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’shis.
“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 thinkeverythingis 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, Iammarveling.
Not just at the honey or the way the light catches in the glass jars, but athim—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 actuallyappreciategood honey or if you just think it’s sweet and sticky.”
I scoff. “Ilovehoney.”
“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.
