Each step back toward the village made the smooth little orbs roll and press against my ribs, their ripe fragrance wrapping around me like a secret.
As I rounded the bend in the path, I saw him. He stood near the well, still and composed, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond me. My heart skipped, and for a moment I nearly forgot the awkward weight in my robe. Almost without thinking, I quickened my pace, the fruit shifting and bumping with every step.
"I found them," I said breathlessly, stopping just short of him. I reached into the robe's folds and drew out the first fruit, holding it up with a grin. "A whole tree in the forest. I took as many as I could carry."
He took one from my hand, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest moment. His expression remained calm, silent, but I barely noticed. I pulled out another, pressing it into his palm. "They're sweet. I think I can pickle them, too—so they last through the cold."
His nod was slow, unreadable, but I didn't wait for words. The fruits in my robe were heavy, and the thought of eating one made my mouth water. Without another word, I hurried past him toward my cottage, my steps quick, ignoring the quiet he carried like a shadow.
Inside, the air was cool and dim, the faint scent of dried herbs lingering in the rafters. I set the fruits on the table, their skins catching the light like polished amber. My fingers itched to split one open. I chose the ripest, feeling its delicate give under my thumb, and tore the skin gently. Sweet, golden flesh glistened beneath, and the first bite flooded my mouth with sunlight and warmth.
I closed my eyes, letting the taste linger before swallowing. For a moment, the world outside—the silence at the well, the unspoken weight in his gaze—was far away. Here, it was only me, the table, and the soft thump of fruit rolling as I began to sort them, already imagining jars lined up for the winter ahead.
The pile on the table grew smaller as I picked out the firmest ones for storing and set aside the bruised or overripe for eating now. I found an old knife, its handle worn smooth, and began cutting away blemishes, humming under my breath. The simple rhythm—slice, scoop, set aside—was soothing, like weaving or mending.
In the corner, a small clay jar caught my eye, half-hidden beneath a heap of cloth. I pulled it free and smiled. It would do for brine. My mind drifted to the abandoned houses I had passed earlier—there might be more jars there, even larger ones. If I worked quickly, I could pickle enough to last through the cold moons ahead.
Outside, the afternoon light was mellowing into gold. I stepped to the doorway for a breath of air and caught sight of him still by the well, speaking quietly to one of the older villagers. His head was bent slightly, but his posture had not changed much since I had left him. I felt an urge to call out, to share my plan for the fruit, yet something in his stillness kept me silent.
So I turned back inside, rolling up my sleeves. The fruit waited, patient and full of promise, and I would not waste them. Tonight, I decided, I would make the first jar of the season—and if I found more jars tomorrow, I would make dozens.
The thought steadied me. Whatever the shadows between us, the work of my hands was mine. And for now, that was enough.
By midday, the table was cleared, the work done. Neatly arranged jars—each heavy with syrupy golden halves—gleamed in the cool light that slanted through the shutters. My arms ached pleasantly from the labor, but my chest felt light, full of quiet pride. I picked the prettiest of the fruits still waiting in the bowl, its skin smooth and glowing, and slipped it into a small clay pot.
I would take it to him—just one, as a thank you.
The air outside was warm, cicadas singing from the edges of the path. I followed the winding trail toward the master's house, the pot cradled against my palms. The sound of water reached me before I saw the pool—soft splashes, the faint rustle of ripples against stone.
I slowed, my steps growing careful. Then I looked.
He was there.
The sunlight poured over his bare shoulders, tracing the sculpted lines of his back and the play of muscle as he moved through the water. Droplets slid down his skin in silver paths, catching briefly in the shadows between ribs before falling. My breath caught, the clay pot growing suddenly heavy in my hands.
He turned.
Dark eyes met mine across the pool, unreadable but steady. With unhurried grace, he waded toward the shore, each step breaking the surface in soft arcs of water. My cheeks burned hot, and I lowered my gaze, suddenly aware of the uneven rhythm of my breathing.
By the time he reached the edge, he had gathered his robe and drawn it loosely over his shoulders. The faint scent of clean water clung to him as he came closer.
"Do you need something?" he asked, his voice calm, almost distant.
I shook my head quickly, words tumbling before I could think. "This… this is for you. I'm sorry—"
Before he could answer, I thrust the pot into his hands, my fingers brushing his just long enough to feel the cool dampness of his skin. Then I turned, almost tripping over my own steps, and hurried back along the path.
The cicadas were still singing, but my ears roared with the sound of my own pulse.
The cottage felt too quiet once I was back inside, the only sound the ticking of the cooling kettle. I sat at the small table, my hands folded in my lap, trying—failing—not to replay what I'd just seen.
It wasn't as though I hadn't noticed before. His presence always filled a room in some quiet, commanding way. But today… the water had caught the light over him in a way that made my breath hitch.
I leaned back in my chair, eyes slipping shut. My mind betrayed me, tracing the memory of how the droplets clung to his skin before rolling slowly down. The lines of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest, the strength in the easy way he moved.
He was my master. I shouldn't think of him like that. And yet…
I pressed my palms together as if that could keep the thoughts from slipping further. The warmth that had risen in me on the path back hadn't faded—it curled low in my belly, both thrilling and infuriating.
The fire in the hearth i put together with some loose bricks popped softly, pulling me back into the room. I exhaled, slow and shaky, and told myself I was being foolish. But even as I reached for a book, the image of him stepping out of the water—calm, unhurried, and entirely too beautiful—wouldn't leave me.