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I watched Mr. Fairchild as he returned to his easel, his quiet focus making my chest ache in ways I couldn't quite put into words. Morning light streamed through the glass ceiling in thick golden beams, catching on the smudges of violet and gold on his rolled-up sleeves, turning the paint streaks into accidental adornments against the defined lines of his forearms.
Each time he dipped his brush and swept it across the canvas, the orchid in the painting seemed to breathe a little deeper, its petals unfurling under his careful touch as if they recognized their creator.
The air was bursting with life, sweet orchid nectar, damp earth, and the sharp green scent of crushed leaves and beneath it all was the steady, intoxicating aroma of cedar and smoke from his alpha pheromones, curling into my lungs and making my hungover brain forget how to muster any coherent protests.
