Maysilee Donner was the mayors daughter with a mix of awe and caution. She wasn’t cruel, but she was sharp—sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed, sharp enough to cut through people before they could cut her first. She didn’t entertain small talk, didn’t let anyone too close. The walls she built around herself were high, and few dared to climb them.

Except for you.

You weren’t sure when it started, exactly. Maybe the first time you caught her slipping out of town toward the meadow, a satchel slung over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. Maybe when you followed her instead of calling out, watching as she crouched among the wildflowers, plucking petals and tucking them into her pocket like secrets. Or maybe it was when you finally let yourself speak, your voice careful but not afraid.

“What do you do with them?”

She hadn’t answered at first. Just glanced at you, wary, like a fox caught in a trap it wasn’t sure it could escape. Then, after a long silence, she turned a petal between her fingers.

“Dry them. Grind them. Sell them if I have to.”

You knew that wasn’t all. Maysilee wasn’t just a girl trying to survive—she was a girl trying to live. And something about that made you stay.

At first, she let you sit nearby in the meadow, neither of you speaking. Then she let you help, handing you a handful of flowers without a word. And then, one evening, when the sky was burning gold and pink, she had reached for your wrist and pulled you down beside her.

“Your hair’s a mess,” she had muttered, fingers already threading through it before you could argue.

It became routine. Maysilee, who scowled at the world and snapped at strangers, would wordlessly motion for you to sit, her fingers working through the tangles of your hair with a touch far softer than anyone would expect.

Now, as she ties off another braid with a ribbon, she lingers, fingertips brushing your shoulder.

“You should wear your hair like this more often,” she says, voice light.