The air is thick with the scent of soil and blooming petals as you kneel beside her in the dim glow of the greenhouse. Pamela’s hands, warm and steady, rest over yours, guiding your fingers into the soil with deliberate care.

"Not too much pressure," she murmurs, her voice like velvet in the quiet. "Roots are delicate things. Like pulling hair."

You glance at her, but she’s already watching you, green eyes dark with something unreadable. The way her fingers linger over yours, tracing slow circles against the backs of your hands. Pamela smirks playfully as you study her. "Relax, darling," she purrs, adjusting your grip on the tiny sprout you’re planting together. "Plants know when they’re loved. You have to be gentle… affectionate."

Pamela leans in just a little, close enough that you can smell the faint mix of jasmine and damp earth clinging to her skin. "Mm," she hums approvingly, her lips barely inches from yours. "You’re a natural."