The first thing I see when I return from my trip to the store is that Kit is a bloody mess.
The second is that there are blackberries everywhere, which explains some of the 'blood.'
Some, but not all. Kit looks like he crawled through a thicket of thorns, which, it would appear, is exactly what he did.
His borrowed clothes lie clean and neatly folded on the table, and he stands in my kitchen, naked and scratched head to toe, but grinning shyly as he offers me a bowl of plump, dark berries.
"I picked them for you, Monty," he says. "For Grace."
"Oh, Kit..." I set down my grocery bags and look around at all the bowls and containers filled to the brim. "You shouldn't have."
His smile falters. "I... shouldn't?"
"No. Not on your own. And not all at once." I sigh. "And what am I gonna do with these now? It's too much."
"But you said... Grace would make the pies and jams..."
"Yeah, but making pies and jams is a lot of work. I'd-a checked with her first, made sure she had the time for it." I rub the back of my neck. "Besides, I was looking forward to picking 'em with you."
His expression shifts from confusion to raw distress, and he takes a halting step towards me, but the bowl slips from his grasp and falls to the floor.
Fortunately, it's plastic, and just bounces, but berries fly everywhere, and Kit drops to his knees.
"P-please — I — I'm s-sorry," he gasps, scrambling to collect them. "I'm sorry. I c-can't put them back. But p-please — please don't make me leave!"
"Make you leave? I'm not gonna make you leave." I go to him and lower myself at his side, grasping his bare shoulders and forcing him to sit up and stop. "Hey, now — calm down. It's okay. They're just berries, Kit, and I'm not mad. It's only... Well, why'd you do all this, anyway?"
He looks up, eyes wide and watery in his berry- and blood-stained face.
"I thought it would make you happy," he whispers.
"Make me happy? Kit, you don't have to make me happy," I say. "And seeing you all scratched up certainly won't do it."
"But all the b-best berries were down by the creek." He sniffs. "I didn't want to m-miss them."
I rub my hand over my mouth, careful not to smile. As tragically misguided as he is, there's something adorable about him, too.
"Okay, well... let's get you cleaned up. That'll make me happier than I am now, anyway."
"It will?" He brightens.
"Yeah. Come on."
I help him up and lead him to the bathroom, turning on the tub. Kit stands in the doorway, shifting from side to side and eyeing the bath uneasily.
"What's the matter now? Haven't you had a bath before?"
"Yes. But the water here is... rather cold," he says, wiping at his nose.
"Cold? Why would bathwater be..." I catch on, and sigh. "Kit, please tell me you took a hot shower yesterday?"
He shakes his head. "I didn't know it was allowed. They never let me use the hot water at home."
I make a face. "A hot bath makes life worth living, sometimes. Come on—get in."
I hold out my hand, and after a brief hesitation, he reaches for it and lets me guide him into the tub. I feel a little tingle of warmth at his trust—like he's a timid animal that finally let me get close.
Except he's not an animal, I remind myself sternly. He's a grown-ass man—even if he doesn't look or act like one.
He lowers himself carefully into the water, and then he gasps.
"What is it? Too hot?" I ask, checking the temperature with my hand. I've gotten so used to bathing Luna and Luca, I thought I had it down to a science.
"No," he breathes. "It's... amazing."
He shivers, and I wonder if he's really okay. "Alright. You'll tell me if it's not, though, won't you?"
He nods once.
I grab a washcloth and dip it in the water, then gently squeeze it over his back and dab at the long scratches that crisscross his shoulder and arms. He makes no sound, and holds completely still, though I know it must hurt—especially when I pull a stray thorn or two from his skin. The water quickly turns pink with a mix of berry juice and blood, and the only good thing about it is that I notice a few of the scratches have already started to heal.
"So, you do heal like a Wolf," I remark, cleaning a long shallow cut on the inside of his lower arm, which had looked a lot worse a few minutes earlier. "Didn't seem like you did, before."
"Ferrault is a dire," he says softly, eyes angled at the tinted water between his knees. "His bite won't heal. Even for a Wolf."
"A dire?" I repeat. "What's that?"
He turns to look at me, his dark eyes wide.
"You don't know?"
"Uh..." I draw a blank. "Sorry, no. Dane probably does. He's all trained up on the Wolf lore. Is that like a title, or something?"
He faces forward again, hunching his shoulders and hugging his knees to his chest.
"No. His nature. And a practice."
"Okay... anything more you wanna tell me?"
He shakes his head, and a shiver arcs across his shoulders.
I get the feeling if I pressed him—if I asked directly—he'd answer, but I don't want to push him right now. It can wait.
When he's mostly clean, and I've got all the thorns out of him, I pull the plug from the drain, and show him how to adjust the hot and cold faucet handles, and how to work the shower.
"Rinse the rest of the dirt outta your hair and get dressed," I tell him. "Then we'll talk about those berries."
He nods, still with his eyes lowered, and I can't resist anymore.
I reach out and slide my hand along the side of his face, making him look at me.
"Hey, Kit? It's gonna be okay, you know," I say quietly. "Dane's a good man, and he won't let anything happen to you while you're under his watch. And... neither will I. You got some learning to do, but even if you make a few mistakes, nobody's gonna punish you for it. Nobody's gonna hurt you here. Understand?"
He smiles—just a little, but for real—and I feel a crack open in my heart.
"Alright. I'll wait outside," I say, and leave him alone.
I gotta be careful; that crack gets any bigger, and he'll slip right through.
~ ☾ ~
I wait for him to finish his shower, lounging on my sofa and reading a book of poetry Noah lent me. I don't really get it, except that it's raw and modern, and speaks to people on the edge—people marginalized by the way they look, or the way they're born, or where they're from.
Beyond that, I can't get too deep, but I appreciate the lines and the asymmetry, and the way it all fits together, beginning to end.
And then Kit joins me, dressed in Noah's borrowed clothes, looking clean and neat, and with no trace of blackberry scratches to be seen.
Setting my book aside, I school my features into an expression of mock sternness and wait until he stands before me, hands clasped in front of him and head lowered, as if awaiting instruction on what he ought to do next.
"Kit, did you happen to eat any berries while you were picking them?" I ask, though I think I know the answer already.
He looks up quickly, eyes wide. "Of course not!"
Sadly, I believe him.
"Okay. Here's what I want you to do. Go to the kitchen, get a bowl, and fill it with the best of the best berries — the ones you know will taste good just by looking. Bring it here."
He nods and vanishes, and a few minutes later comes back with exactly what I asked for: a bowl of big, plump, shiny, juicy berries I can just about taste with my eyes.
"Sit down." I point to the couch at my side.
He obeys, holding the bowl in his lap.
"Okay, pick the best one."
He selects a berry and holds it out to me.
I shake my head. "No — that one's yours. I'll pick... this one."
Choosing another, I pinch it carefully between my finger and thumb.
"Okay, you ready for this? First taste of the harvest, here we go."
I lift the berry towards my mouth, but Kit remains still, just watching me.
I frown.
"You gotta eat yours, too," I tell him. "Same time."
His eyes widen, but he nods and then mirrors my movements with an expression of mingled wonder and uncertainty, as if half-convinced he must be doing something wrong.
I pause with the little fruit pressed lightly to my lips and close my eyes, breathing the bright scent of warm summer and childhood happiness remembered, and then pop it in my mouth.
Kit's got a knack for picking good berries, that's for sure.
I savor it; the fresh sweetness, a little gift from nature itself, still warm from the sun.
When I open my eyes, I see Kit's are still closed, his head tilted back slightly, a look of simple bliss on his face. Then he blinks and looks at me, his dark eyes shining, and wipes hastily at the tears that slip down his cheeks.
"Thank you," he says softly, eyes lowered again. "It was delicious."
"Hey, we're not done. We got a whole bowl here."
I smile when he looks up in surprise, and wonder when the last time was that anyone shared something good with him. The answer, I realize, is probably 'never,' given how he's staring at the bowl with a mix of hope and distrust.
"Come on," I tell him. "We'll finish 'em together."
I select another, and so does he, and once more he mirrors me with studied exactitude. I find it strangely intimate, to eat like that; enjoying an experience together, one berry at a time.
Slowly, the bowl empties, and Kit gradually relaxes at the same time — little by little — until only two berries remain.
"Hey — lucky," I say. "Even number."
Smiling at each other, we each eat our last berry; and then, as naturally as if I'd known him for years, I reach over and wipe a bit of juice from the side of his face with my thumb.
At the same time, in one fluid motion, he leans forward and kisses me, his lips soft and wet and berry-sweet against mine.
Startled, I push him away and sit back.
"Whoa — Kit, no. How many times I gotta tell you I don't want you like that?"
He stares back at me, and then, with a sharp intake of breath, he's on his feet.
"I — I'm sorry!" he gasps, and then he's out the front door and gone, dashing off down the front steps and around the side of the house, back towards my garden and the blacksmith shed.
I stare after him a moment, still shocked. Given how badly he wants to stay here, I know he won't go far; if he does, he'll come back, so I don't go after him right away.
Instead, I sit with my hand over my mouth, remembering the look on his face right before he fled and, belatedly, I realize something.
He hadn't kissed me because he thought I wanted him to.
He'd kissed me because he'd wanted to.
And I'd pushed him away.
Sighing, I get to my feet and carry the empty bowl to the kitchen sink.
We'd worked out the misunderstanding with the berries; we'd work this out, too, I thought. Set some boundaries, make things clear. Once he understood...
I touch my fingers to my lips again.
It could never be, but it had been a sweet kiss. Kit tasted like blackberries and the heat of summer sun; shadowed leaves, cool water, and dust-dry earth; the ripeness of a season in a single breath. It was sweet, but it made me unbearably sad, too: because while he might have wanted to kiss me, for whatever reason, he'd never want me, really.
No one ever did, and I'd accepted that; it just wasn't my fate to be loved.
Still, I feel the crack in my heart open a little more, anyway, as I set the bowl in the sink, and look around me at the dozens of other containers, large and small, all overflowing with perfect, dark fruit.