Archive of Our Own

The road to the orchard is narrower than last time you were here, more a winding trail of packed dirt than a proper path. Early spring has left everything damp and green, the air still cool enough to carry the sharp edges of winter, though the breeze carries hints of sweetness, of the blossoms. 

Your boots scuff against the earth as the orchard comes into view. It’s quieter here than the village, the sound of the wind shifting as it moves through hundreds of bare-limbed trees tipped with white buds.

The place has been quiet for a while, since the old caretaker Manu has passed. So has the woman who's owned it on paper for the past twenty years. Now, the orchard belongs to someone else. 

You’ve strayed from coming here since he arrived, wanting the orchard to test him out without your influence, and you’ve missed it deep in your bones. A deep elation settles beneath your skin as you walk down the path. It’s pulling you in, and you know it’s missed you too. 

The villagers are talking about this new owner. A man of twenty-eight, born and bred in the big city, rumour has it that he’s planning to sell the orchard to someone who would tear it down.

But a few weeks have passed since Choi Jongho arrived in his worn out red Hyundai with a moving lorry in tow, and if he’s planning to fool the nosy villagers into thinking he won’t sell, he’s doing an incredible job. 

You haven’t come over since he moved in; it was hard staying away given your bond to the orchard, but you wanted to give it time to get acquainted with the man. The trees only screamed for you the first night, missing you, loud enough that you could hear them from your shack; after, they settled, like they were curious of him. 

And you are curious of him, too. You don’t need to touch the soil to know it’s as restless as you are.

Closer, you spot his figure on a ladder, sleeves rolled to the elbow, pruning shears in hand. The late afternoon light catches on his skin, painting the curve of his forearms gold as he works. He’s broad across the shoulders but moves with care, as if aware each branch matters.

His faint hum drifts in the air, soft, melodic, a song meant for the trees alone. It’s not a tune you recognise, but it’s steady, almost hypnotic, matching the rhythm of his work.

You stop at the fence, hands gripping the worn wood. He doesn’t notice you at first. It’s only when you push the gate open with a creak that he glances down, dark eyes locking on you over the ladder’s rungs.

“You’re cutting that wrong,” you call out instead of a greeting. You’ve never really been known for being the epitome of politeness, though this overt lack thereof surprises you as well; you always greet everyone who passes you, even if you don’t know them well, as per small village etiquette. 

Jongho lifts one eyebrow. “Am I?” His voice is low, unhurried, like it takes more than a stranger’s critique to rattle him. He must have realized by now that this place doesn’t offer the invisibility of the big city; here, it’s common for one neighbour or another to enter your yard like it’s their own. 

You hardly like doing that to others, as it doesn’t serve you; you like your aloneness. But now it's different. 

You push the gate open and walk closer, gesturing your chin to the branch he’s working on. “Those are fruiting spurs. If you cut that low, you’ll shock the growth and cut the yield for next year in half.”

He studies you for a beat, as if weighing whether you’re teasing him. Then one corner of his mouth lifts, faint but warm. “I didn’t realize I’d hired an inspector.”

“You didn’t hire anyone.”

“Then I suppose I’m getting free advice.”

You walk closer to the ladder, tilting your chin up at him. “Free advice from someone who grew up here. You’re welcome.”

His smile deepens just enough to make you aware of it. And then he shifts his shears without complaint. The next snip is better, the branch falling with a soft rustle.

Then, Jongho does something that surprises you; his fingers drift to the place he cut like he’s caressing the branch, or apologising for his earlier mistake. It’s absentminded, soft. Your heart stutters, as does the tree, shuddering like it’s pleased. 

He turns to you a long moment after, like he’s forgotten you were here. “Better?” he asks, faintly smiling, but it’s far from the mocking superiority you expected. 

You nod, though you’re not sure why your chest feels warm at being taken seriously. “Much,” you reply honestly. 

He descends the ladder, momentarily putting the shears down and wiping his hands on his work pants. 

And then he’s drawing closer and giving you his hand with a small smile. “Jongho,” he offers, although aware that you must know who he is, as does everyone else; he hasn’t seen you before, but news travels fast here. 

You give your name, and his hand lingers for a beat too long in yours, warm eyes taking you in. His handshake is firm and gently assertive without being overwhelming, and it’s making you feel warm. 

The wind moves through the orchard, carrying the scent of blossoms. A single petal drifts down from somewhere high above, landing on his shoulder before sliding down the fabric of his shirt.

You glance at the trees around you, buds swaying as though leaning toward him. When he lets go, you feel warm and cold at once. 

“It’s good to meet you,” you offer, a little awkward despite yourself. “Do you, ah, do you like it here?”

And he smiles at this too. “I do,” he says seriously. “I inherited this place from my mother’s side.” His eyes sweep over the orchard, calm but assessing, almost fond. “I figured I’d see if I could bring it back.” He seems eager to pretend that you know nothing about him, or maybe he simply prefers his story to be heard from his lips and not from other villagers’ carried gossip. 

The words themselves are practical, reserved perhaps, but something about the way he says bring it back makes you wonder if he feels the orchard’s quiet heartbeat too.

This is the kind of property that gets easily forgotten, especially to someone who lives far. In all your twenty years, you have not seen the owner come here once; Old Manu received his payment for taking care of the place by mail, and he sent her crates of fruit. 

It was easier this way, as selling it required time and scurry— that isn’t to say that you weren’t scared Jongho would do what his late distant relative didn’t bother doing. Which is part of why you stayed away, wanting him to get to know the property and convince himself. The other part was little more than a test to see if he’s worthy of it. 

“Must be quite the adjustment,” you comment. 

His look doesn’t exactly sour, but it closes a bit, like the sun disappearing behind harmless clouds. “Yes and no,” he replies patiently. “I used to be a geophysicist. Been out in nature a lot. It’s always drawn me in.” 

This part is news to you, and it piques your interest. “And now?” you ask, a little shy, looking away as you don’t want to make him uncomfortable. 

But he smiles again. He’s generous with his smiles, you’re starting to notice. “Now I’m here,” he says. You look in his eyes and see soft clouds, like a wound that has closed. “What about you?” he diverts gently after a long moment. “You haven’t come visit me before.” 

“You’re sure about that?” you tease. “You’re getting a lot of visitors, I hear. Maybe you forgot me.”

He holds your eyes. “I doubt that,” he says, and your cheeks heat visibly. A faint flush colours his face, too. “You haven’t answered my question,” he remarks after a moment, then honestly, he adds, “Should we pretend I never asked it?” 

This moves you, as you haven’t expected him to be so sensible. You shake your head earnestly. “No, I don’t mind it… I do gardening and help people with their animals,” you say. “The farthest I’ve ever gone is the school in the neighbouring village.” You feel self-conscious now, even if only slightly. Geophysicist— this must require a university degree, probably a master’s, too; you only finished high school. 

His look doesn’t shift, though, not with disdain nor pity. If anything, he looks intrigued, though by your shyness or your words, you don’t know. “Can I ask you for help, then?” he inquires shyly. 

You thought he’d never ask. 

Elation spreads through you like ink dissipating in water, at being here again, like your heart has finally settled back in your chest. 

You fall into step beside him without responding to him or announcing your intention, weaving between the rows until you reach the next tree. The air here smells sharper, greener, enveloping you whole. Jongho’s tools are in Manu's battered wooden crate by the roots, the kind that’s been reused so many times the handles are worn with age.

Your fingers tingle even only at the thought of touching it again. These weeks you’ve stayed away have taken their toll on you, and now that you're back, you feel yourself growing strong again. 

Then you sense Jongho’s disquiet, and you pause, turning to look at him. You see it on his face, the way he’s trying to search for the right words to ask, and you reach out to touch his wrist. He jostles for a moment as he assimilates the touch. 

“Jongho, don’t offer me money,” you say. “I won’t accept it.”

He looks caught, pink in the cheeks, and confused. “But you said…”

You give him a small smile. “I know what I said,” you reply patiently. “I help with people’s gardening for a living. But here it’s different. This isn’t me offering you a one-time favour.”

He remains persistent. “Why is it different here?”

You don’t look away, but you do pause for a long moment. “Manu, the old caretaker, the one who died a few years back… my mother was a postwoman. She went into labour when he was delivering Manu his correspondence, and this is where I took my first breath." You smile, risking a furtive glance at him only to find that he's looking at you with rapt attention. "And she gave her last," you say wistfully, and Jongho’s eyes flicker with pain. "Old Manu’s taken care of me since then. I spent most of my life here,” you muse, touching the trunk of the nearest tree and feeling the hum of life coursing through your bones. “These trees feel more like home than the cottage my mom left me.” 

“I see,” Jongho replies softly, offering you no pity, just this warmth in his eyes. He then bends down to pick another pair of shears from the toolbox. “This may be my place now, but you're always welcome okay?” he says, and his fingers brush yours when you take the tool. His skin is warm from the work, a lingering heat that clings to you even after you step back. "I'm thankful to have you."

You blush. 

You start pruning, careful angles and quick snips, the way Old Manu taught you. Jongho works beside you, and for a while there’s only the soft rhythm of metal on wood, the fall of twigs to damp earth.

It’s not until you pause to stretch your wrist that you feel it, that low vibration, faint but certain, humming through the soil and into your boots. You glance down. The roots at your feet are awake, whispering their satisfaction at being tended to this way. 

She’s here, they murmur, almost like a soft purr. She came back to us. The roots are ready… 

Your throat tightens. You glance at Jongho, half-expecting him to be looking at you, and you find that he is. 

“What?” you ask, a touch defensive.

He shakes his head, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “You listen when you work,” he says simply. “Most people rush.”

You make a noncommittal sound and focus on a branch that doesn’t really need a thorough tending to, anything to keep your hands busy. 

“You care for it,” he adds after a beat. It isn’t a question. 

“Of course I do,” you say. 

He flushes, a tad embarrassed. “I meant…” He shakes his head. “Forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” you say softly, and you mean it. Silence settles over you again as you go back to work, but there’s a heaviness between you now, something weighing him down. 

“I left my job,” Jongho blurts after a while. “My superior was implementing underhanded plans that harmed the planet in the long run just to fill his pockets.” You stop pruning, the shears stilling in your hand, and even the wind has gone quiet as if listening to him with bated breath. “I denounced him,” Jongho says. “but that didn’t do much. These people are everywhere. They tried to bribe me, too. I had to leave.”

“You did the right thing,” you reply softly. 

“I know,” he says. “It makes me sick, though. I couldn't stay there any longer.”

He shakes his head and starts on the next branch like he has beans burning on the stove. “You’re cutting too hard,” you say, drawing close before you can stop yourself, something pressing down on your chest. “You’re hurting it.”

Jongho stops at once, and he looks away from you, but not before you catch the glassy sheen in his eyes. 

You were awkward when you shook his hand earlier, but when your hand covers his atop the shears, it’s instinctive. You don’t even think too much about the way he yet again shudders under the touch. “Here,” you say gently. “Let’s do it together.”

Jongho nods, softening and letting you lead him. “Show me,” he breathes, and you guide his hand, large against yours. 

“You got the distance right,” you say with a pleased nod, not quite praising him but giving him something nonetheless. “Don’t overthink it… just like this.” Your fingers press gently over his own once the angle is right, but he hesitates, so you look at him. He’s pale save for the pink shining high on his cheekbones, like his face can’t decide between being horrified at hurting the tree and being flustered by your sudden closeness. “It wants to be removed, so it gives easily. Your grip is strong, but you only need a small snip.”

“Okay,” he says nervously, then admits, “I don’t want to harm it.”

Your chest fills, as do your cheeks. “You won’t,” you encourage, then gently press on his fingers again. The cut is clean, smooth, painless now. 

You breathe easier, as does the tree. Your fingers linger slightly on his wrist as you release him. You smile, and he smiles back. You’re both flushed. And as the afternoon wears into early evening, the orchard settles like a silent witness. 

By the time you and Jongho finish the row, the sun has dropped low enough to paint the sky in long streaks of peach and violet. The orchard feels softer in this light. 

Jongho locks the tools in the shed and gestures toward the porch. “Tea?”

You hesitate. The last time you sat with another person here, with Old Manu, he was telling you how it looks like the trees would bloom early that year. Two weeks later, he was gone, and they did bloom. It was as if they were flowering for him. He gave his heart to this place, and took his last breath surrounded by the trees.

Your mother gave her blood here, too, and gave you life. 

Still, you nod. “Tea sounds good.”

The porch creaks under your weight as you settle into one of the mismatched chairs by the small table. Jongho disappears inside and returns a little while later with two steaming mugs, setting one in front of you.

The scent of chamomile rises in the cool air, blending with the faint sweetness of the orchard beyond.

“Thank you,” you whisper, wrapping your hands around the mug for warmth even though you’re already hot all over. For a while, you drink in silence, watching the last of the daylight seep into the ground. The orchard rustles faintly, a low, content sound only you can truly hear.

“I’m the one who should thank you,” he says. 

You shake your head. “I didn’t do this for you,” you say. 

“I know.” His tone is patient, but there’s a thread of curiosity in it. And it reflects that indecipherable something in his eyes when he looks at you. “I see it, I think. The way you worked… you looked at the trees as if… it felt like you were listening to them,” he settles on softly, shaking his head as if beckoning you to ignore his musings.

Your fingers still on the mug.

He watches you, waiting. There’s no judgment in his gaze, only quiet expectation, like the orchard itself is leaning in to hear what you’ll say.

You exhale slowly. “Maybe I was.” 

His eyebrow lifts, but once again there’s no mockery. “Meaning?”

You look past him, to where the first stars are pricking through the sky. “The orchard talks. Not with words exactly, but… I can hear it. Feel it. It’s always been that way for me.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His silence is steady, not sharp, as though he’s letting the thought settle between you. “And what’s it saying now?” he asks finally, voice low.

You close your eyes for a moment. The hum of the roots is warm under your skin, the trees swaying softly in the evening breeze. He’s here. The roots are ready.

“It says it’s ready,” you respond. 

When you open your eyes again, he’s looking at you in a way that makes your chest tighten. “Hm,” he lets out. 

“That doesn’t sound scary?” you ask quietly.

“Should it?” Most people would laugh. Some would look at you like you’d grown another head. Jongho just takes another sip of tea, eyes still on yours. “Everything around us is alive. If you say it talks, I believe you.”

You search his face for sarcasm, but find none. “Why?”

“Because,” he says simply, “I feel something here, too.”

Your pulse stutters. “What do you mean?”

He glances toward the darkening orchard. “Since I arrived, it’s been… I can’t explain it. It's like the ground knows I’m here. Blossoms fall on my face. If I feel too warm, the wind flows. It's as if... it's welcoming me home.” He gives a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh. “It doesn’t really make sense when I say it like that.”

“It does.”

The words hang between you, warm and heavy.

Somewhere in the branches, a blossom loosens and drifts down, catching in the porch light before landing between you on the table. Neither of you moves to brush it away.

Jongho leans back in his chair, studying you with an unreadable expression. “So,” he says slowly, “what does this mean? What is it ready for?”

You wrap your fingers tighter around the mug, grounding yourself in its heat. “I don’t know yet,” you admit. But the orchard’s hum in your bones says otherwise. Your cheeks become a shade redder when you look at Jongho again, but your saving grace is the darkness. Your body knows what it means; you just can’t bring yourself to speak it aloud yet. 

Nine days have passed. 

Nine days of moving through the orchard together, showing to Jongho each tree’s quirks, sharing simple meals that somehow linger in your mind long after the plates arw cleared. Nine days of falling into an easy rhythm— Jongho working quietly until you finished your work around the village and joined him, you thinking about him and longing for him when you aren’t here. It’s not even just your home you're longing for, and you know it. 

A part of you knows he feels the same way, sees it in the way his eyes light up when you step through the yard. He’s not stingy with his smiles, indeed, but when you go there today and you find that one of the women of the village is already there, you notice a difference in brightness from the smiles he gives to you. 

The realization spread through you like relief over the first tendrils of what you think might be inadequate, soft jealousy, like the feeling of something slipping through your fingers. Hara is older than you, closer to Jongho’s twenty-eight. 

She’s beautiful, charming, has gone out with men before, has seen more of the world than you have. You don’t know why you’re thinking about it quite this way.

They haven’t seen you yet. For the first time perhaps since you’ve been alive, you wonder if you should leave the orchard. 

You’re too far from the trees here next to the gate, but it’s as if the soil under your boots has felt you, and you feel a soft, comforting hum travelling up your calves, then your thighs. It’s urging you close. 

I know, you gently chastise, trying to quiet it. I don’t want to go away, either. But I’m no longer alone here. I need to respect Jongho’s space. 

You feel a prickle of protest, and though the thought of turning around and leaving breaks your heart, you more or less have to. Then a bud lands on the back of Jongho’s neck, and he turns around, just in time to notice you as you ready yourself to turn around and leave unseen. 

And there it is. That smile. He greets you, raising his voice slightly, and waves you over happily. Hara looks over her shoulder, following his eyes, and her gaze sours before she turns back to Jongho without the barest greeting in your direction. 

You don’t duck your head. The orchard wants you here. Jongho wants you here. You step closer, and you hear the touch of disdain in Hara’s tone even as her words remain cloaked. She’s muttering something to Jongho, and the wind carries it away as if wanting to protect you from her acid. 

Jongho’s eyes narrow. “What did she do to you?” he deadpans disapprovingly, and this you hear very clearly, almost as if he were next to you. Your chest warms. Jongho doesn’t smile at Hara again, nor does he force himself to try. Instead, he says, “Let’s see each other later, alright? We have to get to woek.”

Hara lets out a sound, but she understands that she’s overstayed her welcome, and she brushes past you. 

“I’m sorry,” Jongho says when she's gone, as if any of this is his fault, as if you don’t instantly feel lighter now that his smile is yours. 

“It’s alright,” you reply, handing him a raffia bag filled with green onions. “From my garden to you,” you say with a little flair, and Jongho beams, taking it from you and brushing your fingers. You retract quickly, almost on instinct, the spell between you breaking as you remember catching a glimpse of Hara’s hands once and seeing how smooth they are whilst yours are hardened and calloused from garden work. 

Jongho notices your retreat, though not your reason. “Hey,” he says gently, drawing closer, “Look at me.” 

You do, flushed to the tips of your ears, both from embarrassment and the weight of his attention. You’ve been noticing him more and more as the days passed. When sweat traces his neck and strands of dark hair stick to the sides of his face, when his eyes gleam in the sunlight, when his arms flex as he carries something, betraying his strength. 

He reaches out and touches your cheek, and you think you have something there, but he isn’t brushing anything away. He’s caressing your skin, the touch featherlight and gentle like he’s touching a flower bud. “She’s envious,” he says. “That’s why she said what she said.”

You don’t know what Hara said, and you don’t want to ask him to relay it for you. If the orchard didn’t want you to hear it, then you weren’t meant to hear it. Still, you say, “She was upset I interrupted you.”

At that, Jongho smiles like he knows something you don’t. His eyes gently trace your features, pausing at your lips for only a moment too long before his touch lets up and leaves you cold. “There was nothing to interrupt.” He lets out a shy whisper of a laugh. “Truth be told, when I heard the gate, I rushed out thinking it was you. I think my face fell for a moment when I saw someone who isn't you.”

You don’t even know how to respond. Should you tell him you’ve been with him in your mind these past nine days when you weren’t with him in person? That you’re thinking of his smile and you dreamt of moonlight dancing in his eyes as he breathed harshly against your mouth? 

You’re feeling hot. You can’t say a word. 

Jongho sees that, and takes mercy, fleetingly touching your shoulder. “Want to cook something together before we work?” he asks, lifting the bag you gave him slightly. 

And he must feel how your heart flips, as this is one of the greatest joys he can give you— making you feel at home here, with the trees, with him. 

“You’re in luck,” you say. “I know where Manu hid that incredible flour… I swear, anything you put it in turns out amazing even if you’re the worst cook in existence.”

“Are you insinuating that I’m the worst cook in existence?” he teases, mock-offended, the two of you already walking towards the house. 

“Who burnt scrambled eggs two days ago?” 

“That was because you distracted me!”

“If I distract you so much, why don’t you do something about it?” you ask, and as soon as the words are out you have the urge to slap your hand over your mouth. Where has this even come from? Lying awake thinking of him in your shack and taking him in when you think he isn’t looking is one thing, but this… 

And Jongho, too, pauses. He’s not stricken by your words, but his eyes grow a shade darker as they trace your face. He tilts his head slightly. “Like what?” he asks, and then he’s close. So close, too close, not close enough. Your breath hitches, your lips part. Your hand drifts to his chest and presses gently on his heart. The wish comes strangely, but not surprising, that you’d feel skin instead of cloth. 

In your teenage years, when all the girls your age were whispering about their first sweet, stolen kisses, you stayed quiet and picked at your nails trying to look busy, ignoring the ache of emptiness in your chest. They’ve always teased you and called you names, since you were little; but when one of them called you unlovable, something snapped in you and you distanced yourself from them. 

The trees told you that they were wrong, and the branches gathered close when you cried, giving you leaves and flowers, like they were weeping too. 

“Do you think I’m unlovable, Jongho?” you ask suddenly, something in you twisting. 

His eyes flinch like you hurt him, all traces of light teasing from before fading like specks of dust in the wind. “What? Who said that to you?” He sounds angry. You’ve made him angry. 

You look away, shrinking, and you try to move your hand from his chest but he circles your wrist gently and coaxes you back with one touch. 

He quickly realizes that you’re not going to answer him. He says, “No, blossom. That’s not how I see you.”

You dare to lift your eyes, your cheeks flushing. “Then how do you see me?”

He softens like you’ve pulled something in him undone. “I see a woman who listens,” he says, voice low, steady. “Who knows how to be still when most people only know how to take. I see someone the land trusts. Someone who makes rooms softer just by stepping into them.” His thumb grazes your wrist where he’s holding you, a careful anchor. “If you’ve been told you’re unlovable, then whoever said it has only ever known how to love white noise.”

Your breath leaves you in a shaky rush. Heat pricks your skin. He goes on, not in a hurry, choosing each word like a gift he refuses to throw.

“I’m older than you,” he admits softly. “I’ve seen… enough to know what I want. I don’t need a crowd’s approval for it. I don’t need polish.” His eyes flick briefly to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “I want the person who talks to the earth like it’s her friend. Who looks at a branch and feels it hurting when a clumsy oaf cuts it too hard, someone whose heart is wild and sweet.”

Your face burns. It feels like he’s telling you, ‘I see you.’ Every rough edge, every quiet thing. You feel the orchard’s silent hum, low and pleased.

You don’t think; your body simply moves like it has a mind of its own. You surge up and kiss him.

It’s brief and clumsy, your mouth too soft, your hand still pressed to his chest. Your noses brush; you taste clean air and the faint warmth of his breath and a surprised sound caught low in his throat. For a moment, you forget how to breathe.

You pull back, mortified and blazing, the instinct to run tangling your feet toward the house with some half-formed joke on your tongue— something light, something that lets you escape—

His fingers catch your wrist, not hard, not pleading, but sure. He turns you gently back to him. The raffia bag rustles quietly as he sets it beside his boots, careful, like your gift deserves reverence. When he returns to you, he’s close enough that the world seems to narrow to his mouth, to his quiet, soft smile.

“Blossom,” he says, his voice husky, deep beyond anything you’ve heard from him before. “May I?”

You nod, too quickly, and his lips curve, there and gone, as if the answer landed right where he needed it. He lifts one hand and cups your jaw, the other finding the nape of your neck, warm and steady, guiding without taking. And then he’s kissing you.

Heat unfolds low and sure. He fits his mouth to yours with a patience that steals your knees, a slow press that says there’s time, there’s time, there’s time. When he tips your chin the smallest degree, the world tilts with it; your lips part on a breath, and he tastes like chamomile and something bright you can’t name. His mouth shows you, gentle, certain, a brush and a linger, the barest pull that makes your fingers clutch at him. 

The orchard answers.

Wind lifts without warning, moving through the rows in a gentle ripple that starts at the far edge and brushes against you. Blossoms let go overhead in a hush of white; petals catch in his hair, to your shoulders. Leaves lean. Branches arc in, subtle but near enough that it feels like a blessing at your back.

You make an involuntary sound, small and helpless, and you feel him breathe it in. His thumb strokes beneath your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. He deepens the kiss by a breath and then another.

He’s careful with you, but there’s strength in the way he holds you, a promise that you can lean all your weight and he won’t sway.

When he finally breaks away, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests against yours; you feel his breath on your lips, warm and uneven. He looks at you the way people look at water when they didn’t know how thirsty they were.

“Again?” he asks, a question wrapped in a smile. His lips are flushed. 

You’re blushing so hard you could warm the soil, and still you manage, “Yes.”

The second kiss is bolder because he makes it easy to be. He coaxes, you answer; you try, he teaches, without words, without rush. Your hand slips up from his chest to his collar, fingers curling at the hollow of his throat. His pulse flutters against your knuckles; yours trips to meet it.

Something loosens beneath your feet, a soft tremor through earth into your bones, the orchard’s hum rounding into a quiet purr. You swear you feel warmth rising through the soles of your boots, as if the ground itself is pressing closer, listening.

He smiles against your mouth when your breath hitches, then swallows the sound with a firmer seal, a slow slide of his tongue over your palate that leaves you lightheaded. When he draws back this time, he kisses the corner of your mouth, then your lower lip like it’s a secret, and you think you might float clean out of yourself.

“Tell me if I go too fast,” he says, voice roughened. “I’ll always match you.”

“You’re not,” you whisper, amazed at how hoarse you sound. “You’re… showing me.”

“Good.” His eyes darken, not with impatience, but with a contained heat that makes your stomach flutter. “Because I want to learn you slowly.”

A petal lands on his cheekbone, and you smooth it away before it has the chance to fall on its own. He turns his head and presses a kiss into your palm; it’s simple, devastating, and the orchard hushes like it’s holding its breath.

You lean in first this time. He meets you halfway, a pleased sound deep in his chest that you feel more than hear. Your mouth opens for him, and the world goes soft around the edges; sky, trees, breath, the scent of green things and new things and something inevitable. He keeps you close, one hand spread on the small of your back, the other still at your nape, fingertips mapping the edges of your courage as he takes your mouth. 

When you finally part, it’s only because air is a practical concern. He keeps you gathered, his nose brushing yours. You’re both smiling without meaning to.

“Cooking,” you manage, dazed. “We were—”

“We’ll burn the kitchen down,” he says mildly, not moving away. 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” you tease, and he laughs, the sound low and easy, sliding warm into your chest.

He reaches for the bag again, fingers lacing through yours as he leads you toward the house. “Let’s eat outside,” he says. “Under the blossoms.”

You feel it too, don’t you? you ask him in your mind, but you don’t say the question out loud. You don't need to. Your eyes drift up to the sky, and you’re not yet sure why. It’s well past afternoon, and it feels like something is brewing. 

As you walk toward the house, the orchard follows in small ways, the wind at your back, the soft rain of petals, the ground’s gentle hum like a promise under every step. You feel it the whole way, the land pleased, the roots listening, waiting. 

The night settles like a warm breath over the orchard, the moon swollen and full above the flowering rows. You’re usually gone to your mother's cottage by now, plagued by thoughts of propriety, but tonight, you stayed after nightfall. You’ve been here for hours, and Jongho hasn’t once hinted for you to leave. You cooked together, shared the quiet meal below the branches, cleaned up together, worked side by side. 

Now, you’re sitting on the porch, the wood cool beneath your thighs, watching silver light spill over every blossom. The trees look almost awake, their branches shifting lazily in the breeze, their petals glowing faintly in the dark. 

You think of the kiss, the way Jongho’s lips pressed into you earlier, and the thought sits heavy in your chest, stubborn, unshakable.

He’s in the house, fixing a cupboard door that wouldn’t close right. You offered help, even as you know that repairing things isn’t your strong suit, but he touched your arm, brief and grounding in pressure, and told you to rest, that he’d be with you as soon as he’s done. 

The imprint of his fingers lingers, impossible to ignore.

After a while, the chair feels too small. Your body feels too full. You rise without thinking and wander down the steps, your boots brushing the earth, and slip between the rows. Your fingertips drift along rough bark as you pass, tracing the lines of each trunk like you’re reading something in a language you almost understand.

Then you stop.

The tree before you is older, taller than the rest. Its blossoms are thick, crowding the branches like a held breath, and when your palm presses to the bark, something inside you stirs so sharply it steals your air. A deep sensation blooms low in your stomach, through your spine, curling into your thighs. It feels like invisible fingertips are tracing over you, every inch of skin hyperaware, shivering under a touch that isn’t there.

And you know. You understand, suddenly, exactly what the roots have been waiting for. What they need. What you need. 

A soft wind moves through your hair. You lose track of time until you hear Jongho calling your name, his voice carrying easily through the trees. He comes into view moments later, stepping carefully between trunks, and relief flickers over his features when he sees you.

“You’re here,” he says, his voice warm as he reaches you. His hand finds the small of your back in greeting, and you shudder, sharply, the sensation ripping through you.

He pulls back instantly. “Did I hurt you—? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

You catch his wrist before he can retreat further. Your other hand lifts, cupping his cheek, and his breath hitches under your touch.

Up close, you can see everything about him; the soft curve of his mouth, the quiet strength in his shoulders, the way the moonlight paints his hair in silver hues. Your chest tightens with the urge to feel his lips again, to lose yourself in his warmth.

“Jongho,” you whisper, your voice barely above a breath, “I don’t want slow.”

His brows lift slightly, but his gaze searches yours with care. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” The word feels like a truth pulled from your bones.

He steps closer, one large hand cupping the back of your head, the other settling at your waist, pulling you into him. His thumb brushes over the side of your neck. “If we start this… I’ll take care of you. I won’t let you feel unsafe. You stop me if you need to. Always.”

“Always,” you say, warm all over. 

His mouth finds yours again, and it’s like coming home, to the orchard’s heart, under the full moon. The kiss builds quickly, each brush of lips feeding the next until you’re clutching at him, feeling the heat between you climb. His hands tighten on your waist, drawing you flush against his body, and you can feel him breathing you in. Between kisses, he murmurs, “So pretty like this… been wanting you more than you know… let me make you feel good.”

Your thighs feel heavy, molten. You reach for his hand, pull it from your waist and guide it down, pressing it between your legs. Through the thin fabric of your pants, he can feel your heat, and his lips still, his forehead leaning against yours as he searches your face. “Here?” he asks, voice rough.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”

His fingers move, slow at first, and the first stroke makes your knees weaken. He leans in, lips at your neck, the warmth of his breath making your skin prickle. His free hand slips up, cupping your breast through your shirt, and the sharp sensitivity of it all makes you arch into him.

You’ve touched yourself before, tentative fingers brushing over yourself in the lonely darkness of your shed at night, coaxing your body into releasing tension, but nothing has ever felt like this. 

Your hips roll against his hand without thinking, and his quiet groan against your skin makes heat curl low in your stomach. He kisses the side of your throat and whispers, “That’s it. Just like that, sweetheart.”

You whimper, clinging to his shirt.

“Jongho… it’s not enough,” you say through gritted teeth, aching from the built tension that wouldn’t come apart. You don’t know what you need, not really, what to ask him to do to you to make it better, to make it crest. When your body couldn’t reach that peak in the past, you’d simply stop touching there and drift off, regretting that you’d wasted your time this way when you have so much work to do the next day. 

But the thought of him stopping physically hurts you. You look at him, trying to convey with your gaze what you can’t find words for. 

“Do you want me under here?” he asks, voice low, his thumb brushing your waistband. 

“Yes,” you breathe, too far gone to even think of hiding your relief. “Touch me closer…”

He doesn’t waste another second. His fingers slip beneath the waistband, finding you slick, and the sound he makes is ragged. “God, you’re—” He cuts himself off, kissing you hard, his other hand holding you steady as he works you with practiced care. “So wet for me, baby… didn’t know I could get you like this.” His lips brush your ear. “Gonna keep you here until you can’t remember your own name.”

You make a breathy little sound in your throat, something that tries to be his name but gets lost in how much he’s making you feel. 

He circles right there, where you’re most sensitive, caressing the tight bundle of nerves and coaxing full-body shivers from you as you cling to him. “Like this? Feels good?” he asks you, his voice low, but gentle. 

“Yes,” you breathe, your voice cracking. “Jongho, it feels so good…”

“Then stay right here. Lean on me. Let me take it.” His hand on your waist steadies you, coaxing each little moan from your lips. “Blossom… making those pretty sounds for me…”

You grind against him harder, the pressure building. He senses it instantly, his voice lowering to a coaxing hum, trembling with a small whine of his own, betraying that you’re not leaving him unaffected. “You’re right there, baby... Don’t fight it. Let me have it. Let me see you.”

The pressure builds fast, your body knowing what’s coming even if you’ve never felt it this sharp. You cling to him, grinding into his fingers, and when it hits you, you bite gently at his neck to muffle the cry.

He keeps you close, coaxing you through the shudders, caressing the fine hairs at your nape and whispering soft praises until you’re steady again.

But you don’t stay soft for long. You kiss the spot you’ve bitten as if to apologise, tasting the salt on his skin. And then you pull back, your hand drifting down and pressing against the hard line of him through his pants. He hisses at the touch, sensitive, his eyes darkening as you fumble, curious but certain.

“I want you,” you tell him.

“I want you too,” he wastes no time replying. 

He kisses you, fixes your pants with gentle hands, then threads his fingers with yours, starting toward the house.

But you stop him, tugging him back. “No,” you say, voice firm despite your breathlessness.

You hold his gaze, and the determination in your eyes makes his chest rise sharply.

“I want you right here.”

The orchard surrounds you, petals drifting on the wind.

His hand stays firm on your cheek, thumb stroking slow over your skin as his gaze searches yours. “You want this?” His voice is a quiet rumble, a check, a tether. “Not just the idea. Me. All of me.”

Your breath catches. You understand the magnitude of his question, you feel it everywhere. “Yes,” you say, holding his gaze, already aching between your thighs again. 

The tension in him shifts, less restraint now, more need. Jongho slips off his coat in one motion, the heavy, oversized thing spreading across the grass like an improvised blanket.

“Here,” he says softly, touching the side of your neck. “Lie back for me.”

Your heart trips at the tone; it's gentle, but threaded with a kind of command you want to obey. You shimmy out of your pants, underwear catching along with them, and suddenly the night air feels colder against your bare skin than you expected.

He’s still standing for a moment, taking you in where you're spread out for him. His gaze isn’t greedy, though it’s hungry; it’s reverent, warm, almost disbelieving. “You’re beautiful,” Jongho whispers, and something in the way he says it makes your spine loosen.

You reach up for his hand without thinking. He takes it, squeezes once, then lowers himself between your thighs, his body a shield, the orchard’s quiet pressing in around you. His lips brush your hairline, and he sweeps your hair back from your face.

“Help me with this,” he says, eyes flicking to his shirt, guiding you with the gentle decisiveness in his voice. 

Your fingers fumble, then slide over warm skin and the solid planes of his torso as you push it off his head. Your touch lingers, mapping every inch, feeling the tension in his lower stomach. “You’re…” You pause, almost shy, your core clenching. “So perfect.”

Something flickers in his eyes, a quick flash of heat. He dips down to kiss between your breasts through your shirt and the tips of his fingers catch on the hem of it. “Can we take this off, blossom?”

“Please.” He drops a kiss to your cheek, rewarding you for being responsive and giving him your words. And then he’s easing it off you, laying you bare in the moonlight. His palms cup your breasts and you twitch, legs wrapping loosely around his hips. The friction against his clothed cock makes you shiver.

“Please,” you whisper, breathless, almost crazed, aching everywhere. “Put it inside.”

Jongho bends to your neck, his mouth soft and hot. “Not yet,” he says, voice low, sweet, final.

Your lack of experience shows in your impatience, and he takes his time, kissing down your body, finding the spots that make you shiver, drawing soft marks on your skin.

“Good,” he whispers against the inside of your thigh. “That’s it. Just feel.”

When his mouth reaches the softness between your thighs, you stiffen, a flush of embarrassment prickling your skin. Why would he…? “Jongho… ah— what are you doing?” 

He smiles softly, eyes warm and patient, dark, hungry. “I’m kissing you here because it feels good,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and his breath is tickling your sensitive folds. He presses an open-mouthed, slow kiss right there, right where it aches the most, his tongue flicking it gently. “Because I love the taste of you.” The tip of his tongue teases your nub again, and you shudder, arching into it. “Let me, baby?”

“Y—yeah,” you manage, still flushed, still reeling, because his mouth is there. “If you’re sure.”

He lights up, full on beaming at you, like he’s grateful. His head lowers between your spread thighs again, and the first slow, purposeful drag of his tongue over you makes your breath stutter. His lips and tongue work you slowly, coaxing you into the rhythm, into the heat. “Perfect, baby,” he murmurs between strokes. “You taste so good. Doing so well for me.”

Your hand finds his hair, fingers tightening when his tongue dips inside your hole. The sound of his mouth working you feels too intimate, too lewd, but you can’t look away.

“You want my fingers too?” he asks against you.

“Yeah,” you say, licking your lips, knowing how it felt the last time his hand touched you. You want more. “Please.”

He slips one inside, the stretch making you gasp. “So tight,” Jongho says softly, kissing your folds. “Breathe for me. That’s it. Let me in.”

Time blurs into long, slow waves, his mouth, his finger curling into a sensitive spot you’ve never really found on your own, his voice dripping praise. “Taking it so well… so beautiful like this for me.”

He adds a second finger when he deems you’re ready, and you can’t stop the desperate noise that leaves you at the stretch. His fingers are thicker than yours, but even so, when you tried this yourself, you felt pain; now, it’s as if your body is welcoming this completely, gushing wetness over him, twitching in his touch, arching your spine, pushing up into his mouth. “Feels so good, Jongho,” you manage breathlessly. 

“I wouldn’t make you feel bad, baby,” he pulls away to say, meeting your eyes, and then he’s diving in again and you feel it tenfold. 

“Jongho, I think I’m going to…” You can’t finish the sentence, because you’ve never felt something like this before. It’s cresting higher than before when he touched you and you pulsed. 

“I know,” he says, pressing into your sensitive spot, coaxing around it. “Let go for me. I want it all…” You don’t understand why the pressure inside you feels so sharp, so urgent, until it crests all at once. His voice is low, coaxing you. “That’s it… give it to me. Don’t hold back.”

And you can’t. Your body bows, the air tearing from your lungs as heat rushes out of you in a sudden, overwhelming gush. It’s so much, too much, you can barely process the wet sound between you, the way his mouth seals over you to take all of it, groaning like he’s the one receiving pleasure. 

You’re trembling hard when he finally eases up, kissing your inner thigh while you blink against the spinning world. “I—” Your voice cracks. “What… what was that?”

His gaze finds yours, dark and warm. “That was you,” he says, brushing his fingers against your slick skin before kissing your nub again. “Your body responding to this touch.” Your face burns, but his eyes stay on you, heavy with want. “It’s not what you think it was,” he says, caressing the inner part of your trembling thighs. “It’s simply another way to fall apart. And it was so beautiful. You’re so fucking beautiful.”

The heat in your stomach twists at the way he says it, like he’s in awe of you. 

He pulls out of you gently, careful not to hurt your sensitive muscles, and he climbs back up your body. His fingers, still wet from you, find your lips. “Open,” he says gently. You do, and he slides them on your tongue, thrusting gently. “Close your lips around them, baby… that’s it. Use your tongue. Suck me in, yeah, like that…”

The taste is strange, heady, and the look in his eyes makes the heat pool low in your belly again from the weight of his hips between yours, and your hand eagerly finds his waistband. He lets out a soft sound when you tug, and he helps you work them off. 

When he’s bare, your hand wraps around him, warm and flush. His breath shudders out. You stroke him slowly, and he fucks into your grip in small, needy rolls of his hips, guiding you with a hand over yours. “Is this good, Jongho?”

“Yeah,” he replies, letting out a small, self-deprecating laugh as if he knows something you don’t. “Yeah, it’s so good.”

This only makes you bolder. “Can I taste you too? Would you like that?”

His jaw goes tight. “Fuck—” He kisses you once, hard, then he flips you over easily, settling back on the makeshift blanket with his knees bent, thighs spread for you. You go down until you’re between them, and his hand is warm on the side of your neck, thumb stroking your jaw, his other hand sweeping your hair back gently as you wrap your fingers around his length.

"Slow, baby," he whispers in wonder, hips twitching lightly into your palm. "Feel me. Learn me.”

You stroke him, feeling the heavy weight and heat of him, the slickness at his tip. He shudders when you circle your thumb there. His other hand slides into your hair, pushing a few stubborn strands back so he doesn’t miss any flicker in your expression.

“Now—” his voice dips low, almost a groan, “—open that pretty mouth for me.”

You lean in, pressing open mouthed kisses along the underside first, slow and experimental, and his breath catches. “Yes… just like that. I like your tongue there… yeah, take more of me— come up.”

His hand slips into your hair, guiding you until the head pushes past your lips. You wrap your lips around him and he swears under his breath, guiding you with a firm but careful hand on the back of your neck, keeping you from choking on him. 

“Don’t rush it,” he breathes, hips flexing. “Hollow your cheeks a little— mm, yeah. So good, baby.” His voice wavers as you find a rhythm, stroking him with your hand while your mouth works him.

When you swirl your tongue under the ridge, his thighs go tense. “Ah— baby, that’s it, right there. Fuck.” His grip tightens in your hair, but he keeps caressing your cheek with his thumb, grounding you. “Keep looking at me. God, those eyes…”

When you make a little sound around him, it drags a ragged noise from his throat. He pulls you off gently, chest heaving. “Can’t… if you keep doing that, I’ll—” His voice cracks with restraint. You lick your lips and when you can’t contain your proud smile, he laughs gently and swipes his thumb at the corner of your mouth. You turn your head a little and kiss his fingertip. He exhales a soft breath. “Do you want more, blossom?”

“Please,” you say, and that’s all the incentive he needs to flip you around again, lowering you on your back on his jacket like before. The scent of him on it drifts through the air, as does the warm, sweet wind wrapping around you both, the orchard’s canopy overhead. His body hovers above yours, his thick cock heavy between you.

“Do you still want this?” he asks, large hand cupping your cheek, the tip of him brushing through your folds and coaxing a sensitive shiver. 

“Yes,” you breathe, your chest tight. “Make me yours.”

He lines himself up, pressing forward slowly. Even with how open you are, the stretch is deep and startling enough to steal your air. “Breathe for me,” he says softly, mouth on your neck. He sucks gently, then trails lower, pulling your nipple between his lips.

The ache softens into a delicious fullness. “Did I take you?” you whisper, feeling him deep.

He kisses the swell of your breast, then your neck. “Halfway, sweetheart.”

Your hands slide under his arms, clutching the backs of his shoulders. He pushes deeper, inch by inch, until you gasp, the fullness reaching your belly.

“Perfect,” he says softly, stroking your cheek. “You’re perfect. Are you okay?”

You nod, breathless.

When you wrap your legs around him, pulling him in, he pauses, voice husky, “Tell me. Use your words.”

“Move,” you say, shy now, even with how needy you are. “Please, Jongho, I want it.”

He kisses you in reward again, and starts slow, every roll of his hips angled to make you feel it. Little sounds slip from you, and his join them, soft, almost reverent. “So tight for me… taking me so well…”

The orchard hums around you, the scent of ripe fruit heavy in the air, the grass warm beneath. It feels alive, holding you both in this moment. 

His gaze flicks to the tree beside you. Something darkens in his eyes. You touch his face, concerned, but he kisses your face to reassure you. “Hold onto me, okay?”

You wrap around his back, tucking your bare thighs against his hips, thinking he wants a different angle. 

He shakes his head, already shifting, bracing one forearm beneath your back. “Not like this, baby. Arms around my neck. Lock your ankles at my back.” 

You obey, heart pounding as his strength surrounds you. He slides one arm under your thighs, the other behind your shoulders, and then, effortlessly, he’s lifting you, keeping himself buried deep inside you the entire time.

You gasp at the shift in angle, clinging to him as your body adjusts, clenching around him tighter. 

He presses you back against the bark of the tree, his hands firm under your thighs, his hips pinning you there. “Is this okay?” he asks, breathing hard, just holding you impaled on him for now. “Too rough on your back, baby?”

You shake your head. Your back is bare, but you don’t feel a scrape, like the last thing the tree wants is to hurt you. “No,” you say honestly, then you swallow and brush your fingers on the smooth skin of his upper back where you're holding him. “Jongho, I think… it will sound strange, but… when I told you the roots were ready— this is what they’re ready for. I don’t know how to explain it; I don’t think I understand it fully, either.” You flush, searching his face, still afraid of seeing disbelief and mockery, but his lips are parted and his head is tilted slightly, and he’s listening. You breathe deep and say it. “Breathing life into it, Jongho. When you looked at this tree, I saw something in your eyes. You feel the land like I do, baby. This, us… this is what they want.”

His eyes flicker dark, moonlight reflecting into them as he takes it in. A blossom falls in his hair and stays there. His eyes drift to your own hair, and though you haven't felt it land, you know there’s a blossom to match it on you, too. 

“Then that’s even more beautiful,” he says, and you lean in to kiss him. It’s tender for only a moment, though. You can feel every controlled breath he takes against your mouth, the flex of his muscles as he holds you up like you weigh nothing. “My perfect girl,” he pants, adjusting his grip so his hands cup under your ass, holding you steady. “Keep your legs tight… yeah, just like that. You feel what you’re doing to me?” He twitches inside you, and you clench tight, making him hiss. 

His hips slam into you, the tree at your back trembling with the force. You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders.

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” he groans against your lips. “Clenching around me like that… you like how it feels, mm?”

“Am I gonna—” you gasp, “am I gonna do that thing you liked again?”

He looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real. “I don’t know, baby,” he says softly, kissing your neck as he thrusts into you in that excruciating rhythm. “I’ll love it if you do, and if you don’t. I want you to feel good for me, blossom. Want you falling apart all over me.”

The angle is devastating. You’re gone in seconds, crying out as heat bursts inside you again, and you feel yourself pulsing hard around his length, your vision going white around the edges. There’s no warmth this time, not like before, and you don’t need to look down to know that you haven’t gushed. You nearly cry, though your thighs are still shaking and your breath is still hard with it and your head is still spinning, vision tunneling to his beautiful face. You have to look away. 

“Hey,” Jongho says gently, kissing the edge of your jaw, slowing his thrusts but not stopping. “Look at me, baby.” You do, unable to resist him. “Don’t be disappointed. You were perfect. You’re perfect. You gave it to me so pretty.”

“Did you like it?”

Jongho laughs, that self-deprecating, soft little sound again. “If I liked it? Sweetheart, I bit my lip so I won’t let myself come.”

“But I want you to,” you say, relief and pride and something warmer taking over your chest. You cling to him tighter. His eyes darken. 

“Like this?” he asks, his voice a careful warning. 

“Just like this,” you say, fingers curling at his nape, into his soft hair. His eyes are so dark that you see yourself in them. You need to have it. You know what it means, and you need it. 

His grip tightens under you, muscles bunching and flexing as his hips begin to work faster. The tree behind you shudders again with every deep, deliberate thrust, its bark warm where it presses into your back. His breathing turns ragged, a low, broken sound rumbling in his chest each time he bottoms out inside you.

“You feel so good,” he groans, forehead pressing to yours, “so good around me, baby.”

You hold his gaze, breathless and trembling, and let the words spill without thinking. “I want it, Jongho. Want it inside.”

His eyes flash, something dark and primal sparking there, and his hips fuck into you harder, deeper, like he’s fusing you together. “You’ll take it?” he rasps, his breath catching. “All of it?”

“Yes,” you breathe, fingers twisting into the soft hair at his nape. “Fill me… please.”

That’s all it takes; his jaw locks, his arms hauling you up tighter against him, his thrusts sharp, desperate, every muscle in his body working to wring the last shreds of control from himself. You hold onto him, whispering filthy, needy things, how strong he is, how good he feels, how you can feel him everywhere.

His rhythm falters, body shaking with effort, his voice ragged in your ear. “Keep holding on to me,” he grits out, as if the thought of you pulling away now is unbearable.

“I am,” you say, legs locking around him tighter to deepen the sensation inside him. “I want you.”

His whole body goes taut, a strangled moan tearing from his throat as he pushes in to the hilt and holds there, trembling. You feel the hot pulse of him spilling deep inside you, the heat spreading outward, his breathing uneven against your cheek. 

For a moment, the orchard seems utterly still. He stays inside you, holding you suspended against the tree like he can’t stand to let you go yet. Slowly, his hand slides down to your lower stomach, broad palm flattening there like he can feel the heat he’s just given you from the outside, like he’s claiming it. 

Jongho glances at the moonlight slanting through the branches, then at the dark earth beneath your feet. Something in his eyes shifts in recognition, in understanding. His gaze returns to you, soft and awed. “It’s all yours now,” he says quietly, almost to himself, and leans in to kiss you, slow and deep, the orchard humming faintly around you, alive and strong.