10. Dahlia #3
The kiss was deep and warm, sweet with the lingering taste of apple cider.
It carried the immense weight of thirty-two years of unspoken longing, the pain of their separation, and the hope of a future they'd both spent decades pretending they didn't want.
Dahlia leaned into his touch, her eyes closing as she let herself drown in the scent of pine and wood smoke, alongside the familiar warmth of him.
She tightened her grip on his collar, pulling him closer, letting her forehead rest against his cheek as they finally parted, their breath coming in ragged gasps in the quiet barn.
The heat of Beckett's skin against her forehead was a sudden, dizzying anchor, but the moment her breath began to steady, a cold spike of reality pierced the warmth.
The Chicago contract was waiting on her nightstand. The managing partner position. The life she’d spent thirty-two years building.
Dahlia gasped, her fingers instantly releasing his canvas collar as if the fabric had turned to hot ash.
She retreated a yard, her back pressing hard against the rough cedar edge of the workbench, placing a solid barrier of wood and air between them.
Her hands flew to her throat, her fingers curling over her collarbone as she desperately tried to piece her corporate armor back together.
Her chest was heaving, her breathing coming in short, panicked gasps that felt far too loud in the quiet barn.
She looked at him through the dim light of the rafters, and a wave of absolute terror washed over her.
In Chicago, her world was constructed of thick glass, soundproof boardrooms, and digital calendars that kept every minute safely insulated.
Out here, she stood in faded jeans, her palms covered in cedar dust, completely exposed.
Beckett remained completely still, his hand hovering in the empty space where her face had been a second before. The golden sunlight from the high window highlighted the sudden tension in his jaw, his eyes widening with a quiet hurt that made her throat tighten.
"We can't do this," Dahlia said, her voice instantly taking on a professional tone that sounded incredibly thin, almost brittle.
Beckett let his hand drop slowly to his side, his knuckles brushing against his thigh. "It didn't feel like we couldn't."
"It's just nostalgia," Dahlia countered, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the rough cedar wood of the bench behind her to keep her hands from shaking.
"We're letting a few old memories from a high school dance cloud the fact that we've built completely separate lives.
My career's in Chicago, and yours is here on the farm. We're not fifteen anymore."
"You think that's just fifteen?" Beckett asked. He shifted his weight, his shoulders tightening under his canvas jacket. "You think thirty years of waiting's just a memory?"
Dahlia flinched, the raw honesty of his words cutting straight through her defensive walls.
She looked away, her eyes locking onto the puddle of black paint on the scrap wood.
She couldn't let him see how easily his voice dismantled her.
"I'm being practical. I can't throw away everything I've spent my entire adult life building because of a warm afternoon.
It isn't real. The city's my home now. This... this is a beautiful distraction."
"A distraction," Beckett repeated, his tone entirely devoid of anger, carrying only a quiet resignation.
He looked at her for a long, silent beat, his eyes studying her face until she felt completely exposed.
He didn't raise his voice, yet the silence between them stretched tight, vibrating with all the things they weren't saying.
"If that's what you've to tell yourself to feel safe. "
He turned slowly toward his metal toolbox on the far end of the bench.
He closed the lid, the dry latch catching with a loud metallic snap.
He lifted the box by its handle, his knuckles white against the metal.
Without another word, he headed toward the wide, sliding doors of the barn, his shadow stretching across the dusty floorboards before disappearing entirely into the bright autumn light outside.
Dahlia stood alone in the center of the cold barn. The wind rattled the loose siding, but inside, the silence was absolute, a suffocating space that pressed against her ears.
She reached out, her trembling fingers brushing the crescent moon stencil they'd been painting. She lifted the thin brass plate, pressing the cold metal against her palm, squeezing until the sharp edges left a deep, red mark on her skin. The scent of pine sawdust and black paint lingered in the air, a quiet reminder of what she’d just pushed away.
She looked out the open door toward the north, where the dark hemlock ridge rose against the blue sky, carrying secrets she still'd to solve.
Come what may, she'd save the farm, but as she looked at the empty doorway, she wondered what she'd have left when the harvest was over.