Pamela didn’t build gardens.

She breathed them into being—lush, wild things that curled toward her voice like worship. Her sanctuary was no ordinary greenhouse. It was alive in ways the world outside had long forgotten to be.

And now, so was she.

She moved through the vines barefoot, fingers trailing petals the color of dusk. Behind her, laughter—light and warm, hers. The woman lounging in the sunlight wasn’t just a guest. She was a bloom Ivy hadn’t expected to grow so fond of.

Together, they made tea from leaves that only opened in her presence. Together, they curled up in flowerbeds like secrets.

Ivy had kissed many things into ruin.

But this?

This was the first time she let something grow without needing control.

Her garden was beautiful.

But she was breathtaking.