Chapter 76 Cloud watching
Timothy
We take the longer route.
The orchard sits on the far eastern edge of the estate, past the manicured gardens and beyond the trimmed hedges tourists occasionally photograph during charity events. Out here, it’s quieter. Less curated. Rows of fruit trees stretch in neat lines, their branches heavy and swaying gently in the afternoon breeze.
Hannah walks slightly ahead of me, the blanket tucked under her arm, sunlight catching in her hair again.
I try not to stare.
A few of the grounds staff straighten when they see us approaching.
“Good afternoon, sir. Miss Hannah,” one of them greets.
Hannah beams at them like she’s known them forever. “Hi! We’re good, promise. Just stealing your view for a bit.”
One of the younger workers gestures toward the basket in my hand. “We can help set up, sir.”
“We’re fine,” she says quickly, waving them off. “Go back to work before he finds something else to add to your list.”
They laugh nervously.
I arch a brow at her. “Is that what you think of me?”
She glances back, walking backward for a few steps. “You have a face that says ‘productivity spreadsheet.’”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It absolutely is.”
The staff chuckle as they return to their tasks, clearly relieved they won’t be hovering around us. I don’t miss the way Hannah waits until they’re fully out of earshot before her posture relaxes again.
We walk deeper into the orchard until she slows near a wide patch of shade beneath a peach tree.
“This one,” she declares.
I set the basket down while she shakes out the blanket, spreading it over the grass. The fabric catches briefly on a twig and she bends to smooth it flat, brow furrowed in concentration.
There’s something so domestic about this.
So simple.
It unsettles me how much I like it.
We sit.
She immediately leans forward, excitement lighting her face as I begin unpacking the basket.
Lisa, as always, has outdone herself.
There are small croissant sandwiches filled with roasted chicken and arugula. Mini quiches still faintly warm. A container of fresh strawberries and blueberries. Thin slices of cheese arranged neatly beside crackers. Two glass bottles of sparkling lemonade.
And desserts.
Hannah clasps her hands together. “Oh my God.”
She picks up a lemon tart and examines it like it’s treasure. “These look illegal.”
“You haven’t even tasted them.”
“They feel illegal.”
I chuckle and continue unpacking until I pull out a small, beautifully decorated square of pistachio baklava.
I grin. “I’m sure you’re going to love this one.”
She looks at it.
And her face immediately twists.
“Absolutely not.”
I blink. “What?”
She points at it like it personally offended her. “That is my enemy.”
“It has honey, pastry, nuts, it seems very… you.”
“It is not me.”
“I’m shocked.”
“I’m allergic to pistachios,” she says flatly.
The words hit harder than they should.
“You’re what?”
“Allergic,” she repeats. “Like throat-closing, epi-pen, dramatic hospital scene allergic.”
I stare at the dessert in my hand.
“I didn’t know that.”
She gives me a look. A wry, unimpressed tilt of her lips.
“No shit.”
Silence falls between us.
The breeze rustles the leaves overhead, filling the space neither of us immediately occupies.
I’ve lived under the same roof as her for months.
Months.
And I didn’t know she was allergic to pistachios.
Something so basic. So simple.
Something that could have mattered.
I set the baklava back into the basket carefully, like it’s suddenly dangerous.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
She shrugs, reaching for a strawberry instead. “It’s not exactly the information I usually give out, you know. Unless I have to.”
Maybe not.
But it feels like something I should’ve known anyway.
She pops the strawberry into her mouth and chews thoughtfully, then brightens suddenly.
“Okay, so you won’t believe what happened at the shelter yesterday.”
Grateful for the topic shift, I lean back on my hands. “Try me.”
“There’s this new dog, this tiny thing, three legs, attitude of a mafia boss.”
“That tracks.”
She points at me. “Don’t judge him. His name is Captain.”
“Of course it is.”
“And he hates men.”
“I’m starting to feel targeted.”
She grins. “He bit a volunteer yesterday. Not hard. Just enough to establish dominance.”
I raise a brow. “And this is amusing to you?”
“You should’ve seen the volunteer’s face! Captain is literally the size of a loaf of bread.”
I find myself smiling despite the story.
She continues dramatically, gesturing with her hands as she recounts how Captain dragged his blanket into a corner and glared at everyone like they owed him money.
“And then,” she says, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “he let a little girl pet him. Just her. No one else.”
“Selective loyalty,” I murmur.
“Exactly.”
There’s something in the way she says it. Something deeper.
We eat slowly, conversation flowing easier now. She steals one of my croissants. I pretend to protest.
“You have your own,” I point out.
“Yours looked fluffier.”
“That’s not scientific.”
“It’s a vibe.”
I shake my head but let her take it.
At some point, the food becomes secondary. We finish the lemonade. Nibble absentmindedly at the remaining fruit.
Then she lies back on the blanket without warning, hands folded behind her head.
I hesitate before doing the same.
The sky above us is bright blue, streaked with thin white clouds drifting lazily.
“Shouldn’t we go back and finish the painting?” I ask.
She shrugs without looking at me. “Yeah. We probably should.”
No move to get up.
Instead, she lifts her hand and points upward. “That one looks like a dragon.”
I squint. “That looks like a blob.”
“Use your imagination.”
“I prefer concrete data.”
She sighs dramatically. “You’re impossible.”
“Enlighten me.”
She shifts closer, just slightly so our shoulders nearly touch as she traces the outline in the air. “See? That’s the wing. And that’s the tail.”
I hum noncommittally, hyper aware of her nearness and scent.
“And that one,” she continues, pointing again, “looks like a bunny.”
“That looks even less like a bunny.”
“You’re ruining this.”
“I’m being honest.”
She nudges my arm with hers with a scoff. “You’re supposed to indulge me.”
I glance at her profile, the soft curve of her cheek, the way her lashes rest against her skin when she squints at the sun.
“Fine,” I concede. “It’s a magnificent bunny.”
She smiles, victorious.
We fall into a quieter rhythm after that. Occasional comments about passing clouds. The rustle of leaves overhead. The faint scent of peaches ripening nearby.
Time moves differently out here.
Slower.
Or maybe faster.
I’m not sure.
I turn my head slightly to look at her.
She’s still staring up at the sky.
Then her blinks grow slower.
Her breathing evens out.
Her hand, which had been lazily pointing moments ago, falls gently onto the blanket.
She’s asleep.
A small, almost disbelieving smile pulls at my mouth.
There’s something so unguarded about her like this. No teasing. No deflection. Just peace.
“We should probably go inside,” I murmur softly, though I make no move to sit up.
I tell myself I’ll wake her in a few minutes.
Just let her rest.
Just a little longer.
The breeze is warm. The shade cool enough to be comfortable.
I fold one arm behind my head and stare up at the drifting clouds she insisted were animals.
A dragon.
A bunny.
Maybe she’s right.
My eyes grow heavier.
I’ll give it five minutes, I think.
Just five.
The last thing I register is the soft sound of her breathing beside me and the faint sweetness of peaches in the air.
I don’t know when sleep takes me too.