Cedar for Moonbeam

The community garden always smelled best at 6:47 a.m. – damp earth, tomato vines, and the faint salt tang drifting in from the coast two blocks away. Thalia wrestled with a stubborn patch of bindweed near the lettuces, muttering curses under her breath. Her own flower shop was pristine, orderly rows of blooms behaving exactly as instructed. This chaotic volunteer patch felt like a personal insult.

“Looks like you’re winning,” a voice said behind her. Thalia straightened, already scowling. The owner of the voice was too cheerful for this hour – sun-bleached hair, tan lines from a wetsuit, holding out a mason jar beaded with condensation. “Lemonade? My grandma’s recipe.”

Thalia eyed the offering like it might contain iocane powder. “Bit early for sugar water, isn’t it?”

The man’s grin didn’t falter. “Name’s Cedar. Like the tree, not the pencil.” He set the lemonade carefully on the edge of her plot. “Saw you wrestling this same bindweed last week. Admire your dedication.”

“Or my stupidity,” Thalia shot back, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her muddy glove. “Most people plant flowers. I plant invasive species apparently.”

Cedar chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound that made Thalia’s traitorous spine want to soften. “Nah. You plant resilience. That bindweed’s a survivor. So are you.” He nodded at her rows of zinnias and cosmos. “Those are stunning, by the way.”

Thalia snorted. “Flattery will get you nowhere, surfer boy.” The lemonade did look cold, though. She picked it up, took a grudging sip. Tart, sweet, perfect. Goddamn it.

Over the next week, Cedar became a persistent, golden-retriever-shaped shadow. A speckled cowrie shell appeared on Thalia’s shop windowsill Monday morning. Tuesday, a perfect oat milk latte – two sugars, extra shot – waited by her garden plot at 6:45 a.m. sharp. Wednesday, he left a small, smooth piece of sea glass, the color of storm clouds, tucked beside her trowel.

“You’re like a really annoying fairy,” Thalia grumbled Thursday when Cedar showed up with two paper bags smelling strongly of cinnamon.

“Annoyingly thoughtful?” He handed her a warm, sticky bun. “Made these this morning. Figured you’d be sick of lemonade.”

Thalia tore off a piece of pastry, sugary and yielding. “I’m sick of you,” she said, mouth full. The bun was perfect.

Cedar just smiled, biting into his own. “Nah,” he said, licking sugar from his thumb. “You’d miss me.”

Thalia rolled her eyes so hard she nearly sprained something. But she ate the whole damn bun.

The following Thursday at 8:02 p.m., Thalia found Cedar waiting outside her flower shop after closing. He leaned against the brick wall, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie, the picture of casual patience. “Trivia night at the brewery. My team’s short a member who knows anything about botany.” He pushed off the wall, holding out a small, fat succulent in a terracotta pot. “Brought you a bribe. It’s harder to kill than bindweed, I promise.”

Thalia stared at the plant, then at Cedar’s hopeful expression. She sighed, long and suffering. “I look like a trivia nerd to you?”

“You look like someone who’d destroy everyone at plant-based questions,” Cedar countered, undeterred. “Come on. First round’s on me. They have lavender lemonade.” He wiggled the succulent enticingly.

Against her better judgment, Thalia locked up and fell into step beside him. The brewery was already buzzing, strings of fairy lights casting warm pools of light over the mismatched tables. Cedar’s “team” turned out to be two of his surf buddies and their girlfriends, all of whom greeted Thalia with easy smiles and a distinct lack of prying questions. Cedar pulled out a chair for her, his hand brushing lightly against the small of her back as she sat down. Thalia ignored the traitorous flutter in her stomach and picked up the trivia answer sheet. “If you’re trying to impress me with basic manners, it’s not working,” she informed him. Cedar just grinned, handing her a pint glass filled with something pale purple and fragrant. “Good thing impressing you isn’t my main objective then,” he said, clinking his beer against her glass. “Making you smile is.”

They lost spectacularly at trivia, coming in dead last. Cedar took it with grace and good humor, blaming his own “tragically limited knowledge of 80s hair bands” despite Thalia missing every sports question. When the quizmaster called last orders, Cedar leaned close, his shoulder warm against hers. “Walk with me? There’s a spot on the beach where the waves sound like they’re whispering secrets.”

Thalia raised an eyebrow. “That’s your line? Really?”

Cedar laughed, easy and unbothered. “Nah, that was terrible, you’re right. How about: I’ve got a thermos of hot cocoa in my truck that’ll go cold if I drink it alone. And I promise not to make you touch any seaweed.” He stood, holding out a hand to her. His eyes held no pressure, just invitation.

Thalia looked at his calloused palm, then back up at his open, patient face. Against all her better judgment, she slid her hand into his. His fingers closed warm around hers. “You’re relentless, you know that?” she grumbled.

“Like bindweed,” he agreed, tugging her gently to her feet. “But prettier.”

The moon hung fat and silver over the water, painting a shimmering path across the waves. The air was cool, salty, carrying the rhythmic shush and sigh of the tide. They walked without speaking, just the crunch of sand underfoot and the distant cry of a night bird. Cedar kept hold of her hand, his thumb moving idly over her knuckles. It should have felt awkward, forced. It didn’t.

“You’re quiet,” Cedar observed, his voice pitched low to match the hush of the night. “Regretting the cocoa commitment?”

Thalia snorted. “I’m assessing your cocoa quality before I commit to anything.”

They reached the pier, its weathered wood pillars stretching into the dark water like ancient, stooped giants. Cedar led her beneath them, into a shadowed space where the air felt still and private. He let go of her hand to spread out a worn flannel blanket on the cool sand. The thermos he pulled from his backpack was indeed full of rich, dark hot cocoa, spiked with something warm and boozy that made Thalia’s cheeks flush. They sat side by side, shoulders touching, sipping without speaking. The moonlight filtering through the gaps in the pier boards striped Cedar’s face in light and shadow, highlighting the strong line of his nose, the curve of his mouth.

“I like your shop,” he said after a while, his voice a low rumble. “It smells like happiness.”

Thalia took another sip of cocoa, the heat radiating through her belly. “It smells like capitalism and pollen.”

Cedar chuckled. “Still think I’m full of shit?”

“Yes,” Thalia said, setting her empty mug down. She turned to look at him. “But I’m starting to think you might be the good kind of full of shit. The earnest kind.”

“Earnest shit is my brand,” Cedar agreed solemnly. His eyes held hers, warm and steady. “Can I kiss you, Thalia?”

Thalia’s heart gave a hard, unexpected thump against her ribs. “You’re asking?”

"I’m not a pirate," he said, his eyes flicking to her mouth. “I wait for the green light.”

Thalia hesitated. Every past disappointment, every cynical voice in her head screamed at her to pull away, to make a joke, to run. But Cedar’s eyes held no demand, no pressure. Just patient, unwavering warmth. She took a breath. "Green light," she said, her voice hushed against the sigh of the waves.

Cedar moved slowly, giving her every chance to change her mind. His hands came up to cradle her face, warm and rough against her skin. His lips brushed hers, feather-light, once, twice. Then he settled in, his mouth moving over hers with slow, devastating care. He kissed like he surfed, Thalia thought dazedly – all confidence and grace, perfectly balanced, letting the moment carry him. He tasted like salt and chocolate and something uniquely Cedar, bright and open as sunshine. Thalia’s fingers curled into the soft fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer.

Cedar’s kiss was a slow, deliberate unraveling. He explored her mouth with the same focused attention he gave the waves, learning every shift and sigh. His hands stayed cupped around her jaw, thumbs brushing her cheekbones in a rhythm that matched the tide. When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against hers, Thalia’s breath came in shallow pulls. “Okay,” she murmured against his lips, “you might be good at that.”

Cedar’s grin flashed in the moonlight, bright and boyish. “High praise from the cynic.” He brushed a stray curl behind her ear, his touch lingering. “Want to see my shack? It’s got questionable plumbing but excellent moon views.”

Thalia bit her lip, her sensible brain warring with the warmth pooling low in her belly. “Is that your version of ‘want to see my etchings’?”