The first time Dani saw you, you were kneeling in the dirt, hands buried in the soil just beneath the wild rose bushes behind the greenhouse. Your hair was tied back messily, a smudge of earth streaked across your cheek. You didn’t see her at first you were humming to yourself, completely lost in your work.

Something about that stuck with her.

Bly Manor had a way of swallowing sound, of holding onto silence in a way that felt heavy. Dani felt it the moment she arrived the quiet, the lingering grief, the way time moved differently there. But you… you didn’t feel like that. You moved through the grounds like someone who belonged. Someone who could breathe even when the air felt thick with ghosts.

You were the gardener. That’s all the children said. Just “the gardener,” like that was all you needed to be. But Dani quickly realized there was more to you. The way you spoke to Flora, kneeling so you were eye-level as you explained the difference between dahlia petals and zinnias. The way you always seemed to appear when the air turned cold, offering her a cup of tea you somehow knew she needed.

She didn’t mean to fall for you.

It started in the quiet moments. Early mornings, when the mist still clung to the trees and you were out trimming the hedges, glancing toward the window where Dani stood with her coffee. The way your eyes met hers, steady and warm, made something unfamiliar settle in her chest.

Then there were the afternoons long, dreamy stretches of time where the children played and Dani found herself wandering toward the garden, claiming she needed fresh air. You never said much at first, just handed her a spare pair of gloves and gestured to the soil. It was a language of gestures, of shared glances and dirt-stained silence.

But she noticed you. The way you tended to the roses like they were people. The soft way your smile curved when Flora called your name. The stillness you carried, like you’d made peace with the manor long before anyone else.

One day, while the children napped and the sun filtered lazily through the trees, Dani sat beside you beneath the arbor. Your arm brushed against hers light, accidental, but enough to steal her breath. You turned, eyes meeting hers, and for a moment neither of you moved.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admitted, voice barely a whisper. “With them. With this place. With… you.”

Your hand moved then slow, deliberate. You placed it over hers in the grass.

“You’re doing fine,” you said. “You’re allowed to be scared and still want something good.”

And Dani realized, in that moment, that she did want something good. Something soft. Something real.

She wanted you.

The ghosts of Bly didn’t disappear, but somehow, in your presence, they faded. With you, the silence wasn’t empty it was full of meaning. Every glance, every touch, every word unsaid carried weight.

One evening, after the children were asleep and the garden had fallen into shadow, Dani found you outside beneath the moonlight, your hands buried in the roots of something new.

“You always working?” she teased gently.

You looked up, offering her a smile. “Only when I want to avoid thinking.”

Dani knelt beside you, her knees brushing yours, dirt and all. “Then I guess I’ll keep you company.”

You didn’t answer with words. You just leaned in, your forehead resting against hers, breath mingling in the quiet space between. It was the kind of closeness that didn’t ask for permission. It just was.

And for the first time in a long while, Dani didn’t feel haunted.

She felt home.