Fever and French Windows

The days turned golden as spring matured, and the orchard buzzed with life.

Workers moved between rows of apple trees, pruning and checking blossoms. The scent of the earth was rich, the promise of a good harvest in the air.

And then came Leon.

Not in a suit. Not with contracts or offers.

But with a picnic basket.

“Break time!” he called, smiling as he walked up the hill. The workers cheered. Some of them had already grown used to seeing the man with fancy boots and sleeves rolled up, treating the land like it was his own.

He handed out warm buns, iced tea in glass bottles, and sweet potato tarts from a local bakery.

When he reached me, I stood under one of the older trees, watching quietly.

He held up a tart. “Peace offering,” he said.

I didn’t speak. Just smiled, soft and slow.

That smile seemed to light up his whole face.

He didn’t press. He never did.

Instead, he walked beside me through the rows of trees, the crunch of grass under our boots. The workers laughed behind us. The sound of pruning scissors, distant chatter—it all felt... alive.

“You know,” Leon said, glancing sideways, “I used to think I had to chase after everything. Power. Success. Approval.”

“And now?” I asked softly.

He shrugged, his eyes on the apple blossoms. “Now, I just want something real. Something slow. Like this orchard.”

I didn’t reply.

But after a few moments, I reached into his basket, took a tart, and bit into it.

He laughed.

“I’ll take that as a win.”

And I found myself laughing too.

No promises. No declarations.

Just small moments. Gentle gestures.

And in the stillness of the orchard, with apples yet to ripen, I began to wonder:

Maybe love didn’t need grand gestures.

Maybe this time, it could grow like fruit—patient, quiet, and sweet when it finally came.

...****************...

Rain had started to fall again—light and misty, not heavy like the storm from years ago.

But something in the air was uneasy.

Sean hadn’t shown up in the orchard that morning. The workers said he was resting, looked pale yesterday. Said he waved them off with a tired smile.

Leon didn’t hesitate. He dropped everything, drove up the winding road that led to the house above the hills—the house Sean rarely let anyone enter.

It stood like a portrait, elegant and aged, stone walls kissed by moss, French windows opening out to rows of apple trees below. It wasn’t just a home. It was a remnant of a family, of old love, of something once grand and now quiet.

He knocked, once, twice—no answer.

He pushed the door open.

Inside was still and dim. The scent of wood and herbs lingered.

He found Sean upstairs, in a large bedroom with sheer curtains billowing gently. The sheets were tangled, Sean’s body curled slightly, sweat glistening on his brow.

“Sean,” Leon said, voice low but urgent as he knelt by the bed.

Sean stirred weakly, eyes fluttering open. “Leon…?”

“I’m here.” He touched Sean’s cheek—too warm. “Why didn’t you call someone?”

Sean smiled faintly. “Didn’t want to bother anyone… it’s just a fever…”

Leon sighed, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “You are not a bother.”

He moved quickly—brought in cool water, damp cloths, checked for medicine, stayed by Sean’s side. Through the night, he barely left the room. When Sean’s breathing steadied, Leon sat in the old velvet armchair, watching over him like a silent guard.

In the quiet, under the ticking of the antique clock, Sean whispered, “Why do you care so much…?”

Leon leaned forward. “Because I want to be part of your life. Not just the good days. All of them.”

Sean blinked slowly. “You’ll get tired of me.”

Leon smiled sadly. “Not a chance.”

There was a pause.

Then Sean, voice hoarse, said, “Stay tonight.”

Leon took his hand, held it gently.

“I already planned to.”

That night, the rain fell softly outside the windows. And inside that old, oversized room, under blankets and quiet breathing, something bloomed silently—

Not the kind of love that comes like thunder.

But the kind that stays.

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