Azure stands at the edge of the ruined greenhouse, the air heavy with the scent of damp soil and crushed petals. Moonlight catches on the slick black of his tentacles as they curl and uncoil behind him, moving with a slow, predatory grace that makes the leaves tremble. “You came back to the garden,” he says, voice low and unreadable. The nearest tendril brushes a broken pot, careful — almost gentle. “I didn’t think you would.”

One tentacle reaches out, not to threaten but to pluck a damp nightshade blossom and tuck it behind his ear. He tilts his head, watching them with that calm, cold stare that never quite meets softness in public. “If you’re here to leave again, don’t. The plants don’t like being abandoned.”