It was. Cal had forgotten how beautiful. The high meadows stretched in every direction, wildflowers swaying in the morning breeze. The sky was turning gold and pink at the horizon, casting everything in soft light. And the smell—honey and grass and clean mountain air, unspoiled by city pollution or human interference.
“My grandfather brought me here when I was six.” He killed the engine, staring out at the meadows. “First time I’d ever seen the hives. He told me that bears and bees have been partners forthousands of years. That the relationship is sacred. That honey isn’t food—it’s trust.”
“That’s lovely.”
“He also told me that if I stuck my hand in a hive without proper preparation, I’d deserve every sting I got.” His mouth curved, a hint of humor breaking through. “I learned respect that day. Among other things.”
Dahlia laughed—a soft, surprised sound that did complicated things to his composure.
“Come on.” He climbed out of the truck, grabbing equipment from the bed. “I’ll teach you the way he taught me.”
The bees knewDahlia was a witch.
Cal had expected some interest—the semi-magical creatures responded to supernatural energy, and Dahlia had more than most. What he hadn’t expected was the way they calmed around her. The hive he was showing her how to approach had been agitated all spring, defensive after a late frost killed part of the colony. But as Dahlia stepped close, humming softly under her breath, the angry buzzing gentled.
“They like you.” Cal handed her the smoker, adjusting her grip when she held it wrong. His fingers brushed hers. Neither of them acknowledged it. Neither pulled away.
“I’ve worked with bees in potions before. Never at the source, though.” She watched the insects moving across the frames with obvious fascination. “Your grandfather was right. They really are partners, aren’t they? You can feel the intelligence.”
“Grandmother, too,” Cal added automatically. “And yes. They remember people. Hold grudges. Show affection, sometimes.”
“Have they shown you affection?”
“Not lately.” He reached past her to lift a frame from the hive, demonstrating the movement. “I haven’t been here in years. They probably forgot me.”
A bee landed on his hand. Then another. Cal went still, watching as a third joined them, moving across his knuckles with delicate precision.
“Hmm.” Dahlia’s voice carried amusement. “Looks like they remember you just fine.”
He should shake them off. Should focus on the lesson, the harvest, the practical purpose of this visit.
Instead, he stood in the golden morning light, bees crawling across his skin, and let himself feel something other than exhaustion for the first time in years.
They worked for the next two hours.
Cal showed Dahlia how to identify full frames versus developing ones. How to use the smoker to calm the bees without stressing them. How to harvest honey without disturbing the brood or taking more than the hive could spare. She learned quickly—asked smart questions, adapted her technique based on his feedback, moved through the meadow with increasing confidence.
The sun climbed higher, turning the meadows to gold. The air grew thick with the scent of flowers and honey. Cal found himself watching her more than the hives—the way she tilted her head when she listened, the way her hands moved with careful precision, the way she talked to the bees in a low, soothing voice that made his bear want to curl up at her feet.
At some point, a bee landed in her hair.
Cal saw it happen—watched the insect settle into the loose strands at her temple, its wings catching the light.
“Hold still.”
Dahlia froze, her eyes going wide. “What? Is it?—”
“Bee. In your hair.” He stepped closer, reaching up slowly. “Don’t panic. I’ll get it.”
Her breath caught as his fingers brushed her temple. This close, he could see the gold flecks in her hazel eyes, the faint freckles across her nose.
The bee crawled onto his finger. Cal pulled back, letting the insect take flight, but he didn’t step away. Couldn’t.
Dahlia’s lips parted. Her pupils dilated.
“Got it,” he managed, his voice more strained than intended.
“Thanks.” Barely a whisper.
