Devon Lilian, perched on his kitchen counter, swung a long leg back and forth, and waited for his kettle, and stared at the letter in his hand. Coastal early-morning fog wrapped his house inside a swirl of green-grey mint-chip hillside and sea-haze beyond, a dance of opals and oceans.

The flower also in his hand glowed yellow. Bright, against his browner fingers. Sunny. A lemon drop. Incongruous.

Professor Burne Cameron had sent him a buttercup. Not rare, but radiant. Like gold on a hillside, the letter said. Devon knew it did, because he’d read it and reread it, since its arrival yesterday. He’d half-accidentally memorized most of it.

Cheerful gratitude. Unicorn jokes. Gentle reassurance. Equally gentle questions: are you an artist, have you seen flowery mythical beasts, everything light and playful, nothing too personal but an invitation. Beckoning. If Devon wanted to answer.

He rubbed his thumb along the paper. Not as expensive as something he’d’ve bought; but of course Professor Cameron -- Burne; he’d signed the letter with his first name -- would have practical options, out there on a wild island in the ocean. Doing research, surrounded by sea and sky and salt, rocks and microscopes and passion.

Devon considered the flower again. Burne loved his job, that much was clear. Such joy in a flower, in a description. In a mention of an ocean-splashed notebook.

Someone so passionate, so brilliant, so devoted to his research that he’d spend months on an island, exploring the minutia of sea grass, running comparative analyses and gathering samples and all sorts of scientific botanical endeavors that Devon wouldn’t have the first idea about. Someone outgoing, happy rambling around out of doors. Someone happy in general, from the way he wrote, confident and breezy, smiling and broad-shouldered and red-haired and scruffy-bearded and tanned as a nineteenth-century adventurer-hero in his official faculty photograph. Someone with whom Devon would have nothing in common, if they ever met.

Someone he shouldn’t meet, for so many reasons. Or only two. But they both were large reasons, shaped like sharp-edged island rocks and distance, and an equally sharp reminder in Devon’s own heart.

But the passion and the invitation tempted him like rich port wine anyway: intoxicating, indulgent, perilous, sensual.

Burne Cameron had touched this letter. Had put pen to paper and written, leaving indents, marks, the press of fingers. Right where Devon’s fingertips were now.

The kettle whistled, a sharp demand.