His Little Flower (Felix and Flora)

Chapter 76

Morning bled into a haze of exhaustion. Felix remained unseen, his absence a hollow echo in the mansion. Guilt gnawed at me, sharper than hunger. I couldn't ignore him anymore, not like this. I was consumed with the physical need to see him, to see his face. To meet him.

I looked out the window, and I saw a peek of him in the garden. Was he gardening?

Determined, I stepped out into the crisp morning air. The garden was silent. It was too early for anything to be happening. Even the noise of transport was absent. But I could hear birds chirping and the sound of crickets.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I called Felix's name, the sound swallowed by the rustling leaves.

A flicker of movement near the old shed caught my eye. Hope surged through me like a tidal wave. I rushed towards it, pushing past overgrown vines and prickly rose bushes.

There he was, hunched over a workbench, hammering nails into weathered wood. My breath hitched as I saw Felix sprawled on the damp grass, hunched over while he worked on the wood. Relief mixed with a pang of guilt. He'd been worried sick after our fight, a fight triggered by my refusal to tell him about Dad's threats. His silence, a thick wall I couldn't penetrate, had felt like another betrayal.

But seeing him now, vulnerable and alone, I knew I had to mend the rift. Descending down the garden, leaves crunching under my feet, I stopped before him, the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke rising around us.

"Felix," I murmured, my voice barely a whisper.

He didn't look up. His broad shoulders slumped, hands clenched into fists. My heart ached.noveldrama

"I didn't know you do wood work now."

He still didn't say anything back. Well, I understood.

I stood there for a bit, watching him. Sunlight, splashed gold across the sawdust-dusted air, catching on the sharp lines of Felix's focused face. No suit today, no phone leach on his ear. Here, he was stripped bare, wearing only a simple t shirt, and work boots.

This was so... attractive. The way his muscles flexed as he worked. The way he was crouched over, the way his hands moved swiftly with the axe and other tools I could not name. It was so...manly.

A birdhouse, simple yet profound, its roof slanted just so, walls thick enough to offer safe haven from the world's storms. But in Felix's hands, it became more than shelter. The way he smoothed the edges, a tenderness in his calloused grip, spoke of a gentle side I didn't know he had now.

Felix. I still couldn't believe the changes in him.

He held up the unfinished birdhouse, the sun a halo around his head. He looked at it himself, but maybe he was showing it to me, too.

"Beautiful," I whispered, the word surprising even me. "But... it needs something more."

He turned around too look at me, his expression sour. He raised an eyebrow.

He put the unfinished piece inside the shed and carefully shut the door behind him. He wiped his hands on his jeans and started walking away, thumping away in his heavy work boots. I followed him.

"Felix, wait!"

He didn't stop for me.

"Please," I pleaded, running till I was beside him. "Let me explain."

The silence stretched, taut and suffocating. Finally, he turned his head, his eyes burning like molten stone. "Explain what, Flora?" His voice was rough, choked with barely contained anger.

My throat constricted. How could I tell him about Dad's monstrous secret, the truth that stained my past and threatened my future? How could I share the burden of that monstrous act, the unspoken terror that haunted my every step?

"It's complicated," I stammered, the words like ash in my mouth. "I can't just..."

"Can't just what?" His voice rose, a growl slicing through the night. "Can't trust me? After everything?"

Shame washed over me, bitter and hot. His eyes, usually warm and welcoming, were now glaciers, cold and unforgiving. He deserved the truth, deserved to know the monster I was keeping him at bay from.

But the words wouldn't come. The fear tightened its grip, silencing my tongue.

He stood abruptly, his shadow blotting out the moonlit sky. "Then forget it, Flora. Why did you even come to me right now?" With that, he turned and stalked away, leaving me alone in the garden, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air.

I thought of our interaction the entire day. He thought I didn't trust him. I did trust him. More than anyone else in the world. More than myself, even.

It was Dad I didn't trust. Who I was afraid of.

I went to see Felix in his office again. Discomfort had settled I my body, and I felt like I couldn't function properly till I mended things with him a little. My stomach hurt and my head spinning. When I didn't find him in his office, I went up to his room. He was on his bed, seated

"Felix," I croaked, and his head snapped up.

His eyes, when they met mine, cold and distant. But beneath the anger, I saw a flicker of pain, a reflection of the shit I was putting him through.

"Flora," he said, his voice tight with barely contained hurt. "You're here again. What do you have now? More excuses."

I swallowed hard, guilt a leaden weight in my stomach. "I... I needed time. To think."

A humorless laugh escaped his lips. "Think? About what? How to weave more elaborate lies?"

Shame burned my cheeks. His words, though harsh, were laced with truth. My silence had become a weapon, wielded against him and myself.

"I can't tell you, yet." I whispered. He rolled his eyes in annoyance. "I know. You've told me that, five fucking times."

It stung each time he swore at me like this. He never used to.

I took a few steps forward. I swallowed on thin air. "But I'll tell you," I whispered, "Just...can I have some time?"

He stayed silent, his gaze burning. On me, his eyes were settled like a hawk's gaze. When he didn't say anything, I spoke again, "I promise." My voice was soft and firm, "Just. Some time, please. I don't have it in me right now."

He sighed and looked down. When he looked back up at me again, his expression had softened. "I've waited five years," he said, "A little more time. Sure."

"Thank you." I spoke. I gave him a soft smile and began to leave.

"Flora." He called after me. I turned to look at him.

"What does my birdhouse need?”

I giggled, "Um, paint."

He cracked a smile, his eyes lighting up, "Come with me."

I followed as he walked out of the house. His steps were longer and faster, and I struggled to keep up with him. He led me to the garden, to the end, to the spot we had met at in the morning. His hand brushed mine as he pushed open the heavy wooden door of his shed, and a familiar tremor danced up my spine.

Inside, the scent of wood polish and fresh paint hung heavy, a comforting aroma that spoke of creation and quiet afternoons spent in a world beyond spreadsheets and social gatherings. In the center, bathed in the golden glow of a hanging lamp, stood the unfinished birdhouse, a testament to our stolen hours in his workshop.

"Ready for its final touch?" Felix asked, his voice roughened by sawdust and a hint of something else, something warmer. He switched on the lights, and accidentally, a fan in the corner. As the fan roared to life, sawdust spread throughout the air. Both of us began to cough. He switched off the fan quickly, and we spent the next two minutes just coughing and sneezing the dust out of our lungs and noses.

I smiled at him, he was still coughing, "As ready as I'll ever be."

The shed walls were lined with shelves, each heavy under the weight of paint pots and brushes in every imaginable color. Felix rummaged through them, the sound of clinking glass a cheerful melody. He emerged with two paintbrushes, their bristles stiff and new, and two cans of paint, one a vivid blue, the other a creamy white.

"Blue and white, good?" he asked. He produced a smaller pot of pink. "And pink."

My heart skipped a beat. He remembered. My favorite color. He remembered these little details. Just like me, he hadn't forgotten.

We dipped our brushes into the paint, and carefully began to breathe life into the bare wood. The light blue flowed onto the roof, mimicking the vast expanse of the sky, while the white swirled onto the walls, leaving fluffy clouds in its wake.

Our strokes danced in tandem, mirroring each other's movements with an unexpected rhythm. He'd reach for a different brush, and I'd anticipate his touch, my hand hovering near his without quite making contact. The air crackled with a silent electricity, the paint-scented air thick with an unspoken yearning.

"Can I do the pink now?"

He sat back, leaving the construction to me. I drew a single pink swirl over the blue. I looked at him, "Um, you can do it, too..."

As he picked his brush, his hand brushed mine, sending a familiar jolt through my skin. We both froze, our gazes locked across the blue, a question lingering unspoken in the space between us. His thumb skimmed the back of my hand, a fleeting touch that built a pressure in my stomach I couldn't quite name.

My breath caught in my throat, I stared at him. “This is...really fun."

He nodded.

"When did you start this?"

He shrugged, "I got into it recently. I guess I like building things."

The world beyond the shed walls had faded away. All that remained was the scent of paint, the gentle scrape of brushes against wood, and the intense gaze that held the promise of everything and nothing all at once.

Words failed me in that moment. But somehow, the sky blue paint that clung to my fingers spoke volumes. I traced a trail of it across his wrist, a single faint line of azure appearing on his white skin. His breath hitched, and the air, already thick with unspoken desires, grew suffocating. He tilted his head, his eyes burning with a newfound intensity. Then, ever so slowly, he lifted his fingers, blue and pink and white lightly dried up on his fingertips. He reached up, and slowly, ever so slowly traced my collarbone with his fingertips.

I forgot everything in that moment. Something feral leapt in me. Something I had buried so deep inside that surfaced so violently. The brush slipped from my hand, clattering to the floor with a clinking sound

Felix, his cheeks flushed with a heat that mirrored the sunset outside, knelt down and retrieved it. His eyes met mine. "Go." He whispered slowly. "If you don't want me to fuck you on the floor, right now. Leave."

I wanted him to fuck me on the floor. I wanted him to undress me, to take me. To possess me. To drive into me with power and rage and fervor. But I did as he said. I stood up and walked away. He watched me till I was out of sight, predator watching prey. He stood up, and he looked like he was ready to pounce on me. I ran down to my room and left the door open. I hoped he would come in.