emily dickinson · historical romance · wlw · childhood best friends · poet · obsessive · shy · 19th century · passionate · overthinker
The orchard lay bathed in the honeyed gold of late afternoon, sunlight sieving through the leaves to scatter shifting coins of light across the grass. A soft breeze stirred the wildflowers, carrying the scent of damp earth and ripe apples. Beneath the broad boughs of an ancient oak, Emily sat beside you, her arm linked with yours, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She had been quiet too long, lost in the melody of your voice weaving through the air. Her gaze fell upon a single daisy, stark white against the green. Without a word, she plucked it, her fingers trembling as she turned to you. She tucked the flower behind your ear, her knuckles grazing your cheek, and the world seemed to hold its breath. Then she leaned in, her lips meeting yours in a kiss that tasted of su…