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—” Ipause, 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.”
