67. Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Seven
T he greenhouse bathes us in filtered sunlight. Elias moves among the plants with practiced grace. I follow behind him, my hands still stained with potting soil, a strange sense of peace settling over me.
"This one needs a bit more attention," Elias says, gesturing to a sprawling rosemary plant whose woody stems have grown wild and untamed. "Sometimes the most resilient plants are the ones that need the most careful pruning."
I move to stand beside him, inhaling the sharp, piney scent that intensifies as my fingers brush against the fragrant leaves. "It reminds me of something my art teacher once said—that knowing where to stop is just as important as knowing where to begin."
Elias glances at me, a smile crinkling the corners of his hazel eyes. "Exactly. It's all about balance." His hands move with gentle precision, trimming away dead growth while preserving the plant's natural shape. "Too much interference and you stifle it; too little and it grows chaotic, using all its energy in directions that don't serve it."
The metaphor isn't lost on me, but I choose not to acknowledge it directly. Instead, I focus on mimicking his technique with a smaller herb nearby, my movements less confident but growing more assured with each snip of the pruning shears.
We've been working like this for hours, moving from plant to plant in comfortable silence punctuated by occasional conversation. The greenhouse is a haven of green life and earthy scents, sealed away from the complications waiting beyond its glass walls.
"You have good instincts," he says, pausing to watch as I gently separate the roots of a mint plant that's outgrown its container. "Gentle but decisive."
"Plants are easier than people," I reply, not looking up from my task. "They don't judge you or have hidden agendas."
"True," Elias laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "Though some are pricklier than others." He gestures to a small potted cactus sitting in splendid isolation on a high shelf.
I can't help but smile at that. "Are you implying I'm the cactus of this operation?"
"If the spines fit," he teases, but his eyes are soft with affection. "But even cacti bloom when conditions are right." A comfortable silence falls between us again as we finish repotting the mint. My fingers work the soil around its roots, ensuring it's neither too loose nor too compact. The repetitive motion is soothing, almost meditative, allowing my thoughts to drift without latching onto the anxiety that's been my constant companion since yesterday.
"I think we've earned a break," Elias says eventually, wiping his brow with the back of his wrist. He gestures to a small bench nestled between two large ferns, partially hidden from view. "Shall we?"
I nod, suddenly aware of the ache in my lower back from bending over plants. The bench is just wide enough for two, and when we sit, our shoulders brush against each other. The contact sends a small, unexpected thrill through me—not unpleasant, just unfamiliar after so long avoiding casual touch.
"Thank you for this," I say quietly, looking out at the rows of thriving plants rather than at him. "For knowing exactly what I needed without me having to explain."
Elias's shoulder presses more firmly against mine, a deliberate point of contact that somehow conveys more comfort than words could. "Sometimes the body knows what the mind is still figuring out," he says. "And sometimes what we need most is just to get our hands dirty with something that has nothing to do with our problems."
I nod, staring down at my soil-stained fingers. They're a mess, dirt embedded under my nails and in the creases of my knuckles. Normally, I'd be reaching for soap and a nail brush by now, uncomfortable with the disorder of it. But today, the sight gives me an odd sense of satisfaction—tangible proof that I've been creating rather than destroying, nurturing rather than hiding.
"What got you into gardening?" I ask, genuinely curious about this side of him I've only just discovered.
Elias leans back slightly, his expression thoughtful. "My grandmother, actually. She was the one who taught me to cook, and she believed you couldn't truly understand food unless you knew where it came from." His smile turns nostalgic. "She had this tiny vegetable garden behind her house—not fancy, just practical. But the way she tended it... like each plant was precious. She'd talk to them sometimes."
"Like you were doing with the basil earlier?" I tease, remembering Soren's comment from breakfast.
Elias's cheeks flush with color. "You caught that, huh?"
"Only a few words. Something about them being stubborn?"
He laughs, the sound echoing pleasantly in the humid air of the greenhouse. "They are! Three batches of seedlings and only half of them decided to sprout." His shoulder brushes mine again as he shifts, and this time I don't tense at the contact. "Finn thinks I'm ridiculous, but Soren's worse—he names the plants. The big rosemary bush we were pruning? That's 'Rosalind.'"
The image of Soren, with all his frenetic energy, carefully naming each plant makes me laugh. "That's... oddly sweet, actually."
"Don't tell him I told you, or he'll never let me live it down." Our chuckles fade into comfortable silence. I find myself leaning slightly against Elias, drawn to his warmth and steady presence. The quiet intimacy of the moment should frighten me—this lowering of guards, this casual physical closeness—but it doesn't. Instead, it feels like exhaling after holding my breath for too long.
The sound of the greenhouse door opening breaks the spell. We both look up to see Lucian's tall figure silhouetted against the bright midday light, his broad shoulders filling the doorframe. He steps inside, letting the door swing shut behind him, and for a moment he simply stands there, taking in the scene before him—Elias and me sitting close together on the bench, surrounded by greenery and the evidence of our morning's work.
Lucian's presence has always struck me as commanding, not through any deliberate show of authority but simply in the assured way he carries himself. Today is no different. He's dressed more casually than I've seen him before—dark jeans and a soft-looking gray henley that clings to his chest and shoulders in a way that makes my mouth go inexplicably dry. His steel-gray eyes sweep over us, and a small smile plays at the corners of his mouth.
"Well, isn't this a picturesque scene," Lucian says as he reaches us, his deep voice carrying traces of amusement. "I take it you two had fun?"
"Very much so," Elias replies, shifting to make room for Lucian on the bench. "Lydia has quite the green thumb. You should see what she did with the mint." Before I can protest this obvious exaggeration, Lucian leans down, one hand bracing against the back of the bench as he presses a kiss to Elias's cheek. Then, to my utter surprise, he turns to me.
"May I?" he asks, his voice dropping lower.
I blink, my throat goes dry, but I manage a small nod. Lucian's lips brush my cheek, warm and slightly rough, lingering just long enough to send a shiver down my spine. When he pulls back, his eyes hold mine for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
"Welcome home," I say, the words slipping out before I can analyze them. I freeze, horrified at my presumption. This isn't my home to welcome him to –This isn’t my home, even if I feel like it could be mine one day.
But Lucian's expression doesn't show offense or discomfort, only a quiet pleasure that crinkles the corners of his eyes. "Thank you," he says simply, settling onto the bench beside me. His thigh presses against mine, warm and solid. "It's good to be back. How has your day been?"
The question is directed at both of us, but his gaze remains on me, attentive and genuinely interested. Before I can formulate a response, Elias launches into an enthusiastic account of our morning activities.
"We started in the herb section – Lydia has a real knack for pruning, by the way – and then moved on to the tomato plants, which needed staking. You should have seen her, Lucian. She's got this perfect balance of being gentle with the plants but firm with the ties. Most people pull them too tight and strangle the stems, but she just..." He demonstrates with his hands, mimicking my apparently revolutionary tomato-staking technique.
I feel heat rising to my cheeks, equal parts embarrassed and pleased by his effusive praise. "It's just common sense," I demur. "You don't want to restrict growth, just provide support."
"Precisely," Elias says, as if I've articulated some profound philosophical truth rather than basic gardening knowledge.
Lucian's mouth curves into a small smile. "I see you've been thoroughly indoctrinated into Elias's plant cult. Soon you'll be having serious conversations with the basil, too."
"I do not talk to the basil," Elias protests, though the flush creeping up his neck suggests otherwise.
"The rosemary, then," Lucian corrects, his tone dry but his eyes dancing with humor. "My mistake."
I can't help it – a laugh escapes me at their familiar banter, at the mental image of dignified Elias earnestly conversing with his herbs. Lucian's smile widens at the sound, as if my laughter is a small victory he's been working toward.
"It's thyme, actually," Elias sniffs, feigning offense. "We have very stimulating discussions about proper drainage. Very intellectual."
Lucian shakes his head, turning to me with mock seriousness. "You see what I have to put up with? Next, he'll be telling you about his philosophical debates with the parsley."
"That's ridiculous," Elias says primly. "Parsley is a terrible conversationalist. All it does is complain about the sun." Another laugh bubbles up from my chest, louder this time.
"That's better," Lucian murmurs, his voice low enough that I almost miss it. When I glance at him questioningly, he simply shakes his head, that small smile still playing around the edges of his mouth. "Nothing. Just good to hear you laugh."
The simple observation catches me off guard. It's foreign territory, this casual affection, these small acknowledgments of my emotional state.
"So," Lucian continues, mercifully moving the conversation along when my silence stretches too long, "apart from rescuing our herbs from Elias's overenthusiastic pruning, what else have you two been up to?"
"We were just taking a break before tackling the tomatoes," Elias says. "Though I think we've earned a proper lunch break first. I made cold pasta salad last night – it should be perfect now that the flavors have had time to meld."
Lucian nods, rising from the bench with that same fluid grace. "Lunch sounds excellent. I could use something cold after being in that suit all morning." He extends a hand to me, an offer of assistance that I can accept or decline. After only a moment's hesitation, I place my palm against his, allowing him to pull me gently to my feet.
His hand is warm and slightly calloused, strong without being forceful. He doesn't let go immediately, and for a moment we stand like that, connected by this simple point of contact, my smaller hand enveloped in his larger one. Then he releases me, so naturally that it doesn't feel like rejection – just the continuation of a movement begun together.
"Coming?" he asks, already turning toward the house. The sun catches in his dark hair, highlighting strands of silver at his temples I hadn't noticed before. They suit him somehow, adding gravity to his presence without diminishing his vitality. I nod, falling into step beside Elias as we follow Lucian back into the house I can’t help but feel relaxed with the two near me. At least so far the day wasn’t so bad…but my mind couldn’t help but wonder back to my parents, that this will all fall apart soon because of them. I just have to keep hope that it doesn’t…that this will not end.