all affect me in their own ways, or what I’m supposed to do with my feelings, so I’m just going with it for now. A pebble moving with the current until I land where I’m supposed to be.
"Nowhere specific." His smile is warm. "Just... walking."
Outside, October asserts itself immediately. The air is sharper. Leaves crunch underfoot, gold and amber and rust, carpeting the paths in layers.
"What made you decide to come here?" Tyler asks.
"My parents chose this place. Before they died. They'd researched schools, narrowed it down. This was top of the list."
He slows his pace. "I didn't know." Pause. "When did they—"
"Eight years ago." The words come easier than expected. "Car accident."
He stops walking and turns to face me.
I stare at leaves scattered like copper coins across the path. "I was angry at first. They'd made the decision without me, and I was supposed to live out their plan even though they wouldn't be here to see it."
"But you came."
"Eventually." I meet his gaze. "Mira helped me see it differently. Said it wasn't about obligation. It was about... possibility. They'd given me an option, not an order. I could take it or leave it."
"What changed your mind?" His voice is gentle.
"I realized I was angry at the wrong thing." My throat tightens. "I wasn't angry that they chose a school. I was angry they weren't here to see if they'd been right."
"Elowen—"
"Sometimes I wonder what they'd think." The tears come despite trying to hold them back. "If they'd be proud. If I'm doing this right. If—"
Tyler steps closer. One hand rises, catches a tear with his thumb. So gentle it almost breaks me further.
"Come here," he says, arms opening.
His arms circle me, solid, warm, holding without crushing. One hand comes up to rest between my shoulder blades, the other settles at my back. He presses a kiss to the top of my head. Tender.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs into my hair, voice rough with emotion. "I'm so sorry you lost them. I'm sorry they're not here to see how incredible you are."
The words break something open. My tears come harder, soaking into his shirt, and he doesn't move. Simply holds me while October wind bites at exposed skin. I could stay there, I realize, safe in his arms.
"And for what it's worth," he continues, "I think they'd be proud. Of the person you are. The way you're building a life here on your own terms."
The tears subside eventually, and I become aware of his heartbeat under my ear, of his hand moving in slow circles against my back, of how completely he let me fall apart without trying to fix it.
Pulling back enough to look up. His hazel eyes meet mine, warm, a little damp, entirely present.
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For caring.”
His hands come up to frame my face, thumbs gentle as they wipe away the last of the tears. "Of course I care."
He leans forward, presses a soft kiss to my forehead. Tender. Lingering. When he pulls back, his hands are still cradling my face. One thumb brushes across my lower lip, slowly, deliberately. The touch is feather-light but it might as well be a brand.
"Not like this," he says softly, and my heart stutters. "I want to kiss you. I've wanted to since our first seminar. Maybe before. But not like this. I want our first kiss to be about us, and it will be."
“I want to kiss you too.” So much it aches inside.
His smile is gentle. "I can wait. You’re worth waiting for, Elowen."
My throat is too tight to speak.
He leans in again and presses another kiss to my forehead, this one briefer but no less tender. "Okay?" he whispers.
"Okay," I manage.
He keeps one arm around my shoulders as we walk again, slower now.
"My parents wanted me to take over the family bookstore. Expected it, really. Coming here was my way of saying I need to figure out who I am first. Before I can be who they want me to be."
"Do they understand?"
"They're trying." As Hawthorn Hall comes into view, he says, "I'm glad you're here."
"So am I."
His smile when we part carries warmth and tenderness. "Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow."
Watching him walk away, my heart feels fuller despite the tears.
The library is quiet that evening.
Study tables scattered with students, lamplight warm against the darkness outside. October sunset comes earlier now, the days shortening visibly.
Julian sits at a corner table, surrounded by books, taking notes in his precise handwriting. He looks up, sensing my presence. "I was hoping you'd come."
I sit with him, and we work in parallel silence. He reads, takes notes. Opening a textbook, reviewing material for tomorrow's class.
The quiet is comfortable. Productive.
After a while, he slides a book across the table.
The title catches attention immediately: Omega Autonomy in Historical Pack Structures.
"Why?" I arch an eyebrow.
"Because I want to understand what you might need." He meets my gaze directly. "What this could look like. If you want it to look like anything."
The thoughtfulness hits harder than expected. "May I?" I gesture to the book.
"Of course."
Passages have been highlighted, and there are notes in the margins. He's been working through this systematically, looking for frameworks that might apply.
I look up to find him watching. "You did all this research for me?"
"For us," he corrects gently. "Understanding what you need helps me understand what we're building. If we're building anything."
"We are." I’m firm.
"Then I want to do it right."
He takes my hand, studies it the way he studies everything with focus and genuine interest. Tracing the lines of the palm with one careful finger. "You have gardener's hands," he observes. "Strong. Capable.”
Then he releases me, returns to the book, as though holding and studying hands is simply another form of research.
"I don't need you to be anything other than what you are," he says without looking up from the text.
"That's all I'm offering." I smile.
"Then we're well-matched."
When the library closes, he walks partway back to Hawthorn Hall with me. "Goodnight, Elowen."
"Goodnight, Julian."
Watching him walk toward the academic wing, I process the day.
Three different people.
Three different kinds of intimacy.
And I want all of it.