The town of Windmere was dressed in motion. Seamstresses bustled through alleys, carts rolled past with bolts of fabric, and the scent of lavender and starch hung in the air. The Everhart order was nearly complete, and Livia's hands moved with quiet pride as she packed the final maid dresses for delivery.
Marco stepped out into the street, coat buttoned, heart lighter than it had been in weeks. His mother's smile that morning had been real — not forced, not tired. Just real.
He met Colden near the fountain, where the dandelions still grew wild between the stones.
"Ready for the tour?" Marco asked.
Colden nodded, adjusting the lapel of his coat. The dandelion was still tucked there, soft and golden.
They walked slowly, Marco pointing out the bakery with the stubborn cat, the old library with the crooked steps, the hill where children raced wooden carts in summer. Colden listened, smiled, asked questions that made Marco laugh.
At one point, Colden's hand brushed Marco's as they turned a corner. It was brief. Accidental. But Colden felt it — a flutter, a warmth, a thought he couldn't quite name.
He carried on with the tour, but something had shifted.
By the time they returned to the inn, the sky had darkened. Rain began to fall in soft sheets, tapping against the windows like a lullaby.
Marco handed Colden the key to Room Seven. "You're lucky," he said. "That one doesn't leak."
Colden smiled. "Thanks. For everything."
Marco nodded, then turned to help a guest at the counter.
Upstairs, Colden stepped into the room, the scent of wood and rain wrapping around him. He bathed slowly, letting the warmth soothe him, then dressed in soft cotton and sat on the edge of the bed.
His thoughts drifted — to Marco's laugh, to the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, to the gentle way he spoke about his mother.
Colden felt his cheeks flush. He pressed a hand to his chest, then let it fall lower, resting on his thigh.
He didn't know what this feeling was. Only that it was new. And real. he grabs the hardened dick and starts stroking it ...
The room was quiet. The rain outside grew heavier.
He leaned back, eyes half-closed, breath slowing.
And then — the door creaked open.
Marco stepped inside, holding a tray of tea, eyes widening as he saw Colden frozen on the bed, startled, vulnerable.
Neither spoke.
The rain kept falling.
To be continued...