He startled slightly at my voice, then looked up. A smudge of sawdust marked his cheekbone like war paint. He accepted the glass, his rough, calloused fingers brushing mine in the transfer.
"Your rain gutter on the east side is pulling away from the fascia," he said matter-of-factly, taking a long drink. "I noticed it when I was up on the ladder last week."
"You just noticed that? From inspecting my gutters?"
"I notice a lot of things."
His blue eyes met mine, completely unguarded for once, and suddenly we weren't talking about gutters or fascia boards anymore. My breath caught somewhere high in my throat.
"That's..." I searched for adequate words and found none. "Observant of you."
"Comes with the territory." He set the glass down on the porch boards carefully. "Wilderness survival training. You learn to read your environment constantly. Notice changes. Spot problems before they become emergencies."
"And I'm part of the environment now?"
The question slipped out before I could stop it, bolder than I'd intended. His steady gaze held mine for a beat too long.
"Something like that," he said quietly.
Heat crept up my neck and across my cheeks. I settled onto the porch step, suddenly needing to sit down before my knees did something embarrassing like buckle. He finished securing the new railing section with practiced efficiency, tested it twice with firm pressure, then gathered his tools and came to join me, leaving a careful foot of respectful space between us.
The children were chasing something at the clearing's edge, their delighted laughter floating back to us like distant music.
"Tell me about the bees," I said, wanting to hear him talk about something he loved, to see that light I'd glimpsed before. "What happens to them this time of year?"
The transformation was immediate and remarkable. His broad shoulders relaxed visibly. Something soft and warm entered his usually guarded eyes.
"They're hunkering down for winter," he said, his deep voice warming with genuine enthusiasm. "Fall nectar flow is completely over, goldenrods and wild asters are withering. Now it's purely about survival for the colony."
"What do they do to survive?"
"Cluster tight together for warmth. Protect the queen at the center. Live off the honey they worked all summer to store." He glanced at me, checking if I was actually interested. "It's a quiet time for beekeeping. You don't open the hives much because you'd release their heat. You just observe from outside. Listen."
"Listen to bees?"
"On a still morning, you can hear the hum from ten feet away. Thousands of them, vibrating their wing muscles together. Keeping each other alive through sheer collective effort." He almost smiled, a rare softening of his features. "It's the most peaceful sound in the entire world."
I could picture it perfectly—him standing alone in a frost-tipped meadow at dawn, breath misting in the cold air, listening to that ancient, vital hum.
"It sounds beautiful," I said softly.
"It's the only thing that's ever made complete sense to me." He paused, staring out at the trees. "Well. That and Sarah."
"She's doing so well, Cole. Her reading level has jumped a full grade since we started."
"That's because of you."
"It's because of both of us working together. She feels supported. Safe. Confident enough to take risks." I turned to face him more fully. "You're doing great. Take your flowers."
The light in his eyes dimmed immediately, replaced by that familiar shadow of self-doubt I'd seen before.
He shook his head slowly. "I don't know what I'm doing, Emma. Honestly. The wilderness, the bees, I understand those completely. A six-year-old girl who needs emotional support after losing her mother before she ever knew her?" He exhaled slowly, heavily. "I'm improvising. Every single day. Just hoping I don't mess her up in ways I can't even see yet."
"Ms. Reed!" Chloe's excited voice cut through the moment. "Leo found a caterpillar! A really fuzzy one!"
"That's wonderful, Chloe! Don't let it crawl up your arm!"
"Too late! It tickles!"
