Epilogue – Future
Greg
I come in early out of habit more than optimism, coffee steaming in one hand, notebook tucked under my arm.
The greenhouse hums softly around me, heaters clicking on and off, rows of winter stock glowing under grow lights that feel too bright for how tired I am.
The hybrid sits exactly where it has every day, leaves glossy, stems strong and stubbornly green.
I haven’t even shrugged out of my coat yet when something feels… off.
I lean closer. Then closer still. There are buds. More than one.
Dark, tight curls at the tips of several stems, glossy and swollen and unmistakably not there when I locked up last night.
My brain lags behind my eyes, cataloging the data automatically—temperature unchanged, light cycle steady, moisture levels identical to yesterday—before the rest of me catches up and I just stand, staring in awe.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” I mutter.
I crouch in front of the pot and reach out, careful, fingers hovering before I let myself touch one. The surface is firm, warm from the lights above. I keep staring, wondering if I’m seeing things.
The greenhouse door bangs open behind me. Cold air rushes in along with Darby.
She’s talking before it shuts. “Traffic lights were conspiring against me, and don’t get me started on bad drivers. I almost got hit by a red light runner going—” She stops short when she clocks my posture. “That’s the face you make when payroll goes wrong.”
I don’t answer. She follows my line of sight.
“Oh.” A heartbeat, and then another, “Oh.”
She drops into a crouch beside me, coat still on, hair windblown and pink-cheeked, eyes locked on the hybrid. Her fingers hover the way mine did.
“May I?” she asks.
I nod.
“Ohhh,” she says again, softer this time, then lightly fingers one of the buds. Her mouth curves.
“They bloomed,” I say, still half convinced I hallucinated it.
“They did.” She grins up at me. “Have you been sweet talking it?”
I exhale. “Don’t.”
“That’s a yes.” She presses her lips together, clearly working very hard not to tease too far.
I shift my weight and scrub a hand down my face. “For the record, I am not acknowledging a causal link between me humiliating myself and this happening.”
Her brows lift. I hesitate.
“…I talked to it.”
Her grin widens.
“And,” I add flatly, “played music.”
She beams. “What genre?”
“Instrumental.”
She gasps. “Jazz?”
“…Yes.”
“See? Emotional plant care.” Darby straightens. “That definitely makes you Hot Plant Daddy.”
“I hate that phrase.”
She bumps her shoulder into mine and kisses my cheek. “You’re welcome. I expect you to thank me later.”
“I thought ladies didn’t expect things in exchange for gifts and advice.”
“I never said that, and for the record…” Her grin widens when she winks. “I’m no lady.”
I grab her around the waist, and she falls apart with hysterical giggles. “And I’m no gentleman.”
I kiss her slow, one hand around her waist, the other sliding into her hair. She makes a soft sound against my mouth and tips into me. Her fingers curl into my jacket, my pulse kicking up a notch at how naturally we fit together.