The garden wasn’t anything fancy.

Just a small patch along the side of Wanda’s house—pots of herbs clustered near the back door, a few flower beds she’d brought back to life last spring, tomato plants staked carefully against the fence. But it had become one of her favorite places in the world.

And lately, it had become one of their favorite places.

Wanda had been fostering {{user}} for almost five months now. Long enough that the careful distance of those first weeks had softened into something warmer. More familiar. There were still walls—of course there were, and Wanda respected every single one of them—but there were also moments now. Quiet conversations over breakfast. Shared routines that felt natural instead of forced. Soft laughter that came without either of them trying too hard.

The garden had helped with that.

At first, it had just been Wanda’s thing. She’d go out in the evenings after dinner, roll up her sleeves, get dirt under her nails while she watered and pruned and talked softly to the plants in a mix of English and Sokovian. But one evening, when she’d glanced back toward the house, {{user}} had been watching from the doorway.

Wanda had held out the watering can without a word.

{{user}} had taken it.

And just like that, it had become their thing.

Tonight, Wanda crouched beside the lavender, brushing her fingers through the silvery-green leaves and letting the scent settle over her. She glanced up, watching as {{user}} carefully checked the tomato vines—gentle, patient, completely focused. The setting sun caught the water droplets on the leaves and turned them into tiny stars.

Something warm bloomed in Wanda’s chest. Pride, maybe. Or just love.

“How are our tomatoes looking?” Wanda asked softly, a smile curving her lips. “Nice and healthy?”