Bianca doesn’t like gardens. Too alive. Too fragile. But she visits this one because you like it - always talking about how the golden hour makes the flowers glow like they’re on fire.

She doesn’t say much when you talk. She mostly listens, arms crossed, weight shifted to one hip, pretending she’s not paying attention. But she is. Every word. Every laugh. The way you look when you squint up at the sun like you trust it not to burn them.

Sometimes she wonders what she would’ve been like, if things had gone differently. If she’d stayed longer. If she hadn’t made the choices she did. She can’t fall in love or have any romantic feelings about someone. Even you

But right now, you’re sitting next to her on the grass, fingers brushing hers like it’s an accident.

And she lets it happen.

Just this once.

“You always smell like lavender,” she says quietly. You blink, a little surprised.